Page 7 of Claiming Pretty

I hated that I wanted this. That I wantedhim.Hated that I wasn’t strong enough to stop it, to shove these feelings back down where they belonged.

I was supposed to love Ciaran. Ididlove him. So why did I crave Ty’s mouth, his tongue, hiscock? Why did he… consume me?

It wasn’t just guilt eating at me. It was anger—at myself, at Ty, at his fucked-up way of saving me. Anger that Ty made me feel anything at all.

Anger that I wanted more than just his lapping tongue—I wanted him to pin me down and fuck me, to take me, to ruin me.

Even now, knowing it was wrong, knowing it would hurt Ciaran if he ever found out.

But deeper than the anger, deeper than the guilt, there was a grief I couldn’t ignore.

This was the last time I’d get to feel Ty like this. The last time I’d let myself have this moment, however fleeting, however stolen.

The last time he’d worship me, touch me,seeme.

After this, I’d have to bury it all. Pretend none of it ever happened. Pretend I hadn’t betrayed Ciaran.

And yet… I knew this wouldn’t be the last time I thought about him.

Ty had burrowed under my skin in a way I couldn’t undo, no matter how much I tried.

Waves of pleasure washed over me and I could feel the tension building inside me as Ty licked and sucked.

“Mine. All mine. Only mine. Only me,” he muttered.

I fought against the wave of guilt and longing, but it didn’t help. The feelings churned inside me, sharp and relentless, leaving me drowning in a storm of emotions I couldn’t control.

Why can’t I let him go?

As my head rolled to the side, my gaze fell upon the greenhouse through the open door. The oleander flowers swayed gently in the breeze, their delicate pink blooms almost taunting me.

And then the memory hit me—sharp, sudden, and undeniable.

I slipped through the greenhouse, the cool, damp air making me shiver, weaving between the tables laden with pots and tools.

The oleander stood tall, its pink blossoms swaying gently as if they were waiting for me.

A flower that could make someone sleep in small doses—and kill in larger ones. At the time, I hadn’t understood why the professor had said this with such pride, but now the memory lingered, sharp and unrelenting.

Using the handkerchief, I reached out, wrapping my shaking fingers around the stem of a soft and fragile oleander flower and plucked it, the faint snap of the stem sounding louder than it should have in the stillness.

I quickly snatched another, then another.

I didn’t understand why the professor did what he did last night, why his hands left bruises on my arms and thighs, why he… hurt me. Bile rose in my throat, bitter as poison.

But I knew I didn’t want it to happen again.

My chest tightened, the thought pressing down on me like a weight.

If he’s asleep, he can’t hurt me again.

In the kitchen, my bare feet were silent against the cold floor.

My hand shook as I tossed the oleander flowers into the professor’s favorite pot along with the professor’s favorite tea, watching them float and settle in the boiling water, their poison steeping, growing darker with every passing second.

The sharp scent of the brew tickled my nose, metallic and faintly bitter, and my stomach twisted.

My hands hovered over the pot as doubt began to creep in. Is this enough to make him sleep? Or too much?

---