After dinner, I walk down the hallway alone.
My shoes click against the marble floor, each sound echoing sharply through the empty space. I stretch my arms slightly, exhaustion settling deep into my bones. Today has drained me—physically, mentally, emotionally.
I just want to reach my room.
Suddenly, a hand grips my wrist.
Before I can react, my back slams against the cold wall. The impact knocks the breath from my lungs. My eyes widen as I look up—
Zyke.
His presence is overwhelming. His pheromones surge without restraint, heavy and oppressive, crushing the air around us. His dangerous gaze pins me in place, sharp and burning.
"What the hell are you doing?" I snap, panic flashing through my chest.
His grip tightens instead of loosening.
"Leave me," I say again, my voice strained. "Big brother—my hand hurts."
He leans closer, his voice low, cold, venomous.
"What did you call me at the table?"
I swallow. My wrist throbs under his strength.
