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Her eyes travel to Aidan but he’s deep in conversation with Ezra, their body language strangely intense. With slumped shoulders, she sits again, this time with her back to the cafeteria, hands shaking.

“Would you like help again? I have my knife handy.”

“I can do it,” she snaps, releasing the first button before I can reach into my pocket.

I eat another mouthful before pushing my plate aside, the electric tang of her discomfort a far tastier treat. Her head tips forward until her bright fringe falls over her eyes and I lift it aside with one finger, not wanting any part of her to be obscured.

When she shrugs off the blouse, her hand grabs for the jersey and I put mine on top, the shivers of her skin sinking into my palm. A wave of goosebumps cascade across her skin, adding texture to her freckles. I run a finger up her forearm, and she flicks me off to drag the numbered shirt over her head.

By the time it’s in place, I’ve neatly folded her blouse and stored it in my bag.

“I need that. Otherwise, I’ll get a demerit in class, and that goes against my scholarship.” Her fingers play with the skin at the base of her throat, pinching it as red as her flushing cheeks. “Please can I have it back?”

“No.” Although hearing her plead is almost enough to make me waver. “Sit down. Eat your lunch. You’re drawing attention.”

She sits with a thump, crossing her arms.

“You’re not eating?”

The set of her jaw hardens. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

“You still need to eat.” I pull at her arm until she unfolds them, and hold her hand in mine, unclenching her fingers. “See this discolouration on your fingernails? That’s likely from vitamin and mineral deficiencies. You’re too malnourished to skip meals and whoever’s taking care of you isn’t doing a great job.”

Her gaze turns icy. “Sorry I don’t meet your standards, but the meal plan isn’t included in my scholarship, and the cost is outrageous, even for haute cuisine.”

“Which it definitely isn’t.”

I gesture to the girl behind the counter who quickly puts a plate together, bringing it across while ignoring the students still in line. The tray is loaded with a sample from each dish on offer.

After thanking the server, I slide it next to me. “Anytime you eat here from now on, it’ll go on my tab.” When she still hesitates, I growl, “Eat or I’ll feed you every bite.”

Francesca’s thigh briefly touches against mine as she leans forward, unwrapping the bamboo cutlery. And it’s a lucky thing they opted for the disposables rather than stainless steel because her knuckles turn white as she grips the knife, eyes flicking down to my leg.

My manspread widens, enjoying the warmth as she runs out of room to shuffle clear and is forced to endure the press of my thigh against hers.

She swaps to the fork, sighing happily at the options, then starting with a healthy mac and cheese containing more broccoli than pasta. After clearing half the tray, she stops, pinching the rugby jersey away from her, nose wrinkling. “Why are there wet patches?”

I’m hardly going to tell her about busting a nut between morning classes. Or how I used the jersey to clean the mess.

“Not sure. Must’ve spilled something in my bag.”

With my palm against her lower back, I find a damp spot and rub it in small circles, imagining the cum soaking into her skin like moisturiser, becoming part of her. It hits at a need buried deep inside me. A need I didn’t know existed until this moment. Marking her as my possession, my family.

The meal is over too soon and the instant I give permission, Francesca flees from the table, Aidan racing to catch her. There is more I want from her, but at this early stage, I’m happy to loosen the leash. She’ll find out soon enough the other end is welded to my hand.

Fourth period is history, an easy subject for me, and I daydream, letting my eyes defocus as I stare out the window.

Then I sit up straight, teeth snapping together as Francesca walks past, head down like she’s trudging through a gale. When she pushes into the admin building, I stand to follow her. The teacher says something as I walk past, but my attention is elsewhere.

Francesca is deep in conversation with the school secretary when I approach, talking through the slide window.

“But it’s part of the uniform,” she argues loudly enough for me to hear. And softer, “I don’t have another blouse.”

It could be true. I haven’t checked to see if she redeemed the credit I gave her.

I sidle closer.

“While I have you here,” the secretary adds, “there’s a discrepancy with your paperwork.” She shuffles through a haphazard stack of pages, messy enough to give me hives. “Your mother missed a signature on the proof of income form and the board of trustees rejected your funding application.”