Ashley's POV:
The word "recess" was a grotesque parody, and it hung in the suffocating darkness between us.
The only light came from my phone, still clutched in the hand he had pinned.
Its beam was pointing uselessly at the ceiling, casting wild, ghostly shadows that danced across the bookshelves, illuminating the falling dust.
I could feel every distinct line of his body.
The hard planes of his chest, the expensive wool of his suit, the solid, unyielding strength of his thighs pressing me into the metal shelf.
The smell of him—mint and that sharp, achingly familiar cologne—is a suffocating cloud.
"You..." I choked out, the air still crushed from my lungs. "You're insane. Let me go!"
Adrenaline, pure and sharp, flooded my veins. It was a desperate, final surge of defiance.
I twisted my captive hand, trying to drive the corner of my phone into his.
Simultaneously, my free knee came up in a sharp, vicious arc aimed at his groin.
It was the move of a cornered animal. And he was a predator who had expected it.
He didn't even flinch.
He blocked my knee with his thigh, an almost bored, casual movement that absorbed the impact completely.
His grip on my wrist tightened to a brutal, bone-creaking pressure, forcing my fingers to spasm and go numb.
"There's that fire," Roman's voice was a low, appreciative rumble against my ear, laced with a dark, possessive hunger. "I've missed it. I've missed you, dusha."
He plucked the phone from my suddenly powerless hand as if taking a toy from a child.
The flashlight beam swung wildly, plunging us into momentary darkness before he aimed it, not at my face, but at the floor, creating an intimate, terrifying circle of low light.
He didn't bother with words.
He simply descended.
His mouth crashed down on mine, possessive and brutal.
It wasn't a kiss of passion, but an act of total, devastating reclamation.
He didn't ask. He took.
His lips were hard, demanding, erasing every memory of the past three years.
His tongue was a hot, insistent invasion, forcing past my initial gasp of shock. He was drowning me in the taste of mint and sin and the absolute power he held over me.
My hands, still pinned, were useless. I was consumed by the crushing weight of his body and the punishing mastery of his kiss.
When he finally tore his mouth away, I was panting, humiliated, and shaking.
He used his now-free hand to cup my chin, his fingers splaying across my jaw, his thumb brushing my trembling lower lip, still swollen from his kiss.
"Three years," he hissed, his gaze devouring me in the gloom. "Three years of playing student. Three years of pretending you weren't mine. Did you enjoy your little game of freedom, Ashley?"
My chest heaved as I fought for air. My lips still throbbed, a sickening physical reminder of his violation.
He released my jaw, but only to slide his hand down, tracing the line of my throat.
His fingers spread, not choking, but holding, his thumb resting in the hollow of my collarbone. It was a gesture of absolute ownership.
"You've been a very, very bad girl," he murmured. "But I am a forgiving man. All of this... this life you built... I can let it go."
My breath hitched. I stared at him, unable to process his words.
"Just say it," he whispered, his voice dropping to a seductive, venomous purr. "Say you're mine. Say you love me. Accept what you've always known. Accept me. Do that, Ashley, and all your past mistakes—the running, the hiding, the defiance—I'll forget them all. We can start again. Right now."
His hand on my throat softened, his thumb stroking my pulse. It was an offer. A plea deal from the devil himself.
He was offering me an escape, a way to save my family, a way to end this.
All it required was the death of my soul.
The silence stretched. I looked into his eyes, a desperate fire rising in my chest, a fire that refused to die.
All I could see was the memory of my family, and the agonizing, humiliating reality of his hand on my throat.
A new kind of strength, cold and sharp as glass, solidified in my chest. "No," I whispered, the word barely audible, yet ringing with finality.
I gave him nothing.
He didn't falter. He didn't tighten his grip. He didn't even pretend to be surprised.
"I knew that would be your answer," he murmured, his voice utterly lacking in emotion, his eyes glittering with a terrible certainty. "Always stubborn. Always the hard way."
A slow, cruel smile spread across his features, a true devil's smile, visible even in the dim light. "You've just given me permission to teach you again," he said, his eyes glittering with a terrible, bright promise. "Go home. The first lesson is waiting for you." "Noooo," I finally gasped, the word escaping on a shuddering sob of pure terror, too late, too broken. He threw his head back and laughed, a short, sharp, sickening sound of total victory. "Too late, dusha."
BZZT-CLUNK.
With a harsh, electric hum, the emergency lights in the stairwell kicked on, flooding the aisle with a sickly yellow glow.
A moment later, the main overhead fluorescents flickered, buzzed, and snapped back to life.
The sudden, blinding light was a physical blow. I squinted, my eyes watering. And in that one, disorienting second, Roman was gone.
He didn't run.
He vanished.
The hand on my throat was gone.
The heat of his body disappeared. I stumbled forward, collapsing to my knees, my hand flying to my throat, gasping for air that was no longer stolen.
My lips still throbbed — a sickening reminder of his violation. The aisle was empty. The books he'd knocked down were scattered across the floor.
My phone lay a few feet away, its screen dark. But he was gone. He'd had me. He'd had me pinned — and he'd let me go.
The message was clear: I can get you anytime. I am everywhere. And now, I have a reason.
Because I'd said no. Because I'd pushed back.
And before he disappeared, before the lights had flickered back on, his voice had been in my ear — low, certain, and poisonous: "Maybe I'll start with your family. See how defiant you are when they're bleeding."
That sentence hit harder than his hands ever did. It burned through my mind like acid.
My heart stopped. Then it snapped.
I shot to my feet, chest tight, lungs refusing to fill. The library suddenly felt like a cage. Every instinct screamed run.
Not because I was brave. Because I was terrified.
Because if I didn't get home — if I didn't warn them — Roman's threat would become reality.
I grabbed my phone and bag with trembling hands, barely noticing the ache in my throat. I didn't bother with the fallen books or the mess he'd left behind.
I ran. Hard. Blindly. The sound of my footsteps crashing against the library floor like gunfire.
The world narrowed to one thought: Get home. Get to them.
The drive was a blur — streetlights smeared across the window, my reflection pale and hollow-eyed. The city looked like a fever dream.
By the time I reached my parents' Brownstone, it was nearly 2 AM. The storm had passed. The air was sharp enough to sting.
The house was dark — too dark. I told myself they were asleep. That everything was fine. That I wasn't already too late.
My hands shook as I jammed the key into the lock. "Mom? Dad?" My voice cracked the silence.
But the silence didn't sound like sleep. It sounded… wrong.
Dead wrong.
The air was cold. Heavy. And then I caught it — faint, metallic, unmistakable.
Blood.
"No," I whispered, flicking the light switch. Nothing.
The power was out here too.
I lifted my phone, the flashlight beam trembling across the living room — furniture overturned, glass shattered, the air thick with something I didn't want to name.
"Dad?!" I screamed, stumbling toward the kitchen. "Mom! DANIEL!"
The light swept over the floor — and then it caught on something that made my stomach drop.
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Author Note:🖋️
Well, buckle up, darlings. You asked for the spice, and Roman delivered... a heavy dose of psychological trauma with a side of lip-swelling, possessive kisses. 🔥💋
Ashley may have thought she was running a marathon, but Roman just reminded her this is his Hunger Games. Her whispered "No" in the library? That was her paying the down payment on his tuition fee.
If you thought the dark phase was over, you were adorable and wrong. Keep a defibrillator handy for the next chapter. And maybe an ice pack for poor Mr. Carter. 💔🔨
Happy reading!
-Vaanni🖤