It is subversion.
She has taken my command, analyzed it, and repurposed it into a new, more potent form of seduction. She is using my own tactics against me. A surge of raw, frustrated desire, so sharp it’s almost painful, coils in my gut. I created this, I pushed her to this. And the result is more beautiful, more dangerous than I could have possibly imagined. She has taken the lesson of the Marquise de Merteuil; of assuming a look, of mastering one’s own expressions, and applied it in real time.
I realize I have been silent for far too long as the expectant faces of my students swim back into focus. I clear my throat, the sound harsh in the stillness. I force myself to look away from her, to find my place in my notes, though the words are meaningless shapes on the page.
“An interesting point to consider,” I manage, my voice a fraction too rough.
I risk a glance back at her. Her hand had dropped. She is now raising it, calmly, to answer the question.
“Miss Dawson,” I vocalize. The name is a concession. An acknowledgment.
“The Marquise’s power isn’t in the conquest itself,” River argues, her voice clear and steady, ringing through the silent hall. “It’s in making the Vicomte believe the conquest was his idea. She doesn’t control his actions, she architects his desires.”
Our eyes lock across the room.
The words are a perfect, stunning echo of our own dynamic. She isn’t just answering the question, she is describing our game. She is telling me that she sees the architecture, she is telling me that she is not Cécile. She is positioning herself as the Marquise.
A slow, cold smile touches my lips. I have profoundly underestimated her. She is not a subject to be studied, she is an opponent to be defeated. My obsession, which had been a clinical desire to control, now deepens into a primal need to conquer an equal.
My gaze is no longer that of a predator on its prey. It is the look of a duelist acknowledging his equal across the field of honor, right before the pistols are raised.
The board is reset. And it is, without a doubt, her move.
Chapter Ten
River
* * *
I walk out of the lecture hall on a wave of pure, unadulterated adrenaline.
Victory.
It tastes like copper and electricity. I saw it in his eyes. The moment my countermove landed, the moment I used his own lesson against him, I saw the shift. The flicker of surprise, the tightening of his jaw, the grudging, dangerous respect. The predator had just realized his prey had teeth.
I float back to my dorm room, the normal campus sounds a distant, muffled hum. The high lasts for exactly twelve minutes. Then, the cold reality crashes down.
I won a single skirmish, but Julian Kincaid is not a man who loses the war.
He will not be underestimating me again. The game just became infinitely more dangerous. He is no longer just observing me; he is anticipating me. He will come back harder, his methods more ruthless, his control more invasive. The thought sends a shiver down my spine that is one part terror, and three parts exhilaration.
My eyes land on the empty space on my desk where my sketchbook should be.
It’s still in his office. A hostage. A confession bound in black cardboard. I left it there as a statement, a bold, deliberate move. But now, its absence feels like a vulnerability. It’s a piece of me, my most private thoughts and obsessive renderings, sitting on his desk. He is studying it, he is studying me.
I can’t let it sit there. I can’t wait for him to summon me, to use it as leverage. That would be ceding control, handing him back the power I just fought to seize. The Marquise de Merteuil doesn’t wait to be summoned, she architects the encounter.
My decision is instantaneous. I will go to his office. Now. It’s the middle of his posted office hours. I will walk in there not as a student seeking guidance, but as an equal retrieving her property. It is a direct, confrontational move. It is the only move I have.
The walk across campus is a battle against my own frayed nerves. Every step is a war between the cold, strategic resolve I’ve cultivated and the frantic, looping panic of my OCD. This is a mistake. He’s expecting you. It’s a trap. I force the thoughts down, focusing on the click of my boots on the pavement, a steady, grounding rhythm.
I reach the faculty wing. The hallway is quiet. I stop outside his door, number 214, the same as his lecture hall. My heart is a frantic drum against my ribs. I can do this. I raise my hand to knock, but I pause. The door is already slightly ajar.
He’s waiting for me.
I push the door open without knocking and step inside.
The air is thick with anticipation. He is not behind his desk. He is standing by the window, staring out, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He turns as I enter, his eyes dark and intense. He knew I would come.
