We pick up where we left off, slipping back into our rhythm like Talon never happened.
But still, somewhere in the back of my mind, that name clings to me.
Dredyn.
He doesn’t like sharing?
Well, I’m not a thing to be owned.
SEVEN
DREDYN
Idon’t typically disagree with my choices. I mean… I am the one who makes them.
So it’s not just a coincidence that I happened to wander into this empty lecture hall after hours. It’s totally not because I saw Mara Black slip into this building not long ago, alone, a stack of books in her arms. She’s a TA for a professor, and what a little overachiever she is for staying late to grade.
I slip inside and wait, alone, in the dark, in the back row. The lights are off except for the glow coming from her TA office down at the end of the hall. My leg bounces with pent-up anticipation. I’m keyed up and on edge.
What the fuck am I doing? Part of me doesn’t have a plan… Hell,all of medoesn’t have a plan.
Mara Black is off-limits. She’s the Psi Theta Omega princess, and I’m the big bad wolf her brother warned her about.
Maybe that’s why I want her even more.
The door hinge lets out a faint creak as Mara steps out of the doorway, one hand on the light switch. For a second, she’s silhouetted against the hallway light, all legs and a fitted cardiganhugging her curves, her dark hair pulled back in a low ponytail. She looks so proper, so polished. Like she doesn’t know how to be anything but perfect.
She flips the fluorescent lights and they flicker to life, flooding the lecture hall with a pale glow. Her hand pauses on the switch when she spots me sitting in the back row. Those big eyes go wide for a fraction of a second.
“Dredyn?” she says, clearly startled. She recovers fast, I’ll give her that. “What are you doing here?”
I don’t answer immediately. Instead, I let the silence stretch as I lean back in the seat, draping one arm over the chair next to me, knowing that the silence is driving her crazy. Women like her crave control, and I’m the type of guy that smashes her reality into bits.
Her throat works in a swallow, but she lifts her chin. “You don’t have Professor Higgins,” she says, brushing imaginary dust from the sleeve of her pink cardigan. “If you’re looking for someone else, they’re not here. So you should leave before… before I call my brother.”
She’s trying to sound confident, but I hear the slight quiver underneath. “Milo, huh? Funny, I don’t think he’s capable of doing much.” My boots echo on the steps as I slowly descend the tiered aisle toward her.
Mara’s eyes track my approach. I can see her grip tightening on the strap of her bag. She takes one step back, into the threshold of the doorway, like she’s debating bolting toward the emergency stairwell just behind her.
I arch a brow. “Leaving so soon?”
Her jaw sets stubbornly. “Yes. I have better things to do than… whatever this is.” She gestures vaguely between us, trying to sound dismissive, but her voice is tight. She turns, as if to go, pushing the door open wider.
Ah, not so fast.
In two strides I’m there, pulling the door closed with a hardthunkand bracing my palm against it. I lay my hand flat on the wood above her shoulder, leaning into the door, blocking themain exit with my body. I’m not touching her, but we’re close enough that I can see the pulse fluttering in her neck. Close enough that I catch a whiff of her scent—something clean and subtly sweet, like vanilla and fresh laundry.
Mara freezes. Her back is half-turned to me, shoulder angled as if she might slip through the crack, but there’s no space now. I’ve caged her in without even having to put my hands on her. I can practically feel the tension radiating off her slender frame as she slowly turns her head to glare up at me.
“Going somewhere?” I murmur. Then, I let my gaze drop, raking over her from head to toe.
Her pencil skirt, navy-blue and prim, hugs the subtle curve of her hips. Her pink cardigan is buttoned up to her throat, neat as can be.
“What are you doing?” Her voice is a little breathless now. She presses back against the closed door as if she could put more distance between us, but there’s nowhere to go. Still, her chin tilts up defiantly. “If this is some kind of joke, it’s not funny.”
I huff a soft laugh. “Do I look like the joking type, Polly Pocket?” I counter. My free hand rises of its own accord, fingertips brushing a stray lock of her hair off her shoulder. It’s a light touch, barely there, but I feel her go rigid.
She doesn’t flinch, though.Interesting.
