Chapter 6 Six

Adrian’s POV

Ten years.

Ten years of my life wasted because of a lie that came from her mouth. Ten years of planning for the moment when I could finally have her alone and broken to understand exactly what she took from me. And now that I have her standing in my office with her chest rising and falling too fast and her eyes locked on mine like she's trying to read the violence she knows is coming, I don't know if I want to destroy her or devour her.

What if I want both?

I lean against the table, taking in the sight of her. Really taking it in this time, not in the harsh fluorescent light of a classroom where I had to pretend indifference, but here, in the soft glow of desk lamps and the particular intimacy of a closed room.

Flora Stuart.

My beautiful, treacherous, ruined stepsister.

She's wearing a skirt that hits mid-thigh and a blouse that buttons up the front, and I can see the outline of her breasts through the fabric, can see the way her nipples are tight against the cloth. Her hair is down today, falling past her shoulders in dark waves. Her legs are trembling. She tries to control it but I notice everything.

I see everything.

"You're tense," I observe, my voice deliberately soft. Conversational. The kind of voice a man uses when he's discussing the weather, not when he's standing close to a woman who is his prey. "Did something in class upset you?"

She doesn't answer immediately. She's smart enough to know it's a trap. Instead, she shifts her weight and her eyes dart toward the window, checking exits, calculating distance, running through scenarios in that sharp mind of hers. The same mind that once whispered my name like a prayer. The same mind that ten years ago decided my life was worth sacrificing.

"No," she says finally. Her voice is steady. I give her credit for that. "Nothing upset me."

I smile. It's not a kind expression.

"Your body language suggests otherwise, Flora. You're breathing too fast. Your pupils are dilated. Your thighs are pressed together." I step away from the table, moving closer to her and I watch her body tense in response. "Physical reactions don't lie. Unlike people. People lie all the time."

She swallows hard.

"Is this about the tutoring program?" she asks, and there's a tremor in her voice now that wasn't there before. "Because I don't think that's necessary. My grades are—"

"Your grades are perfect," I interrupt, moving toward my desk. I don't sit. I perch on the edge of it, close enough to her that she'd have to move backward to maintain distance, far enough that I'm not actively threatening her. Not yet. "They've always been perfect. Even ten years ago, when you were busy destroying my life, your grades were perfect."

The words hang in the air between us like a blade.

I watch them hit her. Watch her absorb the impact.

"Adrian…"

"That's not my name to you," I say quietly. "Not anymore. In this school, in this office, in any space where there are witnesses, I'm Mr. Stafford. But here, alone, you can call me by my name. You can say it the way you used to say it when you were under me, gasping it like a prayer."

Her face flushes crimson. Her hands curl into fists at her sides.

"I don't know what you want from me," she says, and there's anger in her voice now, hot and sharp and underlaid with something else. Something that sounds almost like desperation. "You want me to apologize? To beg? To tell you that what I did was wrong?"

"Do you?" I ask.

"Do I what?"

"Think it was wrong."

The question seems to catch her off guard. She opens her mouth, closes it, and I watch the internal war play out across her face.

In the end, she doesn't answer. She just stares at me with those dark eyes and I can smell her from here. That same vanilla scent, but underneath it something sharper. Adrenaline. Arousal. Fear.

The combination is intoxicating. Just what I want.

"Do you know what I did, while I was gone?" I ask ?. "Those ten years you were living your life, going to school, making friends, having relationships—do you know what I was doing?"

She doesn't move.

"I was planning," I continue. "Every single day, I woke up and I thought about you. About your face. About the way you looked at me in that courtroom when you lied under oath. About the way your mother coached you through your testimony like you were an actress in a play." I push off the desk and take a step closer to her. "I had ten years to think about what I'd do when I finally found you again."

"You found me," she says softly. "Congratulations. As a teacher now, teaching my class. What's the endgame, Adrian? Are you going to fail me? Expose me? Call the police?"

I laugh. It's a short, sharp sound with no humor in it.

"The police?" I repeat. "Mi Cielo, the statute of limitations ran out years ago. Even if I went to them, even if I had evidence, which I don't, there's nothing they could do." I'm close enough now that I could reach out and touch her. I don't. I keep my hands at my sides because I'm not ready for what happens if I do. "No. The police can't help you. No one can help you."

She flinches at that and I watch something crack open in her expression. A memory, maybe. Or a realization that I haven't forgotten even the small things. The private things.

"What do you want?" she whispers, and it sounds like the question she's been asking herself since I walked into that classroom with my suit and my control and my dark blue eyes that have spent a decade learning how to hunt.

I move then. I can't help it. I reach out and I run my knuckles down her cheek. Just barely touching and I feel her shudder in response. Her eyes flutter closed for a fraction of a second before snapping back open, and there's something defiant in that movement, something that says she's not going to make this easy for me.

Good.

"What do I want?" I repeat. "I want you to remember, Flora. I want you to remember every single thing you took from me. The career I was building. The freedom. The person I could have become." I lower my hand. "I want you to feel what I felt. That helplessness. That despair. That sense of being trapped in a narrative someone else wrote for you."

"You want revenge," she says flatly.

"I want justice," I correct.

"It's the same thing."

I move away from her then, back to my desk, because staying that close to her is making it impossible to think clearly and I need to be sharp. I need to be in control. I need to remember that this is a calculated move, a strategic positioning, not an excuse to touch her because God knows I want to touch her.

I sit in my chair and I lean back and I steeple my fingers and I look at her with the expression I've perfected over the last decade , the one that makes powerful men nervous.

"The tutoring program isn't optional," I say, my voice taking on that cold, professional timbre. The one I use with her in class. "You'll come to my office every Tuesday and Thursday after school. One hour. You'll work on problems. You'll improve. And you won't tell anyone about these sessions because if you do, I'll make sure it's the last thing anyone believes you say again."

It's a threat. A mild one, given what I'm capable of, but a threat nonetheless.

She sees it land.

"You're insane," she says, but she's backing toward the door now, her body recognizing the dismissal even though her mind is still fighting it.

"Possibly," I agree. "Spend ten years in prison for crimes you didn't commit and see how sane you stay." I gesture toward the door with a casual wave of my hand. "Go. Before the hallways get too crowded and someone notices you've been gone from class."

She reaches for the door handle and stops. Her hand hovers there for a moment and I watch her shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath. When she turns back to look at me, her eyes are shining with something that might be tears or might be rage and I can't decide which would be more satisfying to see.

"Why are you doing this?" she asks. "Why not just kill me and be done with it?"

The question hangs between us like a confession.

"Because," I say slowly, "death is too quick. Too merciful. I want you to live with this, Flora. I want you to feel it every single day. I want you to remember what you did to me." I pause. "I want you to want me the way I want you, and I want you to hate yourself for it."

Something shatters behind her eyes.

She opens the door and she leaves without another word, and I sit in my office and I listen to the sound of her footsteps fade down the hallway and I tell myself this is just the beginning.

This is exactly as planned.

This has nothing to do with the fact that when she was standing close to me, I couldn't remember why I was angry at all.

This has nothing to do with the way her skin feels under my knuckles, warm and soft and familiar in a way that makes my chest hurt.

This is revenge. Pure. Clean. Calculated.

I'm lying to myself, and we both know it.

But I'm very, very good at lying.