Kai pov,

day 3

I’m already wired the second I walk into the lecture hall.

Alisa is up there owning the entire room without even trying. Black blazer dress, sheer stockings with that razor-thin seam running up the back of her calves, hair pinned low, glasses catching the projector light every time she turns.

She’s writing equations like she’s carving them into stone, voice low and lethal, slicing straight through my skull.

I take my usual spot in the back row, lean against the wall, arms folded, pretending I’m not counting the seconds between her breaths.

That’s when I see him.

Tristan fucking Langford, two rows over, legs spread like he owns the place.

His eyes aren’t on the board.

They’re on her legs.

Then higher.

Then lower again.

He licks his lips, slow, like he’s already got her bent over the desk in his head.

My pulse goes from sixty to two hundred in half a second.

He leans to his teammate, mouth moving.

I don’t need to hear it to know what he’s saying. I’ve heard it a thousand times about a thousand girls.

Only this time it’s her.

Alisa keeps talking, oblivious. “—so the four-momentum transforms covariantly—”

Tristan smirks, mutters again, louder this time. “Wonder if she moans in differential equations.”

Something in me snaps clean in half.

I don’t remember leaving my seat.

One second I’m against the wall, the next I’m pushing through the door, letting it slam behind me hard enough that the whole hall jumps.

I hear her voice cut off mid-sentence, but I’m already gone.

Locker room. Lower level. Lacrosse just ended.

I shoulder the door open so hard it rebounds off the wall.

Tristan’s halfway out of his jersey, laughing with his little pack of hyenas. He sees me and the grin spreads.

“Routhfield. You storm out of—”

My fist shuts him up.

His head ricochets off the metal locker with a sound like a gunshot. Blood sprays across the tiles instantly.

He stumbles, eyes wide, mouth already swelling.

“What the actual fuck, Kai—”

I grab him by the throat and slam him back again. Hard. The lockers rattle.

“Shut your mouth,” I say, voice flat, deadly calm. “Just shut it.”

He claws at my wrist. I squeeze until his eyes bulge.

“You looked at her,” I tell him. “You looked at her like she’s something you’re allowed to picture naked. Like she’s yours to rate.”

He tries to laugh, but it comes out wet and red.

“She’s just the—”

I punch him in the mouth. Once. Twice. Feel teeth give under my knuckles.

“There is no ‘just’,” I snarl. “There’s only her. And you don’t get to breathe the same air as her after the shit that just came out of your mouth.”

He swings wild. I take it on the cheekbone (let it split, let it bleed), then drive my knee into his gut so hard he drops.

He’s on the floor now, coughing blood, trying to crawl away.

I crouch over him, fist in his hair, yank his face up.

“Let me make this real simple,” I say, slow, so even his concussed brain can follow. “You look at her again, you think about her again, you even dream about her, I will find you. And next time I won’t stop when you’re still breathing.”

He spits blood at my shoes.

“You’re insane,” he wheezes. “She’s a fucking teacher—”

I slam his face into the tile. Not hard enough to knock him out. Just hard enough to remind him gravity exists.

“She’s not a teacher,” I hiss against his ear. “She’s the only thing in this entire world I don’t want to break. And you just made the mistake of treating her like she’s disposable.”

I stand up. He curls into a ball, whimpering.

I look at the two teammates frozen by the benches.

“You saw nothing,” I say.

They nod like their lives depend on it.

They do.

I walk to the sink, rinse the blood off my knuckles, watch it swirl pink down the drain.

My reflection stares back, cheek already swelling, lip split, eyes black with something I don’t have a name for.

Possession.

Worship.

Rage.

I flex my hand. The pain feels good. Clean.

Alisa has no idea.

She never will.

That’s the point.

No one touches what’s mine.

Especially not her.

I dry my hands on my shirt, walk out, and head to the cabin.

6:15.

I’ll be early,

I’ll smile like nothing happened.

And I’ll let her punish me for sins she doesn’t even know I committed.

Worth every drop of blood.

Day Four

(Author POV)

The cabin was quiet at 6:12 a.m., the kind of quiet that felt like it was holding its breath.

Alisa sat at the mahogany desk in a charcoal silk robe that slipped off one shoulder every time she reached for her coffee. Hair still damp from the shower, loose waves clinging to her neck.

No makeup yet. She didn’t need it. The faint bruise of sleeplessness under her eyes only made the green look sharper, more dangerous.

