“Yeah,” I mutter, heading down the hall. “So was I.”
The stairway feels narrower than usual, air thick with detergent and the faint musk of hockey gear. My hand’s on the doorknob when I hear her voice.
“About time.”
Isabelle’s perched on my desk, one leg crossed over the other, phone glowing in her hand. She doesn’t look up yet, just scrolls, satisfaction playing at the corner of her mouth.
“Campus is obsessed,” she says finally. “You and the scholarship girl. It’s all anyone’s talking about. The golden boy and the nerd.”
I drop my jacket on the chair, keeping my voice even. “Wasn’t aware we had an appointment.”
Her heels click against the floor as she stands. “I never need an appointment with you, Kieran.” She moves closer, hips shifting in that practiced way that used to work on me. “I came to congratulate you. You’ve done exactly what I asked.”
Her hand slides down my chest.
“Tell me, did you enjoy it? Watching her blush? That little tremor in her voice when you leaned in?”
I stay silent.
The image hits hard: Wren’s face tilted toward mine, pulse fluttering at her throat, heat coming off her skin. I wanted to taste her, to hear that small, startled breath against my mouth.
There was fear in her eyes. Real fear.
For the first time in my life, I felt like the threat, not the temptation. So I forced myself to step back, to settle for her cheek instead.
That’s what a decent man does.
Isabelle tilts her head, reading my silence. “You’re quiet. That’s new.”
“Long day,” I say, voice flat.
She circles behind me, expensive perfume winding around my throat. “So,” she murmurs, close enough that her breath brushes my ear, “did you seal the deal with your little tutor? Or does she still not know what kind of man you are?”
The words land sharp. I step back, not enough for her to clock it, just enough to breathe. My jaw locks.
“She’s not ready.”
Isabelle pauses. Curiosity sharpens into something predatory. “Oh.” She draws it out, delighted. “Maybe she’s a virgin.”
She says it like she’s discovered a secret meant for her amusement alone.
Heat floods my chest—anger, protectiveness, a sharp, possessive spark. My hands curl into fists. Wren’s face flashes up—wide eyes, tense shoulders, that look of someone caught off guard. The fear. From me.
“She’s not ready,” I repeat.
Satisfaction spreads across Isabelle’s face. “Even better. A blank slate. You can write whatever you want on her.” She taps a manicured nail against my chest—small, cruel. “Don’t take too long,mon petit prince. Or I’ll be forced to crown another king.”
“That so?”
Her expression hardens. “What’s the matter, Kieran? Catching feelings?”
I stay silent, and her smile turns mean. “Finish what you started, or I’ll make sure everyone hears about the bet. About exactly what kind of man BU’s golden boy really is.”Her finger drags down my sternum. “Your draft prospects, your reputation, your precious Defenders contract—it all depends on people believing you’re a good guy. Are you?”
The answer locks in my throat.
She leans in, voice dropping to silk. “Bring her to heel, and I’ll finally give you what you want.”
Six months ago, I would’ve jumped—Isabelle Merteuil, no strings, no limits, the ultimate validation.
