His voice is even, professional. The words themselves areharmless enough. It’s the pause that follows them that isn’t. His gaze stays locked on mine—steady, unblinking, assessing.
“Though some situations,” he adds, just slightly slower now, “require a more hands-on approach.”
Something tightens in my chest.
I know what he’s doing. I don’t knowwhyhe’s doing it, but I recognize the shift immediately—the subtle recalibration from polite conversation to something else entirely. A test. A provocation. An assertion of control…over me.
My body tightens around the thought.
I should get up. I should thank him for his time and walk away while I still can. Every rational instinct I have is screaming at me to put distance between myself and this man, because whatever he’s playing at, it isn’t harmless—and it isn’t accidental.
He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t soften the moment. He just watches, like he’s waiting for me to answer.
That’s when it hits me, loud and clear. This man is a threat. He knows exactly where the lines are—and enjoys leaning over them just far enough to make you feel it.
I shift in my seat, already planning my exit, my pulse ticking faster as the urge to leave sharpens into something urgent.
“You know what,” I say, my eyes flying to the watch on my wrist. “I think it’s time for my next class.”
10
JUSTIN
Well. That was useless.
I watch Rowan Hale walk away, her pace quick as she cuts across the campus grounds. She doesn’t look back. Not once. Her shoulders are tight, her steps clipped, purposeful.
It has nothing to do with the rain.
I recognize the urgency for what it is. She’s not trying to stay dry—she’s trying to put distance between herself and me.
For all my careful prompting, for every angle I tried to take, I didn’t get a single usable thing out of her. No slips. No tells. Nothing she hadn’t already decided I was allowed to hear.
Rowan Hale is exactly what people mean when they talk about a locked box—sealed tight, edges clean, no obvious point of entry.
Which leaves me with only one option.
I turn in the opposite direction and head for my car. Rowan has classes scheduled for the next two hours—I checked. Long enough to do what I need to do without interruption. I pull away from the curb and drive on autopilot, following an address Ialready know by heart. I memorized it last night, right after I ran her background.
Fifteen minutes from campus, she lives in an old red-brick building wedged between newer developments that pretend the area has been revitalized. It hasn’t. I park across the street and get out, taking in the place with a critical eye.
No visible cameras. No secured entry.
I push through the front door and step into the lobby. It’s dim, narrow, and tired—cracked tiles, outdated mailboxes, fluorescent lighting that hums like it’s one flicker away from giving up entirely. The whole space smells faintly of dust and a time gone by.
It looks like it hasn’t been updated since the eighties.
The lift sits at the end of the hall, dark and lifeless, looking like it hasn’t moved in years. I shake my head and head for the stairs, taking the steps two at a time as I climb to the second floor.
The lock gives way beneath my hand with a soft, obedient click.
The sound hits wrong. Too easy and too willing.
A spike of irritation curls hot in my chest as I ease the door open. This shouldn’t have worked—not on the first try. The fact that it does makes my jaw tighten. Anyone with half my skill could have done the same.
I step inside, already furious—not at the door, but at the thought of how exposed she is. At how simple it was to cross the threshold of her private space.
It should feel wrong. Breaking into her apartment should register as a line crossed, a violation I hesitate over. In theory, it probably is.
