The sunlight creeps through my blinds, but it feels weaker than the memory of Adrian’s hands, the precise way he could command my body into submission without touching me. I lie there, the silver key in my palm, cool against my fingers, as if the metal itself holds a fragment of his will. Two keys. One for the past, one for the present, one symbolizing his surrender, and the other my responsibility. My chest tightens at the thought of the delicate, terrifying balance between control and freedom.

Cleo’s voice breaks through the silence, sharp and playful. “You look like death warmed over. Or the aftermath of one of Adrian’s lessons.”

I groan, rolling onto my side. “I don’t feel like talking.”

She plops a mug of coffee onto the bedside table with exaggerated force. “Then drink. And maybe try not to have a heart attack before breakfast. You’re terrifyingly good at overthinking.”

I manage a weak smile. The truth is, I’m still tethered to Adrian’s world. Even with the keys before me, even after all the negotiations, I feel the pull of his authority lingering in my veins. The intensity of his gaze, the way his voice demanded my obedience, the subtle but undeniable heat when he tested my limits—it all coils inside me, a snake that refuses to be tamed.

I lift the silver key, turning it over in my hand. It represents power, yes, but not just his. It’s mine now. And that terrifies me even more. The thought of controlling him, of wielding the same weight over his body and mind that he wielded over mine—it’s intoxicating and frightening in equal measure.

The phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I jump. Cleo glances at it, eyebrow raised. “Bet it’s him.”

I resist looking. I don’t want to see his name flash across the screen yet. Not before I’ve gathered myself. Not before I’ve reminded myself that I am no longer a passive participant in this dangerous game. But the curiosity claws at me like a fingernail scraping bone.

The message is simple. One word:

“Anchor.”

My stomach flips. A shiver runs down my spine, equal parts fear and longing. That word, that command, still holds power over me—even now, after everything. I close my eyes and press the phone to my chest. He’s testing me, reminding me that control isn’t given—it’s constantly negotiated, moment to moment, heartbeat to heartbeat.

I sip my coffee, trying to anchor myself in the mundane. Cleo chatters about her upcoming projects, about the mundane catastrophes of campus life, and I nod absently, letting her words wash over me. But my mind drifts back to him. Adrian Lewis. The way he can take everything from me and leave me wanting more. The way I crave the exact thing that terrifies me the most.

And then, like a dark comet tearing across a still night sky, the thought hits me. Adrian is not the only one watching. The rumor about the new visiting professor, Dr. Cassian Ward, swirls in my mind. The name alone feels like a challenge, sharp-edged and cold. Cassian Ward. Forty-something, impeccable, unyielding. A man who has probably never hesitated to take what he wants, but a man who isn’t Adrian.

The possibilities churn in my stomach. Another dominant force. Another challenge to my desires. Another chance to explore… everything I thought I knew about submission, about surrender, about control.

Cleo nudges me. “You’re spacing out again. Oh, and by the way? Cassian Ward is in your class this semester. And I quote, ‘he was brought here to contain Adrian Lewis.’”

I freeze mid-sip. My coffee sloshes dangerously in the mug, and I set it down with a thump. “Contain Adrian?” I repeat, my voice brittle with disbelief.

She smirks, enjoying my shock. “Exactly. And apparently, you’re at the center of his little experiment.”

I feel a strange thrill, cold and dangerous, as I consider the implications. Contain Adrian? How does one contain a man like him? One who can dominate with a whisper, with a glance, with the very air he breathes? And why—why am I the focal point of this?

The thought makes me pulse in ways I both dread and crave. Another predator. Another master. Another chance to test the limits of my obedience—and his.

Later, as I walk to Olin Hall, my mind is a storm of anticipation and apprehension. My steps falter as the image of Cassian Ward, his posture perfect, his eyes sharp, like he can see through walls, past defenses, into the very marrow of a person’s will, forms in my mind. I feel the heat rise to my cheeks. Adrian’s influence still hums through me, but now I sense a new dynamic—one of competition, of tension, of impossible attraction.

The lecture hall is filled with students whispering nervously. Adrian’s absence is palpable, leaving a vacuum that seems to hum with potential. And then he enters. Dr. Cassian Ward. His presence is immediate, magnetic in a different way than Adrian’s. He doesn’t hunger; he assesses. He doesn’t chase; he waits. But I feel it. The pull.

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