Adrian Vale’s stolen kiss had fractured his control in a way nothing else ever had. The sight of another man’s mouth on what had always belonged to him—even if she had not known it yet—had ignited something raw and possessive he had not anticipated. He had meant to ease her into it. Slow. Methodical. Let her become accustomed to his touch, his presence, his claim. She had only known him for a week. He had known her for most of her life.
The early announcement of the gala had complicated everything. Six weeks instead of the usual three months. The schedule had tightened. He could no longer afford patience. She needed to be beside him, under his direct protection, never out of his sight. The Collegium’s systems were already shifting around her, but there were still variables he did not fully control. Adrian. The others who watched her. The deeper threats that had taken previous unclassified students.
He would keep her here. In his room. In his bed. In his reach.
Caelum’s fingers moved lazily through her dark red hair, stroking from crown to ends in slow, repetitive motions. She did not stir. The potion held her under, soft and trusting in sleep in a way she would never be while awake. He allowed himself one small, private smile—cold, satisfied.
She was his now. Completely. Irrevocably.
And he would make certain she never left.
* * *
Lyra woke slowly, floating up through layers of warmth and heavy calm. For the first time in years—perhaps ever—her sleep had been deep and dreamless, the kind of rest that left the body heavy and the mind slow to catch up. She lay still for a long moment, eyes closed, registering the unfamiliar weight of the sheets, the scent of vanilla and stone and something darker, more intimate.
Then awareness returned in fragments.
She was naked.
The sheets were not hers. The pillow beneath her cheek carried a scent that belonged to someone else—cool stone, dark ink, sex. Her thighs ached. Between them she felt tender, swollen, used. The memories of the night before flooded back all at once: Caelum’s mouth marking her breasts and stomach and inner thighs, his fingers and tongue between her legs, the brutal stretch of his cock pushing inside her, the way he had pulled out only to push his cum back in with deliberate, possessive thrusts. Four orgasms. Her first four orgasms. The humiliating, overwhelming pleasure she had not wanted but could not stop.
Her green eyes snapped open.
This was not her room.
The panic rose sharp and immediate, but the calming potion still muddled her thoughts, wrapping the fear in soft cotton. She sat up too quickly. The sheet slipped down to her waist, baring her breasts and the constellation of dark hickeys scattered across her pale skin. She clutched the fabric to her chest with both hands, heart hammering even while her mind felt strangely detached, as if she were watching herself from a distance.
The door opened.
Caelum stepped inside carrying a silver tray. He was fully dressed—black coat fitted through the shoulders, silver fastening at his throat, hair neatly pushed back from his forehead. Ready for the day. In control. His gray eyes found her immediately, cool and assessing, taking in her flushed face, her disheveled dark red hair, the way she clutched the sheet like a shield.
On the tray sat an extravagant breakfast arranged with deliberate luxury that felt almost mocking in its elegance: a small porcelain pot of steaming tea, dark and fragrant with bergamot and a subtle floral note; two soft-boiled eggs in silver cups, the yolks still perfectly runny and golden; thick slices of warm, crusty bread with butter melting into the porous surface in glistening pools; a small bowl of fresh berries—deep red strawberries, plump blueberries, glistening blackberries—dusted lightly with fine sugar that sparkled like frost; thin, delicately marbled slices of cured meat arranged in precise overlapping fans; a small dish of honeyed figs, sticky and glistening; and beside it all, the single crystal vial containing a deep red potion that caught the light like liquid garnet.
Lyra’s stomach twisted—sharp hunger warring with nausea. She had skipped dinner the night before. The scent of the food made her mouth water even as shame burned hot in her chest.
Caelum set the tray down on the small table near the window with the same unhurried precision he applied to everything. The morning light filtered weakly through the thick glass, casting pale rectangles across the dark wood. He looked at her, gray eyes tracing the edge of the sheet where it slipped slightly against her collarbone, exposing another bruise.
“Where are my clothes?” Her voice came out hoarse, still thickened by the remnants of the calming potion.
“You don’t need any today,” he said simply.
Rage flared through the hazy calm the potion still draped over her thoughts. “What do you mean?”
He sat in the single chair at the table, perfectly composed. “I’ve asked the Collegium to reassign you. You will no longer be returning to the dormitory. Your things are being moved here. To my quarters.”
She stared at him, green eyes widening. The words landed like stones in still water. “You didn’t consult me.”
Caelum’s laugh was low, cold, and genuinely amused—the sound of someone who found her protest quaint. “Consult you?” He tilted his head slightly, gray eyes locking onto hers. “Lyra, this is not a negotiation. It is in your best interest to let this happen.”
She threw the sheet aside in a burst of fury and crossed to his wardrobe on unsteady legs, the potion making her movements feel both too slow and too abrupt. She yanked open the door, grabbed the first shirt she saw—one of his black shirts, soft and finely made—and pulled it over her head. The hem fell to mid-thigh, the fabric carrying his scent so strongly it made her stomach clench. It gave her a fragile illusion of control, but she could feel how ridiculous it looked: his shirt swallowing her frame, her dark red hair messy, the hickeys on her throat and collarbone stark and impossible to hide.
Caelum watched her the entire time, gray eyes cool and unreadable, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
She turned back to him, cheeks flushed, breathing uneven. “I didn’t want last night,” she said, voice shaking with anger and lingering shame. “I didn’t consent to any of it.”
He regarded her for a long moment, then spoke with deliberate cruelty, each word measured and precise. “Four orgasms, Lyra. Four. You came so hard on my tongue the first time that your thighs were trembling and you couldn’t even form words. You soaked my fingers, my face, my cock. Your tight little virgin cunt clenched around me like it never wanted to let go. You cried and moaned and pushed backagainst me even while your mouth tried to say no.” His voice dropped lower, crude and intimate. “I felt every flutter, every desperate little squeeze when I pushed my cum back inside that greedy pussy. Nobody who was truly forced would have come four times like that. Your body betrayed you so beautifully. It dripped for me. It welcomed me. You enjoyed yourself far more than you want to admit.”
Heat flooded her face, burning from her chest all the way to the tips of her ears. She was mortified, furious, and shamefully aware of the tender, slick ache between her thighs that proved every filthy word. The memories flashed unbidden—his tongue licking into her, his cock stretching her open, the wet sound of him fucking his own release deeper. Fresh tears pricked at her eyes.
