– Yara –

The words slipped out before I could second-guess them. All I heard was the pounding of my heart. Silence stretched, thick.

Zayne didn't react. Didn't blink. Just stared.

Panic clawed up my throat. Say something, say something.

"I—I mean, for a painting," I rushed out, heat creeping up my neck. "I've been stuck in a slump, and when I saw you, I just... your presence—no, your aura—has this sharpness to it, like it's cutting through everything, and I thought, that's it. That's what I need to paint." My hands fluttered uselessly before I forced them down on my lap. "Not to sound weird—God, this is weird."

My mind screamed at me to shut up, but the diarrhea of words just kept fucking spilling. "I've been trying to capture something raw, something real, and you—your whole... thing is just—" I gestured at him like that explained anything before groaning, pressing a hand to my mouth. "Wow. I'm really slaying professional negotiations right now."

Someone, do me a favor, shoot me dead. I did NOT just say that.

Silence.

Then he laughed.

It wasn't just any laugh. It unraveled, slow and deliberate, curling around me like dark silk, like a noose being drawn tight.

"Interesting," he murmured, tilting his head, carving sharp edges into his thin lips.

Relief fluttered through me. At least it wasn't a no—but then it died.

Because his smirk turned slow. Taunting. He leaned back, arms folding over his chest, watching me squirm.

"That's a sweet little excuse, Miss Levine." A pause. A trap laid bare. "If this is an art student's way of asking for a hookup... you could've just said so."

My brain short-circuited. Processed. Rejected. Blue-screened.

I straightened, shaking my head quickly. "No—no, that's not what this is. I wasn't—"

He cut me off with a slow hum, elbow resting on the table, fingers tapping idly against his jaw as he studied me.

"Your pupils are blown, sweetheart." The words slithered over my skin, coiling tight. His gaze dragged over me—slow, invasive as if he already knew what my body was doing before I did. "Your skin's burning at the idea of my hands on you."

Heat spiked through me, violent and traitorous. My stomach twisted, something foreign and unfamiliar curling low, right where I didn't want it.

I shot up from my chair without thinking. The need to run surged—fast, overwhelming, instinctual.

His head tilted, lips curving as I stumbled back. "Running?" he murmured.

"...You wish," I muttered. But my feet betrayed me, dragging behind another step.

His grin stretched, slow and predatory, savoring my reaction.

Then, leisurely, he rose. No rush. No sharp movements. Just deliberate, calculated control. My pulse spiked. He crossed the space between us, step by step, a furnace more than six feet tall. My shoulders hit the wall. A soft gasp escaped me.

Fuck.

His fingers finally moved—just bracketing me in, palms pressing flat against the wall on either side of my head. Close enough that his scent invaded my lungs—dark, clean, laced with expensive cologne. Close enough that if I leaned in even an inch, I'd feel hard muscle, a presence that demanded submission without a single word.

I wasn't breathing. What was even air?

He leaned in, lips ghosting over my ear. "Tell me, little artist," his voice was a whisper, dark, filthy silk against my skin, making my thighs clench involuntarily. "If I were to press my palm between those pretty thighs—would I feel just how wet you are for me?"

A noise got stuck in my throat—a helpless, wounded thing. Shame colored my cheeks, and suddenly, my body wasn't mine anymore.

I didn't understand this feeling. I didn't want to. And I hated it. Hated how right he was. Hated how I couldn't summon the fire to tell him to go fuck himself.

I forced my voice to work, but it came out meek, barely more than a breath. "You're misunderstanding. I just want to paint you, that's all." So fuck off.

Shit. I should lash out. Voice my indignation. Hit him. Anything. I shouldn't act like some virgin who'd never had her clit throb with need before.

I had.

But it was never like this.

I'd had awkward foreplay with exes, but I always stopped when something didn't feel right. I'd lost count of how many times they claimed I was asexual, only for breakups to follow after those rare encounters. Relationships never worked for me because I couldn't summon a single bone-throbbing, toe-curling pleasure. For a while, I was ready to accept that this was just how I was.

Clearly, I was wrong.

And so were my exes.

Despite my limited experience, I knew my reaction to Zayne was dangerous. That hot, chilling shiver running down my spine. My nipples tightening inside my bra—and he hadn't even touched me. I should be insulted. I should be livid. Instead, all I could think about was how I'd melt if this man, this stranger, touched me. Let him show me how it's done... instead of slapping him hard across his infuriatingly gorgeous cheek.

He let my lie fester between us, marinating in its own absurdity.

Then he moved.

I flinched as his knuckles brushed my cheek—so light, so unhurried, trailing down until they stopped at my chin. A command disguised as a caress. My breath hitched. I forced myself to meet his gaze, but the weight of it burned. My pulse tripped. My gaze dropped—to his lips.

Worse.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

"Am I?"

The smile in his voice was gone, replaced by something darker. Colder. Sharper.

