This is ridiculous.
I grab my wine glass and drain what’s left, trying to drown myself with the alcohol. It doesn’t work. Nothing works. Every time I look at Rooke—at his mouth, his hands, the satisfied curve of his lips—I remember what he did under the table.
And how much Ilikedit.
“Try some,” Haven says, nudging Rooke’s plate toward me.
Our professor turns to me, scooping some of the mousse onto his spoon with a bit of the Chantilly cream garnish. “It’s superb,” he murmurs, bringing it closer to my mouth.
I push his hand away. “I’m fine.”
Haven pouts like a four-year-old. “Come on, Kai. Just take a?—”
“IsaidI’m fine.”
She flinches at the sharpness in my voice. Rooke’s eyes narrow slightly.
He probably knows exactly why I’m on edge. Why my jaw is clenched tight enough to crack my teeth.
I’m still fighting what I feel.
Still fightinghim.
Because this—the fancy restaurant, the expensive wine, him getting on his knees—none of it changes what he is. I’m not sure he even remembers half of what he’s done. That’s the only logical reason he thinks getting on his knees will fix anything.
“You really think one—” I drop my voice “—blow jobis enough?”
Rooke’s spoon pauses halfway to his mouth, his mouth quirking into a wicked smile. “Want another?”
Haven chokes on her wine, giggling until I kick her under the table like she kicked me earlier.
“You really expect us to buy this crap when you still have ammunition against us?”
Haven throws Rooke a concerned glance. “What ammu?—”
“Thevideo, Rooke.” I lean toward him, elbows on the table, forcing him to meet my eyes. “The one you took of me and Haven after the Rain Dance. Where it looks like?—”
I can’t finish the sentence.
Where it looks like I’m raping her.
Haven’s hand finds my thigh under the table, squeezing.
“You took a video of us?” she asks, sounding less horrified and more…guilty? Ashamed?
I don’t look at her. I can’t. All my focus is on Rooke and the way his expression has gone carefully blank.
He sets down his spoon, playfulness replaced by narrowed eyes and a tight-set mouth.
There he is. The real Bastian Rooke, lurking beneath the groveling.
“I did,” he says quietly, directing his words to Haven.
“Delete it,” I murmur. “Delete it right the fuck now.”
I’m mildly shocked when he nods without argument. Even Haven seems surprised, watching us with wide blue eyes.
Rooke takes out his phone and slides closer to where I’m sitting. He tilts his screen so I can see what he’s doing and opens a password-locked folder in his gallery.
