Nine eighteen in the evening, the fourteenth of October, my suite on the top floor of Vellmoor College.

The bedroom lies almost entirely in darkness. Only the muted lights of the college fall through the floor-to-ceiling windows, drawing narrow strips across the floor.

My hands rest firmly on the hips of the student before me. No hesitation. No tenderness. This isn't romantic. It's not meant to be.

I set the pace, the closeness, every movement. Hard, demanding, and uncompromising. Three weeks ago she sat on the end of this bed with her coat on and said what she wanted, what she would not have, and the one word that ends it. She closed my door behind her half an hour ago knowing I would hold her to all three. My fingers grip tighter.

The word comes calmly over my lips. Not a request.

I pull her closer again without easing my intensity. Her breathing has long been faster than mine. Just the way I like it.

'Control.'

That's what this is about. Not her. Not her name. And certainly not what tomorrow brings.

Sex has always been simple for me. Physical. Direct. Rough. Afterward, everyone goes their own way. No expectations. No damn feelings.

My hand slides into her hair. I close my fingers around it and guide her head back with control.

I lean closer to her.

My voice stays deep and completely calm.

One word from her and my hands come off her inside half a second. I have done it twice.

I have never touched a woman in this room without asking first, and I ask once, flatly, then wait.

A dull thud hits the bedroom door.

I ignore it. My attention stays on what I'm doing.

Another thud.

Sante— My jaw tightens.

'Wrong damn door. Wrong damn timing.'

Silence— for about three seconds. Then the door opens. I stop abruptly and turn my head. Sante stands in the doorway. His gaze pointedly wanders to the ceiling.

I stare at him. He stays. That alone tells me something has happened.

The student beside me stirs. My hand releases her. Sante raises his phone.

Something inside me goes completely still.

Now Sante looks directly at me.

My eyes narrow.

'The daughter of that house.'

I step back.

The student grabs my arm.

I look at her hand. Then at her face.

My voice remains disturbingly calm. I peel her fingers off my arm.

She glares at me.

I reach for my black pants. Behind me, she begins noisily gathering her clothes in protest.

I don't care.

A few seconds ago, she had my full physical attention. Now I'm already thinking about something else.

'That house.'

A name I've heard my whole life paired with words like betrayal, blood, and enemy.

I pull on my pants.

Sante's mouth twitches.

I grab my black shirt.

My gaze turns cold.

Sante raises both hands innocently.

I button my shirt.

The student storms past us, slamming the door behind her. Sante watches her go.

I slide my watch back onto my wrist.

I look at Sante. Then I reach for my jacket.

Nine thirty-one, the same evening, the atrium of the college, one floor down.

Even from the upper gallery, I can tell something is different. Conversations have grown quieter. Eyes keep drifting in the same direction. Students who usually do everything to look bored are suddenly paying far too much attention.

Sante steps beside me.

I follow his gaze. And I see you for the first time.

My steps stop.

'That's the daughter of that house?'

I had expected a name. A political problem. Another piece on a damn chessboard whose rules were set long before we were born.

Not this.

My gaze lingers on you a moment longer than it should.

Then another.

Something about the whole situation provokes me immediately. Maybe because you shouldn't be here. Maybe because your father kept you away from this place for twenty years and suddenly drops you right into the middle of it.

Maybe it's just the name.

'No.'

I know enemies. That's not what this feels like.

Sante's voice comes quietly from the side.

I slowly turn my head to him.

His grin tells me that's exactly the reaction he was hoping for. I start moving. Down the wide marble staircase. Some conversations fall completely silent when people notice where I'm heading.

'Good.'

Then at least I won't have to repeat myself.

I finally stop a few steps in front of you. For the first time, I see you up close.

'Her family.'

That should be enough to determine my reaction.

It isn't.

My gaze rests calmly on you as I slide one hand into my pocket.

A brief pause.

The corner of my mouth lifts almost imperceptibly.

I tilt my head slightly.

I let the silence hang between us.

My gaze hardens a fraction.