"Who is Jason?"
I forced a smile. "Relax. He's just… my emotional support barista."
His eyes didn't move from the screen. "You are the barista."
"Right, so he's my customer."
Nothing. Not even a twitch.
I sighed. "He's a friend. From class. Harmless."
"Friend," he repeated, like he was trying out an unfamiliar word and not enjoying it. His grip on my hip tightened, fingers digging in just shy of painful. "You run from me, disappear for three months, and this 'friend' asks you to dinner."
Before I could stop him, his thumb flicked, and suddenly he was scrolling. Through my conversation with Jason. All two months of increasingly flirty messages. Jokes about accounting memes. Complaints about professors. The time he'd sent a selfie with a foam mustache and the caption for you, milady.
My face burned.
"Wow," I said. "Straight to the invasion of privacy phase."
He ignored me. The line of his jaw sharpened. The muscle there ticked once.
"He wants you," Cillian said eventually, tone flat. "He thinks he has a chance."
I snorted, because if I didn't, I might actually start panicking. "He thinks he has a chance at buying me a drink, not at single-handedly overthrowing your criminal empire. So, calm down."
His eyes cut to mine at that. "Don't test how calm I am."
My body got the message before my brain did. Sitting on his lap was not helping. Every breath reminded me how solid he was beneath me, how easily those hands around my phone and my waist could close around my throat instead.
"Oh my God," I muttered. "What are you, a werewolf? Is this a scent thing? Territory, mate, howl at the moon?"
His mouth curved, humorless. "I don't need claws to remove competition."
"Competition?" I spluttered. "Buddy, how old are you? Why are you acting like a seven-year-old who won't share his favorite toy?"
His gaze snapped back to mine. The air between us went thinner, tighter.
I didn't flinch at that and continued, "You show up, haul me around, go through my phone, and now you're what, going to ground my social life?"
His thumb moved decisively.
He clicked into Jason's newest message, hit reply, and typed with quick, precise strokes.
"Hey, wait." I twisted, trying to see the words. His arm locked around my waist, pinning me more securely on his lap. "Don't text him. That's—"
He angled the screen so I could read it:
She's taken. Don't contact her again.
No emoji. No name. Just ice.
My stomach dropped. "Are you insane? You can't just—"
Send.
A second later, he backed out of the thread, hit another couple of taps, and the entire conversation vanished.
"Undo that," I said, panic punching through the sarcasm. "You can't just delete my social life."
"I can," he said. "And I did."
"Wow," I said, voice going high and bright with anger. "Your ego really did not appreciate me jumping out a window, huh? Is this about him or about the fact I ran away from under your nose?"
A flash of heat moved through his gaze. "You think this is about hurt pride?"
"What else would it be?" I demanded. "You don't know Jason. You don't know me. Not really. But God forbid someone else smiles at your… leverage."
The word slipped out on purpose, sharp and ugly.
He went very still. Not angry-still. Something older. The kind of still that belonged to someone who'd had things taken from him before and had decided, at some point, that it would never happen again. Whatever that original loss was, I was wearing its ring.
"You remember," he said. "Good."
His hand shifted from my waist to my left hand, enclosing it, thumb brushing over the ring where it sat on my pinky. The touch was almost gentle. It made it worse.
"You're not a leverage. Not tonight." he said again, quieter.
I blinked. That was not what I expected from him.
He let the silence sit for a moment, like he was deciding how much to give away. Then, almost reluctantly, he continued.
"You think you escaped me. Three months, a fake name, a coffee shop, an accounting class." The corner of his mouth lifted, not quite a smile. "You built yourself a very convincing little life."
Something cold settled in my stomach. "You knew."
"I knew within the first week." His voice was unhurried, almost conversational. "I could have had you back within the second."
For the first time in maybe my entire life, I had no joke. Just the hollow, ringing realization that the freedom I'd built was a dollhouse he'd let me play in.
"Then why didn't you?" I asked. My voice came out quieter than I wanted.
His eyes stayed on mine. "Because I wanted to see if you'd stop running."
"And if I hadn't?"
"You haven't," he said simply. "You're still running. You're just doing it standing still."
I opened my mouth then, closed it.
"I'm not letting you go," he continued. "No matter how many times you run. No matter how many boys circle around you."
His thumb left the ring and trailed slowly up the inside of my wrist, over the blue vein there, up my forearm. Goosebumps chased his touch. I hated that he could see them.
"Your contract binds you to me," he said. "This—" His fingers reached my shoulder, skimming the strap of my tank top. "—and your body will learn the same."
That line should not have made my breath catch. But trapped on his lap, his mouth inches from mine, smelling him, feeling the deliberate drag of his fingertips along my skin, my body's treachery was loud.
I needed to get out of his lap before I did something genuinely stupid. Like tilt my head and give him better access.
"Okay," I said, voice thin. "Great talk. Love this chat. I'm going to"
My stomach chose that moment to let out a loud growl.
Silence.
His lips twitched. Actual amusement moved through his eyes this time, dark and sharp.
"Wow," I muttered. "Glad my digestive noises amuse you."
He didn't answer. His hand slid from my neck, down my back, and then he was shifting, standing, lifting me effortlessly as he rose. He set me on my feet, steadying me with one big hand at my waist when my knees wobbled.
"Put on your shoes," he said.
I took a step back, bumping into the bed. "Why?"
His eyes sharpened. "Because you need food. Real food. Not whatever you live on here."
He held out my hoodie and waited. When had he even picked that up? When I didn't move, he raised one eyebrow in warning.
Considering my options took about two seconds. Stay here, alone, with unknown texters and my empty kitchen. Or get in a car with the devil I knew, whose idea of a late-night snack was probably some obscene five-star place instead of instant noodles.
Also, Lana was asleep down the hall. If something was going to blow up tonight, I'd rather it not be in radius of her door.
I jammed my feet into my sneakers. "Fine. Just so we're clear, this isn't me agreeing to anything else."
He didn't bother to argue. He just guided me out of the room with a hand at the small of my back, through the silent apartment, down the narrow hallway.
He opened the door.
And Jason was there.
Right outside my door, fist raised like he'd been about to knock. His face was pale, eyes wide, hoodie rumpled like he'd sprinted over.
"Evie? What the hell was that text? Who the fuck is this guy?"
Cillian's hand stilled on my waist. The air turned arctic,