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I don’t understand people who voluntarily put themselves through this torture. Yes, Sergei Zaytsev, I’m talking about you.

Once I can breathe like a functioning member of society again, I head towards the parking lot, only to find the trio already deep in conversation.

When the hell did they get here? How fucking slow was I running for them to beat me?

The cars unlock with a sharp click as the trio exchange their goodbyes. Two engines roar to life, so loud they nearly drag a sound out of me.

God, the rich and their ridiculous cars.

Yes, I’m a hater until I get one of my own. Thank you very much.

I’m just about to leave when I realise one set of footsteps has stopped. My breath catches. Not again.

“I know you’re here.” I hear him say, loud enough.

Two weeks is a long time to stalk someone and convince yourself you’re being subtle. Honestly, I should’ve known he’d noticed me on day one, given how observant he is.

He waits patiently, as if I’ll step out on my own. Unfortunately for him, I only signed up for stalking, not confrontation.

My breath hitches nonetheless when he takes a step in my direction. I freeze, pressing myself against the wall behind me.

I don’t breathe again until a giggle cuts through the silence. A giggle far too feminine to be his. A giggle I know all too well.

The same giggle that had echoed through the cafeteria right before I grabbed her by the head and introduced it to a wooden table.

Alina Volkova.

She’s draped over Sergei, her arms looped around his neck while he steadies her with a hand at her waist.

“How did you know I was here?” she chirps, her voice pitched high enough to shatter glass.

Sergei, as always, stays quiet. He simply waits for her to steady herself before taking a deliberate step back, putting distance between them.

Kingsford University is famous for two things: the rich men who fund it and Alina Volkova’s beauty.

The university’s biggest benefactors are none other than the fathers of the Russian trio, which inevitably gives their sons the freedom to bend—and, more often than not, break— the rules.

Roman, Aleksandr, and Sergei are Kingsford’s crown jewels, walking privileges in tailored suits.

Judging by the way half the female population sighs whenever they pass, you’d think they were part of the admission package.

But Alina is the reason most men keep their distance. Her dear older brother once declared, verbatim. “If you look at my sister, it’ll be the last thing you see before you meet your maker.”

Knowing Roman, it wasn’t an exaggeration.

Which makes it all the more baffling that I only got suspended for a week after hurting said sister.

Word is, Roman killed a man for touching Alina’s hair.

Killed.

But we don’t talk about it, because everyone wants to live more than they want to gossip.

Some would compare her to Aphrodite, and I can actually see why. She is the sort of beauty you expect in legends, and not in the corridors of a university.

She is a Russian princess through and through, dark red hair sitting just an inch above her shoulders, feminine facial features, icy blue eyes, and a body men would go to war for just for a mere touch.

What I don’t understand is Sergei.