She made the mistake of embarrassing him.

Not in a real way, of course — not in any way that would affect his GPA or his father's hedge fund empire or the decades-old stranglehold the Blackwell family held over this university's board of trustees.

But it was public. It was loud. And worst of all, it was clever.

Cassian sat there in Ashcroft Lecture Hall, legs sprawled, half-tuned out as Professor Larrimore droned on about international economic sanctions, when she decided to speak. A throwaway comment about ethical investing — a jab, really — delivered with enough edge and timing that the room actually laughed. At him. Cassian Blackwell.

And she didn't even look proud of it. She didn't smirk or preen or glance in his direction to see if it landed. She just kept taking notes like it meant nothing. Like he was nothing.

That's when he noticed her.

Not the way Levi noticed girls, all easy grins and conquest games. Not the way Silas watched his sister's shadow like a tether. No, this was different. This was cold. Mechanical. Like acquiring a company. Like cracking a lock.

He learned her name within the hour.

By the end of the day, he knew her class schedule, her dorm building, her boyfriend's name, and the fact that he wasn't legacy.

She might've been someone else's for now, but Cassian had already decided she wouldn't stay that way. He didn't want her the way most men wanted women. He didn't want to protect her, or worship her, or play pretend at something tender. He wanted to ruin her. To unravel every illusion of control she thought she had. To make her need him; not because he seduced her, but because he dismantled everything else.

And when it was over, when she stood in the wreckage, confused, humiliated, and searching for answers, he would be there. Not kind. Not warm. But available.

Cassian Blackwell didn't chase. He constructed inevitabilities. And she had just become one.

---

The lounge was all shadowed stone and soft amber light, more cathedral than frat house. Cassian sat in a wingback chair, untouched bourbon in hand, eyes like a blade unsheathed.

"She tried to clown you in Ashcroft?" Levi asked, disbelieving, sprawled on the couch with a lacrosse ball in hand that he kept tossing and catching like his attention span couldn't decide what to do with itself. "You sure it wasn't flirting?"

"She was smirking when she said it," Silas offered from his perch by the window, knees bouncing, hoodie sleeves shoved up to the elbows. "That's like half the female student population when they talk to Cass."

"It wasn't flirting," Cassian said coldly. "It was a power play. And it landed."

"She wounded you." Jude's voice was smooth, dry. He was leaned back against the bar, sleeves rolled, a cigarette burning between his fingers. Jude always looked like he was five minutes from either fucking someone or destroying them. Probably both.

Cassian's eyes flicked to him, coldly annoyed. "She made me look like a fool. In front of Larrimore. In front of people."

Levi grinned. "Can't have that. Gonna kill her?"

"No." Cassian's voice was light. Almost bored. "I'm going to make her desperate."

The room quieted.

"She has a boyfriend," Silas said carefully, though his tone was more curiosity than concern.

"Not for long." Cassian's smile was all teeth. "He's already halfway out the door. One nudge and he'll stumble into the wrong bed."

Levi let out a low whistle. "You're not even into this girl."

"I'm into the lesson," Cassian replied. "Humiliate me in front of the room? Fine. I'll burn hers down while she watches."

"And then?" Silas asked. "You gonna date her?"

Cassian scoffed. "God, no."

Levi grinned. "You're gonna fuck her though."

Cassian didn't answer. He didn't need to.

Jude tapped ash into a nearby tray. "And after that?"

Cassian leaned back, finally lifting the glass to his lips. "Then I'll get bored."

---

Hell's Night at the Masoleum wasn't just a party. It was an invitation-only blood rite—a fever dream wrapped in smoke and silk, the kind of event whispered about in campus bathrooms and scratched into bathroom stalls like a secret spell. This was where reputations were broken and rebuilt. Where people made choices they couldn't walk back. Where no one looked too closely at the shadows. You didn't get in unless someone wanted you there. Someone important.

Cassian Blackwell made sure they got in.

Her boyfriend thought he'd scored the invite himself. That his reputation had earned it. That his social climb had finally paid off. He was wrong. Cassian had orchestrated every step. Had whispered her boyfriend's name during a Brotherhood meeting, then ensured an invite was dropped into his lap through a mutual contact. He'd known exactly what the guy would do: flash it like a badge of honor, then beg her to come along so he didn't look small standing in a room of gods.

And she came. Of course she did. Because the party was legendary. Because the Masoleum was myth wrapped in stone.

She wasn't here for him. She was here with him. Her boyfriend— basic, forgettable, weak. Cassian had studied him for weeks. He knew the guy's tells, his vices. Knew exactly how much tequila it took before his loyalty turned slippery. And tonight, he'd slipped right into the waiting mouth of one of Cassian's past flings.

Cassian hadn't even needed to ask her. He just suggested the right timing, made sure the right bottle ended up in the guy's hand, and promised her a favor she'd been dying to cash in. Now all that was left was to steer the final piece into place.

Downstairs, somewhere near the back hallway where the bedrooms were, where shadows fell heavier and morals fell faster, Jude waited.

Jude was the charmer, the one with the disarming smile and predator eyes. People talked to him. They believed him. When she went looking for her suddenly suspiciously absent boyfriend Jude tipped his glass in the east hall, subtly guiding her attention toward the cracked door and the sounds beyond it. "Hey... you might want to check the bathroom. I think someone's fucking in there. Thought I saw your boyfriend."

Cassian already knew what she'd see: her boyfriend with his pants around his ankles, head tilted back, a girl on her knees between his legs, moaning just loud enough to be heard if you stepped close; which she did.

From the mouth of the hallway, half-shadowed by stone and smoke, he watched her freeze in the doorway, eyes locked on the scene he'd scripted down to the door cracked open, just enough to peer inside.

She didn't scream. Didn't cry. Just stood there, silent and still, like grief was something she'd been taught not to show.

It made him smile.

When she finally turned, storm in her eyes and betrayal curdled in her throat, she nearly crashed into him.

Cassian didn't move.

"Hell of a thing to walk in on," he said, voice low, like it wasn't meant for anyone else to hear. It cut through the music like a secret. "Timing's a bitch."

No apology. No sympathy. Just presence.

His gaze slid down her, slow and unapologetic. She was unraveling in front of him; rage under skin, confusion behind her eyes. But he didn't flinch. He never did.

"If it helps," he added, casually adjusting the cuff of his shirt, "she was doing all the work. He just laid back like a coward."

It was cruel. Pointed. But true.

He didn't offer comfort. He offered clarity. And he stayed exactly where he was, arms relaxed, tone unreadable, a wall of stone in front of her. Let her make whatever choice she wanted.

Run. Scream. Collapse.

He would still be there. Not for kindness. Just to be the last thing she saw before everything changed.