Her back met the cold edge of her desk.

The wood bit into her hips, anchoring her as he stood before her—close enough that his breath feathered against her cheek when he spoke. But he didn’t touch her. Not yet. That was his game. Letting her burn on the tension.

“Say it,” he whispered.

She blinked. “Say what?”

“That you’ve thought about this. About me. About what it would feel like to stop pretending you’re not already mine.”

Seraphine’s heart thrashed in her chest. She opened her mouth to retort—to deny him—but the words withered on her tongue under the weight of his gaze.

He stepped closer.

Close enough that the fabric of his robe brushed her thigh. Close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body—low, steady, dangerous. Close enough to kiss. But he didn’t. Because that would be too merciful.

“You keep me after class,” he murmured, “You scold me differently than the others. Quieter. As if you’re afraid of how your voice might sound if you raise it at me.”

His head dipped slightly, nose brushing the air just beside her temple. He inhaled like she was something decadent.

“You stand too close,” he continued, his voice velvet-wrapped steel, “You forget yourself when we’re alone. And when you call me… it’s not authority. It’s surrender.”

Her hands curled against the desk behind her, knuckles white. One more breath, one more second, and she might break.

He sensed it. Of course he did.

He leaned in, his lips grazing the shell of her ear—not kissing, just haunting. His voice barely audible now:

“If I touched you, would you stop me?”

Every nerve in her body screamed. Her skin prickled, flushed, betrayed her. Her knees trembled, held in place only by the press of the desk behind her and the gravity of him before her.

She didn’t answer.

And that silence?

That was his victory.

A pause. A heartbeat.

His hand finally lifted. Not rough. Not rushed. His fingers brushed the line of her jaw, feather-light, reverent, like she was holy and already ruined. Her eyes fluttered shut against the heat blooming under her skin.

“You’re shaking,” he whispered. “Is it fear... or is it anticipation?”

She snapped her eyes open, clenching her jaw. “This is wrong.”

He smiled—slow, wicked, devastating.

“Then why does it feel like worship?”

Her breath hitched.

He didn’t kiss her. He didn’t need to. He let the moment hang—the promise of touch, the unbearable ache of denial—then slowly pulled back, leaving her trembling, undone, on the edge of something she could never take back.

“I’ll leave now,” he said, brushing his fingers against hers one last time, as if sealing a pact. “But you’ll think of this. Tonight. Tomorrow. And every time you try to convince yourself that you’re not already mine.”

And with that, he turned, his footsteps silent as a shadow.

The door clicked softly behind him.

And Seraphine Vale, brilliant, composed, untouchable Seraphine—realized she hadn’t moved. Not because she couldn’t.

But because part of her didn’t want to.