"I don't deal in lies, Miss Levine." His voice dropped low, almost a growl—a blade scraping against my skin. "Let's be real here. I don't play muse to someone else's fantasies."

A long, agonizing pause. The tension stretched tight like a wire pulled so taut it might snap. I opened my eyes, my gaze flickering up to meet his cold ones.

"If it's sex you're after," he said, stepping back, "I'll consider it."

I swallowed hard, feeling him watch me crumble beneath the weight of his words.

"But if it's something more... then you're wasting your breath."

Just like that, he turned his back to me, walking toward the window. His silhouette framed by the city lights—unreachable.

The rejection hit me like a damn blow, settling cold in my bones.

Something snapped in my mind. This arrogant asshole.

I wouldn't curse. I wouldn't stoop so low. Instead, I inhaled sharply, steadying myself, despite the bone-rattling tremor in my limbs, and the way my heart slammed against my ribs. I wished it was just anger. Humiliation. But the fuck of it was—I knew it wasn't just that.

"A simple no would have sufficed."

Deceptively soft. Clipped. And, God, I was proud that my voice didn't crack.

Zayne stilled. Then, slowly, he turned. I almost recoiled. Almost. Instead, I met him head-on, curling my lips into a smile that tasted like poison. "Next time, try answering without the performance and delusion." My nails dug into my palm. "I promise it won't kill you."

A flicker of something dark in his green-gold gaze. Anger. Amusement. Something sharper, more illicit.

"Is that so?"

A pause. His gaze burned straight through me.

"Then I suppose we'll see if you can keep that mouth just as sharp the next time we meet."

The urge to flip him off was strong—so damn strong. But Helen would chew me out if this guy held grudges. Instead, I glowered at him, guarded, tensed like a cornered cat.

I waited—just long enough to make sure he wasn't about to move. Then I grabbed my purse, my heels clicking against the polished floor as I strode toward the door.

I didn't look back.

"How about: let's meet never."

______________________________________

The sheets were liquid silk, whispering cool against my skin. My thoughts drifted like smoke—muddled, heavy. Moonlight sliced through the dark, painting the bed in ghostly silver. I wore a sheer white gown that clung to me, offering little more than a pretense of modesty.

"Awake?"

The word slithered down my spine.

Zayne.

His suit was as sharp as a blade, his tie undone, pale skin glowing beneath an open collar. He moved like smoke, sinking onto the bed as if it were carved solely for him.

My breath hitched. His presence was a promise I couldn't name, yet heat coiled inside me, undeniable.

He loomed over me, his arms encircling my head. A furnace radiated from him. His gaze devoured me, lingering on the rise of my breasts. I lay utterly still, electrified. Slowly, he tilted my chin up, forcing my eyes to meet his dark hazel depths.

"You're trembling, Yara," his voice low and wicked, as his fingers caressed my jaw with maddening slowness. His touch slid down my throat, then settled against my chest, measuring the frantic beat of my heart. "Tell me... is it fear? Or something else?"

My mouth opened, but no words came. My body betrayed me, burning beneath his touch, aching for something I couldn't name.

His fingers curled around my thigh, parting me just enough to steal my breath. A slow, unbearable slide of his palm up my leg, teasing the soft flesh of my inner thigh. Heat coiled, sharp, and consuming. I bit my lip, fighting against the instinct to arch, to surrender.

"Still pretending?" He tsked, his knuckles brushing higher. "Liar."

His mouth found my throat, a slow drag of teeth and tongue, tasting my pulse, feeling it hammer against his lips. My fingers fisted the sheets, a strangled sound slipping from my lips. He swallowed it with a kiss—deep, claiming, a merciless invasion that shattered reason. His hand slid higher, teasing, tormenting.

"Do you know what I'm going to do to you, Yara?" His breath was molten against my ear.

I knew. God, I knew. The thought alone sent another pulse of heat flooding through me. My hips lifted, just barely, a silent plea. He exhaled sharply, pleased. One finger traced the edge of my lingerie, slow, deliberate.

"Say it." His command was velvet-wrapped steel.

I couldn't. I wouldn't.

His chuckle, a dark sound that sent a jolt of arousal straight to my core. "Still stubborn."

A single, torturous stroke of his fingers over the lace. My body arched, desperate, betraying me all over again. He kissed me again, fierce and consuming, swallowing every broken sound that escaped me.

Fingers curled, slipping beneath silk and lace—

I jolted awake.

My breath came in ragged gasps, my pulse a frenzied rhythm against my ribs. Moonlight and streetlamp streamed through the window, slicing through the dark—but the bed was empty. My room was cold and silent.

Except for the liquid heat still burning between my thighs, an aching reminder of the dream I couldn't escape. Shame bloomed in my chest, but it was tangled with a need, a desperate, gnawing hunger I couldn't erase.

And the worst part? I swore I could still taste him on my lips.

