Page 83 of Don't You Pucking Dare

"Now," Professor Schweig calls out, "who's next?"

Some girl takes the piano, but her notes blur into background noise. All I can focus on is Brody's presence beside me, the way his arm brushes mine when he shifts. He shouldn't be here. Doesn’t he have something better to do?

But as I stare forward, my body is aching for his touch. Now my heart’s racing at the thought. Am I glad that he’s here? I think so. Because every day without him has been filled with shadows, with wondering if Jack would come to get revenge on me. Brody might be a monster, but he's the monster I chose. The one who tortured me but still feels safer than the alternative.

His fingers drum against the desk, a rhythm that matches my racing heart. I want to ask why he's here, what this means. Want to know if he talked to Jack and if Jack denied it. I want to understand why he's still looking at me like I belong to him when I did everything possible to make him hate me.

But I stay silent, letting the piano wash over us both.

Every step to my dorm feels like walking toward execution. Brody's silence behind me carries weight, promise, threat. My hand shakes against the door knob—stupid tell of weakness I can't hide. The cello case bumps against my leg as I set it down, my last shield between us gone.

His presence fills my tiny room, making it hard to breathe. The hole he punched in my wall that night stares back at me, reminder of what happens when I push too far. Why is he here? After what I did with Jack, he should want me dead, not... whatever this is.

When I turn, he's close enough that I catch every detail—the faint stubble along his jaw, a bruise fading near his temple, pupils blown wide as they search my face. His breath carriesmint. Everything about him feels too intense, too real after days of imagining worse scenarios.

His hands cup my face, and my heart nearly stops. This is it—punishment for what I did, for trying to make him hate me. I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for pain. Instead, his lips brush mine, gentle in a way Brody has never been. The kiss feels like a question I'm afraid to answer.

I stay frozen, waiting for the trap to spring. This has to be another game, another way to break me. But seconds pass and his touch stays soft, reverent almost. When I finally let myself kiss back, his whole body seems to relax, like he was holding his breath too.

His hands explore my body with none of his usual violence. This isn't the man who tortured me in that chamber, who marked me as property in front of his brothers. This is something else—something that terrifies me more than his cruelty ever did.

"Duchess." The word vibrates against my lips as his hands find my ass, pulling me closer.

Fear and need war in my chest. I break away, searching his face. "Brody, what is this?"

"Shh." He tries to reclaim my mouth, but I need answers more than I need his touch.

"I'm serious." My voice shakes despite my attempt at strength.

A smile plays at his mouth—that dangerous curve that usually means trouble. "Let's play a game. Ask your questions, but each answer means you take off a piece of clothing."

My breath catches. "Why do you want that?"

"Because you're mine." Simple. Possessive. The same claim he's always made.

"But—"

"Ah." His fingers find my shirt hem. "One answer, one piece."

"That's barely an answer." But I don't fight as he pulls my shirt over my head. Cool air hits my skin, making me shiver.

"Next question." His eyes devour newly exposed flesh, and something hot coils in my belly.

I force myself to ask what I need to know. "Why do you still want me? Shouldn't you hate me?"

"I just want you." His gaze burns paths across my skin. "Nothing changes that."

"Nothing? I did the worst thing possible, did I not? This isn't some twisted game?" The words come out small, vulnerable.

"You did, and it’s not. That was two questions." His hands strip away my bra and pants with practiced ease, leaving me nearly naked and trembling. Not from cold.

I try to cover myself, old instinct taking over, but he catches my wrists. This feels too exposed, too honest. "My turn," he says. "Do you want me to leave?"

The question hits harder than any physical touch. "I just want to understand why you're here."

"For you, Duchess." Like it's that simple. Like I haven't spent days terrified of what he'd do after the reality of what I’ve done sank in.

"You should hate me! Why don’t you hate me?" All my confusion, my guilt, my fear pours into the words.

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