If I have to burn this place to the ground, I will.
But first, I have to survive it.
The quad is busy, students scurrying to and fro. Every face is pointed away but every ear is turned in my direction. I feel it—the hum of attention, the way people shrink back or edge forward, depending on what side of the rumor they want to be on.
I walk through them, slicing the crowd in half with nothing more than posture and a pair of five-inch heels. I see the whispers: a flick of hair, a twitch of a lip, the darting glances that always circle back to me.
At a stone bench, two juniors lean in, pretending to compare notes while actually cataloguing every micro-expression I make. I can almost hear the script they’re writing for later.
“She didn’t even blink. I heard her father killed a guy just for looking at her.”
“No, I heard she broke that guy’s jaw with one punch.”
Both are wrong, but both are close.
I focus on my destination. Under the old archway, Bam waits. He’s not hiding. The light hits him sharp, outlining every contour in negative: the thick arms folded across his chest, the casual sprawl of his stance, the barely contained violence of him. His eyes are still on me.
I pretend not to notice. That’s the only play that works with him—starve him of oxygen, deny him the spectacle. But as I get closer, I feel the pull. It’s not gravity. It’s something hotter, more dangerous, the way a storm pulls up the hair on your arms just before it strikes.
He moves when I’m within striking distance, stepping out from under the shadow. The crowd falls silent. I see it in the periphery: people freeze, food midair, conversations stuttering to a halt. Everyone is waiting for something to happen. They are hungry for violence, for gossip, for the moment when the princess cracks.
Bam doesn’t say anything at first. He just stares, face unreadable, lips pressed into a thin line. I see the way his jaw tenses, the twitch of muscle at the hinge. He looks me over, slow and deliberate, as if memorizing all the new ways I’ve tried to armor myself since yesterday.
He doesn’t smile.
He just walks toward me, and I know—absolutely know—what comes next.
He reaches for my arm, not roughly, but with a certainty that makes it worse. His hand is big enough to swallow my wrist. I should let him. That’s what everyone expects.
Instead, I snap.
“Don’t touch me!” I bark, loud enough that the entire quad can hear. The words ricochet off the stone and shatter the silence.
He doesn’t pull back. If anything, he leans in, breathing in the scent of my perfume and the fear I’m trying so hard not to show.
I slap his hand away, hard enough that my palm stings. He laughs, a sharp exhale that’s more contempt than amusement.
“Oh my, the princess has claws.” He sighs, but his face hardens. “I thought we moved past this… seems you need to learn a lesson in obedience, little girl.”
I see red. All the training, all the discipline, it evaporates. I shove him in the chest, nails digging into the leather of his jacket. “I said leave me the fuck alone.”
He doesn’t move. Not even a little. He lets me push him, lets me waste my energy. The only sign that I got to him is the way his eyes narrow, a flash of something cold and delighted.
“Easy,” he growls. “You’re making a scene.”
“Good,” I spit back. “Maybe someone will do something about you.”
He steps in, so close I can feel the heat rolling off him. He’s taller than me by almost a foot, and for a second, I feel like prey. But I hold my ground.
“You want someone to save you?” he murmurs, just for me. “Or do you want someone to fuck you up so bad you forget your own name?”
My face goes hot. The crowd is dead silent now. Every eye is on us.
He lifts his hand, slow, like he’s giving me time to run. He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, then fists it, just enough to make my head snap back.
“You’re not in control here,” he whispers. “Not anymore.”
I try to jerk away, but his grip tightens.