T H E N E X T D A Y

"Bitch, you've got the balls of an elephant."

Jenna's laughter rang through the quad, loud enough to turn heads. I shot her a glare, but she just clutched her stomach, wiping away tears.

"You're laughing because I'm miserable?" I scowled.

"Oh, absolutely," she wheezed. "If this were a stand-up special, it'd be legendary."

"Wow. Your support means everything," I deadpanned, my mood already wrecked from lack of sleep and that cursed dream.

She finally sobered, but her smirk remained. "Come on, you faced off with a guy who probably eats people like us for breakfast and walked away with your dignity. That's badass."

"I didn't feel badass," I muttered. "He practically pinned—" I caught myself too late.

Her brows shot up. "Pinned you?" The grin widened. "And you're mad why? You had the golden bachelor in your space and didn't take advantage and finally lost that V Card? Instead of, you know..." She made an obscene gesture with her fingers. "Missed opportunity. "

I gaped at her. "You floozy."

She shrugged. "Listen, if a six-foot-two Greek god in a suit ever corners me, I'll be responsible. Let him ruin my life for a night and then tell my grandkids. 'Gather 'round, kids, while Nana tells you about the time she rolled in the sheets with a gorgeous asshole.'"

I fought laughter, debating if I should throw her into the nearest bush. "You're unbelievable."

"I'm practical." She winked. "Not every day you get the chance to ride that veiny, thick—"

I clamped a hand over her mouth, mortified. "Stop." People were definitely eavesdropping now. My cheeks burned. "For the record, maybe he only has his face going for him." Even as I said it, I doubted it. A man like Zayne wasn't just born with that kind of confidence.

She peeled my hand away, eyes glinting. "Wait... you're blushing." Her grin turned predatory. "Oh my God. You imagined it. Something happened, didn't it?"

"Nothing."

"Come on. Spill—"

"No."

The memory of his gaze, the way he loomed over me, flickered too vividly in my mind. That damned dream.

Jenna cackled. "Fine, don't tell me. That blush says everything."

I stormed ahead, flipping her off. "I hate you!"

"No, you love me!" she called after me, still laughing.

We parted ways, her journalism building on the far end of campus, leaving me alone with my spiraling thoughts.

That night, I couldn't even savor the small victory of standing my ground. Sharing the story with Jenna didn't help. Everything was overshadowed by that dream.

I sat through my lecture, barely processing a word. The professor's voice faded into static. My mind was already elsewhere—trapped in the dark, drowning in his voice, his touch.

After going home, I immediately reported my conclusions about the vase to Helen.

Did he take the vase? Yes. Is he interested in politics? Hardly.

But in me? No, I didn't want to think about it.

And of course, I didn't tell her the rest.

At the university, he had kept those walls up, coldly polite, distant, untouchable.

But that night at the restaurant... He toyed with me. Just enough to make me stumble, enough to make me aware that he wasn't merely indifferent—he was watching. Calculating. Enjoying my discomfort more than he should have.

The rest of the evening? I spent it moping around, trying to focus on an assignment, only to cringe every few minutes, wailing into my pillow like a banshee. At one point, I hurled a pillow at the wall.

"Arrogant, manipulative bastard—"

He didn't just reject my proposition—he took it further. He implied I wanted to fuck him.

And the worst part?

He ripped my innocent thoughts into something forbidden. And in that moment, I hesitated.

Then came the dream. Scandalous. Vivid. A wildfire in my mind.

Maybe it wasn't all my fault. Maybe it was him—his sharp jawline, those smoldering green eyes, his sinful words. The way he carried himself like he owned the world. The way a single look from him felt like a challenge.

I hated him. And I hated myself more.

But had my obsession faded? No.

I told myself it was just an artist's curiosity. But after last night? That ridiculous dream? It felt like a splinter under my skin.

I wanted to draw him. Every flaw in his perfection. Those eyes that had stripped me bare.

It wasn't just the surface anymore. I wanted to go deeper, to peel back his layers. It wasn't just lust. Not entirely.

It was... something else.

Still, I had my pride. I wouldn't lose myself over him.

At midnight, I woke up breathless, sweat clinging to my skin, an ache simmering deep in my bones. I had to end this madness. These thoughts would end me.

I wasn't built for casual flings. If I ever fell, it wouldn't be light—it would consume me.

So I made a decision.

I would finish the drawing. One last time. Pour everything into it, then lock it away. And then, I'd move on.

There were other ways to graduate. I didn't need him. I wouldn't chase after things I could never have.

Realism had always been my style—raw, unfiltered. Real. But as I stared at the sketch, something shifted. Each stroke of charcoal peeled back a layer of me, revealing fire laced with melancholy.

It wasn't perfect, as I preferred, drawn from memory. But for my closure, it was enough.

I shut the sketchbook with quiet finality, sealing both the drawing—and my conflicted desires—inside.

Out of sight out of mind.