She knew he would be early today.

She was counting on it.

At 6:14 the door opened without a knock.

Kai stepped inside and shut it behind him with deliberate softness.

He was already in workout gear (black hoodie zipped halfway, grey sweatpants low enough to make her fingers tighten around the porcelain mug). His right cheekbone carried a fresh purple bloom, lip split in the corner, knuckles scabbed dark red.

He hadn’t bothered hiding any of it.

He looked like he’d been born in violence and decided to wear it proudly.

Alisa didn’t stand. She just looked at him over the rim of her cup and let the silence stretch until it was uncomfortable for anyone who wasn’t them.

“Morning,” he said finally, voice rough from either sleep or last night’s screaming (she hadn’t decided which).

“You’re bleeding on my floor,” she replied, calm as winter.

Kai glanced down. A single drop had fallen from his knuckles onto the antique Persian rug.

He shrugged, wiped it away with the sole of his sneaker like it was nothing.

Alisa set the coffee down.

“Come here.”

He crossed the room in four slow strides and stopped directly in front of her chair. Close enough that she had to tilt her head back to hold his eyes.

She reached up without asking and touched the bruise on his cheekbone with two fingers. Light. Clinical. He didn’t flinch, but his jaw flexed hard enough she felt it.

“Locker room?” she asked quietly.

He didn’t answer. Just stared at her like he was daring her to push.

Alisa’s thumb brushed the cut on his lip. “I heard Tristan Langford won’t be in school for a week. Compound fracture in the orbital. Three cracked ribs. Someone did a real number on him.”

Kai’s eyes darkened, but his mouth stayed shut.

She let her hand drop to the worst of his knuckles, turned his hand palm-up, traced the splits with the edge of her nail. He shivered (barely, but she caught it).

“You think I didn’t notice the way you left class yesterday?” she murmured. “You think I don’t know exactly what set you off?”

Still nothing.

Alisa stood. The robe slipped a fraction lower on her shoulder. She watched his gaze flick there and snap back up, disciplined and starving at the same time.

“I told you,” she said, voice velvet and venom, “I do not need you fighting my battles.”

“I didn’t,” he said at last, the words scraped raw. “I was fighting mine.”

Something electric snapped between them.

Alisa stepped closer until the silk of her robe brushed the cotton of his hoodie.

She was close enough to smell blood and cedar and the faint trace of last night’s rage still clinging to his skin.

“Look at me,” she ordered.

His eyes locked on hers instantly.

“You want to bleed for me?” she asked softly. “Fine. But from now on, you bleed on my terms.”

She reached past him, opened the top drawer, and took out the same black silk tie from Day Three. Held it up between them like a promise.

“Hands behind your back.”

Kai’s breath hitched. He obeyed without hesitation, wrists crossing at the small of his back. Alisa walked a slow circle around him, trailing the tie across his shoulders, down his spine, watching goosebumps rise in its wake.

When she came back to face him she looped the silk around his wrists, pulled the knot tight (not cruel, just unforgiving).

Then she stepped in until her lips almost touched his.

“You want to protect what’s yours?” she whispered. “Start by admitting it out loud.”

Kai’s chest rose hard against hers.

“Say it,” she repeated, voice lethal.

He swallowed once, throat working against the memory of yesterday’s rage.

“You’re mine,” he rasped. “You’ve been mine since the first time you looked at me like you could break me and I wanted you to.”

Alisa’s pulse thundered so loud she was sure he could hear it.

She leaned in, let her lips brush the shell of his ear.

“Good boy.”

Then she stepped back, untied him with a single tug, and pointed to the leather chair.

“Sit. We’re doing thermodynamics today. And Kai?”

He was already moving, eyes black with hunger and something dangerously close to devotion.

“If you get a single derivative wrong,” she said, sliding onto the edge of the desk in front of him, robe parting just enough to reveal the lace edge of whatever she was (or wasn’t) wearing underneath, “I stop touching you for the rest of the week.”

Kai dropped into the chair like a man taking a bullet.

“Understood, Professor.”

Alisa smiled (small, sharp, victorious).

Outside, the sun finally broke over the estate, spilling gold across the floor and the bloodstain that still hadn’t quite been cleaned away.

Five months,

three weeks,

four days left.

The leash was fraying.

And neither of them wanted to fix it.

One Month Later

(Kai Family Mansion, Formal Dining Room)

The chandelier dripped light over white linen and old silver. The Routhfield dining table could seat twenty; tonight it held only four.

