The morning lecture left me drained, though I could feel my pulse still thrumming from Cassian Ward’s presence. He had a way of moving through a room that made every nerve end alive, every instinct hyper-aware. His voice was smooth, his words precise, and yet beneath the calm, there was an undercurrent of dominance—subtle, teasing, magnetic.

I met Cleo in the hall outside the seminar room, our backpacks slung over one shoulder. She gave me a sharp look, her brow arched. “You look… frazzled. Or thrilled. Or both. Spill.”

I let out a short, nervous laugh, trying to steady my breathing. “It’s… intense. He’s different. Focused, controlled… and his attention—it’s like he can see everything, every reaction, every… twitch.”

Cleo’s smirk widened, and she nudged me with her elbow. “Oh, Sophie. Dangerous, I’d say. And you like it.”

I rolled my eyes, though my stomach fluttered. “I… it’s complicated. I have Anchor. I know what I’m doing. I’m… careful.”

“Careful,” she repeated skeptically, as though the word itself were meaningless in my context. “Right. You’re like a moth circling a flame. Just… don’t get burned too badly.”

Her warning made my chest tighten, though I appreciated the blunt honesty. Cleo always saw what I tried to hide from myself.

Inside the lecture hall, Cassian stood at the front, speaking to the class with a quiet authority that made the room hang on his every word. I took my seat, trying to anchor myself in the lesson. But the moment his gaze found me, just briefly, I felt my pulse jump, my cheeks warm. He didn’t need to touch me; the awareness of being watched was enough.

His lecture wound around the themes of authority and submission in literature, and I could feel the subtle parallels he was drawing to me. Every question he asked, every pause he held, seemed designed to test me, to provoke me, to see how far my reactions could be measured without touching me.

“Miss Hale,” he said finally, and my stomach dropped. “Do you see the character’s choice as an act of will… or a surrender to circumstance?”

I swallowed hard, aware of the tension pooling in my thighs. “I… think it’s both,” I said, voice low, steadying myself. “Choice and surrender aren’t always mutually exclusive.”

He arched a brow, that faint, knowing smile tugging at his lips. “Interesting. And when one surrenders, is it submission… or empowerment?”

My pulse quickened, and I felt my fingers clench my notebook. “It can be both,” I whispered. Anchor. Anchor. The word grounded me, reminded me I had consent, boundaries, and safety. Yet my body responded anyway—heat pooling low, nipples pressing against fabric, breath shallow.

Cleo, seated a few rows ahead, glanced back at me and raised an eyebrow, silently communicating the truth I didn’t want to admit: I was reacting. I was feeling.

Lecture ended, and the tension didn’t lift. Cassian collected his notes, walking past my desk with measured, deliberate steps. When he reached me, he lightly brushed my notebook—accidental, he claimed, but my skin tingled, betraying me. “Good,” he murmured. “You notice. You feel. That awareness is part of the lesson.”

I exhaled, trying to ground myself. “Yes,” I said, voice tight. My pulse thundered in my ears.

Back at our apartment, Cleo was already sprawled on the couch, scrolling through her phone. “Status report. Are you melting yet?” she asked without looking up.

I sank into the armchair across from her, trying to catch my breath. “Maybe a little,” I admitted. “He… he doesn’t touch you, and yet… every glance, every word… it makes me…” I trailed off, embarrassed.

Cleo laughed, sharp and knowing. “Dangerous, huh? And I bet you like it, too.”

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