Page 22 of August and the Night

He gives me a knowing look, then offers, "How about I walk you out of campus? It's late, and you shouldn't be walking alone."

His gesture touches me, and I manage a small smile. "Thank you, Professor George."

We tidy up the lab, then he helps me take off my lab coat and holds my coat out for me. He gently fixes my scarf, and I blush slightly. Together, we walk out of the lab and onto the campus, the cold wind biting at our skin.

"You know, Layla," he begins, his voice thoughtful, "if you ever need someone to talk to or rely on, I'm here. No matter how personal the matter."

I understand his subtle implication, and my eyes well up with tears. He is offering his support without directly mentioning my bruise, and I am grateful for his consideration. "Thank you," I whisper, my voice wavering slightly. He must have noticed the tears, but he tactfully looks away to give me a moment. I wipe my eyes discreetly, not wanting to reveal my vulnerability.

We continue walking to where John usually parks the car and something unusual catches my eye. Leaning casually against his expensive car, is August, John isn't anywhere in sight. His gaze is focused on my professor with a subtle clench in his jaw. My heart skips a beat as I meet his intense gaze, surprise washing over me.

"Layla," he greets coolly, his voice a stark contrast to his usual gentle tone.

"August," I reply, my tone wary yet tinged with curiosity.

We approach him and August's arm slips around my waist, pulling me close to him. Before I can fully react, his lips capture mine in a kiss that is both possessive and demanding. It is as if he is staking his claim right there, in front of my professor.

As the kiss ends and August releases me, I turn to face my professor, my cheeks flushed and my heart racing. His expression holds a mix of surprise and discomfort, and I quickly look away, unable to hold his gaze.

"Take care, Layla," he says, his voice a bit strained.

I nod, feeling bewildered. "Thank you, Professor."

August guides me toward his car, his touch feels insanely possessive. He opens the door for me and helps me settle into the seat. I watch as he leans over to fasten my seatbelt. Suddenly, his grip on the seatbelt tightens, and I follow his gaze to see his eyes fixed on the bruise on my cheek.

"Who did this to you?" His voice is laced with fury, and I can see the muscles in his jaw tense again. I hesitate, not wanting to reveal the truth. But the anger in his eyes is burning like an inferno, and I know he won't let it go easily.

"It's nothing, just a misunderstanding," I reply, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Layla, I swear to God, if someone laid a fucking hand on you—" He growls.

"It's not important," I interrupt, my voice shaking. "Please, August, just drop it."

His reaction is instantaneous. His hand slams against the steering wheel, and his eyes burn with an intensity that sends shivers down my spine. "Don't you dare tell me it's not important," he spits, his voice dripping with rage.

The car roars to life as he shifts gears and accelerates, his anger manifesting in the speed at which he drives. I feel trapped, caught in the whirlwind of his fury, unable to escape the storm that rages both outside and within the car.

"August, stop," I plead, my voice barely audible over the engine's roar. "Please, it's not worth it."

His grip on the steering wheel is unrelenting, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. "Nothing is more important than this," he declares, his voice a dangerous whisper.

As the car screeches to a stop, I look at him, tears blurring my vision. "August, please," I beg, my voice breaking. "Let it go."

He turns toward me, his eyes wild with a mix of anger and desperation. "Tell me who did this to you," he demands, his voice shaking with an intensity that matches the storm within him.

I meet his gaze, embarrassment eating away at my heart. "It was my father," I confess, my voice barely audible.

The car is silent, the weight of his anger pressing down on us. Then, in a moment of sheer madness, his expression twists into something unrecognizable. He grips the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white, and a raw, guttural sound escapes his throat. It is a sound of pure rage, a sound that reverberates through the car and sends shivers down my spine.

"August—" I begin, but he cuts me off, his voice a low, feral snarl. "No one touches you," he hisses, his eyes blazing with a possessive fire. "No one lays a hand on you and gets away with it."

The intensity of his emotions overwhelms me, and I shrink back in my seat, feeling the power of his anger. The air is charged with tension, the car a pressure cooker of emotions ready to explode.

"Little dove," he murmurs, his voice laced with tenderness and fury. "No one hurts you and goes unpunished. Remember that."

21

August

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