Mr. and Mrs. Routhfield sat at the ends, perfectly composed, the way people who own half the coastline tend to be.

Alisa sat to Mrs. Routhfield’s right, in a sleeveless black dress that looked modest from the waist up and criminal from the waist down.

Kai sat beside her (directly beside her), shoulders relaxed, tie actually knotted, hair tamed for once.

He looked like the son they’d always hoped the boarding schools would send back.

Mrs.Routhfield beamed as the second course was served.

“Alisa, I honestly don’t know how you did it. His last report card (straight A-minuses across the board). The headmaster called it ‘unprecedented progress.’”

Alisa smiled, polite and cool. “Kai’s always been brilliant. He just needed the right… motivation.”

Mr.Routhfield raised his glass of Bordeaux. “To motivation, then. And to the first family dinner in three years where I’m not threatening to cut anyone off.”

Kai lifted his own glass with his left hand.

His right hand was nowhere to be seen.

Under the damask tablecloth, it rested high on Alisa’s bare thigh, fingers splayed possessively just beneath the hem of her dress.

His thumb traced slow, deliberate circles against her skin (lazy, claiming, completely hidden).

Alisa didn’t flinch. She reached for her water glass as if nothing was happening.

Mrs.Routhfield leaned forward, eyes shining. “And the university applications! Yale, MIT, Oxford (early decision packets already prepared). Kai, darling, I almost cried when I saw them on your desk.”

Kai’s smile was angelic. “I had a good tutor, Mom.”

Under the table, his hand slid an inch higher.

His pinky brushed the lace edge of her stockings.

Alisa’s fingers tightened around her fork, but her voice stayed perfectly even.

“He’s been very… focused,” she said.

Mr.Routhfield chuckled. “Focused. That’s a new word for you, son.”

Kai’s eyes flicked to Alisa, dark and amused.

“Some things are worth concentrating on, Dad.”

His middle finger traced the seam of her stocking now, pressing just hard enough for her to feel the heat of his skin through the lace.

Alisa took a slow sip of water, throat working.

Mrs. Routhfield set her napkin down, delighted. “Alisa, you must stay the entire weekend. We’re having the Harringtons over tomorrow (perfect chance to show off our miracle boy).”

Alisa opened her mouth to answer, but Kai’s hand chose that exact moment to slip fully beneath her dress.

His palm flattened against the bare skin above her stocking, thumb stroking the sensitive crease where thigh met hip.

Her breath caught (just a flicker), but Mrs.Routhfield didn’t notice.

“I’d love to,” Alisa managed, voice like silk over steel. “If Kai promises to keep up his revision schedule.”

Kai’s grin was slow and wicked. “I’ll revise every night, Professor. Twice on Sundays.”

Under the table, his fingers curled, nails dragging lightly back down her thigh, stopping just before the lace.

Alisa pressed her knees together.

Not to stop him (to trap his hand exactly where it was).

Mr. Routhfield laughed. “See? Polite, articulate, motivated. I might actually die of shock.”

Mrs.Routhfield reached over and squeezed Alisa’s hand. “You’ve given us our son back.”

Alisa smiled sweetly.

Under the table, she shifted her leg just enough to let Kai’s fingers slip between her thighs, a silent, lethal reward.

His entire body went still for half a second. When he recovered, his thumb brushed higher (once, deliberate, devastating).

“Pass the salt, please?” Alisa asked, voice untouched.

Kai’s left hand reached for the crystal shaker, passing it across the table like a perfect gentleman.

His right hand never moved from its new territory.

Mrs.Routhfield beamed again. “You two work so well together. Almost like brother and sister.”

Kai’s fingers paused. His eyes cut to Alisa, black with dark, filthy promise.

Alisa met his gaze for the first time all evening.

Something electric crackled between them, unseen by the two people at the ends of the table.

“Something like that,” she murmured.

Dessert was served.

Conversation drifted to yacht clubs and charity galas.

Under the table, Kai’s hand stayed exactly where it was (warm, possessive, unmoving now, as if to say: this is mine, and I can wait).

Alisa took a delicate bite of chocolate tart, closed her eyes for a fraction of a second, and let the smallest, wickedest smile curve her lips.

Four months,

three weeks left.

And the perfect son everyone suddenly adored?

He was currently burning the whole world down with one hand tied behind his manners.