Page 105 of Nocturne

“I can. And I did.”

“Well, you cannot. You need my permission to be here, and you do not have that!”

He takes a threatening step forward, and it is by sheer willpower that I stand my ground as he stops right in front of the podium.

“And what if I will? Hmm? Is there anything you can do about that, little siren?”

I’m generally a calm person. I’m not angered easily, and I pride myself on being able to remain level-headed even in tough situations. But with the way Zagan taunts in his annoying and monotonously sexy voice, I can feel my temper rising. I am not giving him the power with my reactions! I refuse to.

I shake my head at him, knowing that there isn’t anything I can do to stop him. I don’t even think the dean could do anything about it.

“You’re right, Mr Devlin,” I say evenly, as I turn to collect my bag and things, “there is nothing I can do. So, bye.”

When I turn back, I jump back in surprise to find him standing right in front of me. His rich scent of Oud and leather wafts in my space, making the air thicken whenever he comes this close. His head motions behind him, pointing at a man who stands ramrod straight with his hands held behind him.

“He is your guard,”

I take a sharp breath, trying to hold my anger in check, but every nerve is lit up, each sense tuned to Zagan’s presence. He’s too close, his gaze as dark and steady as ever, and the quiet intensity in his eyes only makes my frustration burn hotter.

The sheer audacity for him to think he has any say about my life is laughable if not for the seriousness on his face.

“No.” I try his annoying shortened sentences.

Seems like the mob boss cannot take what he serves. A muscle in his jaw ticks, but otherwise, his face remains impassive. His gaze stays on me, unwavering. He steps closer, his voice low and unhurried.

"You think I care what you need?”

Heat floods through me, a mix of anger and something far more dangerous. I keep my eyes locked on his, narrowing them slightly, refusing to back down.

"This isn’t about what you care. I’m not your responsibility.” I fume.

"No," he says, his tone cold and clipped. "You’re my possession.”

Possession? Did heactuallysay that I’m his possession?

My pulse races, and I can’t tell if it’s anger or the surge of something else that’s making my skin tingle. I step back, lifting my chin. Damn his towering frame! It would help my case a lot better if he wasn’t this frigging tall!

"This isn’t the dark ages. I’m not something you just… keep.Peoplearen’t possessions. You cannot own me.”

His eyes flare slightly as if he loves that idea of owning me. And something is wrong with me because, at this moment, flashes of his hand circling my neck fill my head, and I struggle to stand straight at that unbidden image.

“Ican.”

Is it wrong if I want to bash his skull and kiss him at the same time? I think some psychologists would certify me crazy.

“This is ridiculous.” I shake my head, “Why are we even talking about something as absurd as this? When did we become a thing where you get to impose tyrannical commands over my life? Who do you think you-“

My breath halts when he takes an imposing step to cage me between him and the table behind me. His hand slowly comes to loosely wrap around my neck, his thumb pressing on the pulse that beats at a maddening pace.

"Every chance I gave you to run, little siren... you ignored it. Instead of escaping, you came right to me. You made yourchoice, and I'm its consequence." He murmurs, voice dark, gripping my chin, tilting my face to meet his gaze.

His grip tightens, possessive, the heat of his breath grazing my skin as his lips hover close.

"I don’t spare lives, Ara. Mercy isn’t in me. But when I saved yours, I claimed it. Every breath you take, every beat of your heart, is because I decided it would continue. I’m a killer, and if I keep someone alive, it’s by my hand alone. The second you shot me, and I chose to let you live, you became mine. Bound to me until I decide otherwise.”

It takes a unique, twisted mastery of control to speak like this. He may be a man of few words, but when he does speak, each syllable is weaponised, crafted to seize control and keep his opponent off balance.

Anger flares white-hot, mingling with the maddening pull I feel under his stare. I clench my fists, angry that I don’t have a quick retort for his absurdity. I open my mouth to argue, but he beats me to it.

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