“The drug acts as a hapten, binding to the surface of red blood cells,” he says, not as a question, but as a statement. “The immune system then creates antibodies against the drug-RBC complex, marking the cell for destruction by macrophages.”
I stare at him, stunned into silence. “How do you know that? I thought... Chloe said you're a business major.”
He smirks, seeing my surprise. “I am. My degree will be in business administration. It's what's expected.” The words are tinged with a faint, almost imperceptible bitterness. “But my passion has always been in the sciences. Chemistry, biochemistry... It's all just molecular interactions. Cause and effect. I take the classes because I want to, not because I have to.”
My defensiveness gives way to genuine curiosity. He's not just a jock, he's not just a future CEO. He's like me, trapped in a different kind of cage. “We're debating the efficacy of plasmapheresis versus high-dose corticosteroids in acute cases,” I say, pushing back, testing him.
“Corticosteroids would suppress the entire immune response, which is a blunt instrument,” he counters immediately. “Plasmapheresis is more elegant. It directly removes the circulating antibodies. More targeted. Less collateral damage.”
We talk for hours. About pharmacokinetics, about cellular signaling pathways, about the ethical dilemmas of experimental treatments. He listens, he actually listens. He asks intelligent questions with sharp, perceptive insights and he challenges my assumptions and pushes me to think more deeply. For a few, terrifying moments, I forget who he is. I forget the threats, the manipulation, the fear. I am just a student, talking to another student. It’s… exhilarating.
He drives me back to my dorm, the city a blur of lights and motion. The silence in the car is different now, less tense, more… contemplative. He walks me to my door, the hallway empty and quiet.
“I had a… surprisingly not terrible time,” I admit, the words feeling like a betrayal.
He smiles, a genuine, unguarded smile that transforms his face, making him look younger, less dangerous. For a fleeting second, I see the man Chloe sees. The “normal, hot guy.”
“I told you,” he says, his voice soft. “We're good together, Kinsley. In more ways than one.”
He leans in, and for a heart-stopping moment I think he’s going to kiss me again, but he doesn't. He just brushes a stray strand of hair from my face, his fingers lingering for a second too long on my cheek.
“Get some rest,” he says. “We have a long road ahead of us.”
He turns and walks away, leaving me standing there, my heart pounding, my mind a chaotic storm of confusion. He had shown me a different side of himself tonight. The brilliant student, the engaged conversationalist. The man who could, for a few hours, make me forget that I was his prisoner.
And that, I realize with a fresh wave of terror, is the most dangerous thing of all. Because if I’m not careful, I might start to believe the lie. I might start to want the fake relationship to be real, and that is a path from which there is no return.
Twenty Seven
Kinsley
Ilock the door behind me, the soft click of the deadbolt echoing the finality of the evening. The silence of my apartment is a stark contrast to the storm raging inside me. My mind is a chaotic replay of the last few hours: the hushed elegance of the restaurant, the surprising depth of our conversation, the genuine, unguarded smile that had transformed his face.
I walk to my closet, my movements stiff, robotic. My hand hesitates before reaching into the back, my fingers brushingagainst the balled-up hockey jersey. I pull it out. The fabric is heavy, substantial. It still smells faintly of him. I hate it., I hate what it represents; his claim, my surrender. But as I hold it, the memory of the kiss, of his arms around me, of the exhilarating feeling of being utterly consumed washes over me.
My knees feel weak. I sink onto the edge of my bed, the jersey clutched in my hands. The intellectual connection we shared tonight was a different kind of violation. He didn’t just touch my body; he touched my mind. He saw the part of me that is most alive, the part that thrives on complex problems and elegant solutions, and he met me there. He didn’t just listen;he understood.
This is his true strategy. Not just fear, not just control. Seduction. Not of the body, but of the mind. He’s showing me that he is the only one who can see all of me, the darkness and the light, the chaos and the brilliance. He’s making me believe that his cage is a sanctuary.
The next day is a new kind of hell. I’m walking out of my pharmacology lecture, my head buried in my notes when a warm, firm hand settles on the small of my back. I flinch, a jolt of pure adrenaline shooting through me. I know who it is before I even look up.
“Rough lecture?” West asks, his voice a low, casual murmur next to my ear. He falls into step beside me, his hand a steady, possessive weight guiding me through the crowded hallway.
Students part for him like he’s royalty. I can feel their eyes on us, on his hand on my back. Whispers follow in our wake. I feellike a specimen under a microscope, my cheeks burning with a mixture of shame and fury. This is what he wants. A public display. A branding.
“What are you doing here?” I hiss, trying to pull away, but his grip tightens almost imperceptibly.
“I’m walking my girlfriend to her next class,” he says, his voice loud enough for those nearby to hear. He leans in closer, his lips brushing my ear. “Play along, Kinsley. You’re a little stiff.”
Just then, a familiar, high-pitched voice calls my name. “Kins! Oh my god!”
Chloe is rushing towards us, her face a mask of ecstatic disbelief. Her eyes dart from West to his hand on my back, to my face, and back again.
“It’s true!” she squeals, grabbing my arm. “You’re actually… together!”
I force a smile, my facial muscles feeling tight and unnatural. “Chloe, hi.”
“Hi? That’s all you have to say?” She turns to West, her eyes wide with adoration. “Hi, West. I’m Chloe—Kinsley’s best friend. I have to say, it’s about time. The tension between you two was insane.”
