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Slipping past the waistband of his briefs until I find him. Laying claim to the warmest part of him. My lips curling with anticipation when I see the way he trembles under my touch, immediately ceding all power, yielding to whatever I want.

“Tasha,” he groans, turning until his lips find mine, the kiss growing so heated we’re forced to withdraw. “You have no idea how much I want this,” he says. “How much I wantyou.”

His lips return to a crushing, fiery grind before skimming their way down my throat, all the way to where his hands are now cupping my breasts.

“Show me. Show me exactly how much,” I command, and Braxton is quick to obey.

Between the push and pull of his kiss and the sweet rhythmic circling of our hips, I don’t want this to end. I only want more. More of us. More of him.

I tug at his briefs, desperate to remove all barriers left standing between us. “See?” I say, gliding my tongue around the shell of his ear, watching his eyes glaze as my hand begins to move. “There’s no need to worry. Clearly, I’m cured.”

Braxton’s mouth falls slack as he draws in a long, tortured breath. And just when I think we’re going to actually, really,finallygo there, his fingers circle my wrist, stopping my hand.

“But Tasha—are you sure?” His voice is a rasp, telling me it’s taking every ounce of his strength to hold back and do the right thing. The gentlemanly thing. The Braxton thing.

Which only makes me want him more.

I sink my teeth into my lower lip.I’m so, so ready for this.

“Areyousure?” I ask. My tone is teasing, convinced I already know the answer.

He lifts his hands to my face, his gaze brimming with such unbridled reverence it simultaneously scares me and makes my heart sing.

We close the space between us, our lips finding each other once more, when, from seemingly out of nowhere, a blast of Beethoven crashes into the room.

3

Well before the first four notes of “da-da-da-dum”that mark the opening motif of Beethoven’s Fifth can sound, I know it’s a message from Arthur.

Which also explains the speed with which Braxton rolls out from under me, makes a leap for his nightstand, retrieves his Gray Wolf–issued tablet, and gives it his full attention.

I prop my head onto my elbow and release a frustrated sigh. Since everything at Gray Wolf happens by Arthur’s design, it’s no accident he chose this piece as his musical avatar. According to what Beethoven’s secretary and biographer revealed after his death, the idea behind the piece was Fate knocking at the door.Which means Arthur’s use of the symphony of fate to announce all his calls is yet another reminder that we are all here because of him.

Arthur is the ruler of all our destinies.

I stare at Braxton’s back, watching as he hunches over his tablet, his attention entirely forfeited to whatever Arthur is requesting of him.

And if it were me in his place, I’d be doing the same.

Here, on this remote outcropping of rock, a place of perpetual wind, rain, and fog, Arthur stands in for the sun, and all of us orbit around him.

My gaze moves inward to the memory of the girl I was before I came to this place. Back then, I had zero interest in anything having to do with the past. For me, it was a day-to-day struggle just to survive in the present. But here at Gray Wolf, I’m up to my eyeballs in history, since Arthur goes to great lengths to shield us from the modern world outside these walls.

At first, I was determined to rebel against everything here. But the longer I stay, the more I realize that immersing us in the cultures of previous centuries makes it easier to blend in when we’re out time-traveling—or Tripping, as we call it. Which, in turn, helps keep us safe.

“Sorry.” Braxton tosses a rueful look over his shoulder. “You know I have to respond.” He returns to his slab, typing a reply with his thumbs.

“I also know it’s Sunday,” I grumble, my body still quivering in all the places Braxton touched me and all the places he was about to touch me. “Whatever Arthur wants, it can wait.”

“Not sure he’d agree.” Braxton pushes away from the mattress, rakes a hand through his bed-tousled hair, and lets out a sigh. “I need to shower,” he says, and before I can offer to join him, he adds, “Trust me, it’ll be averycold shower.” He grins.

I pull a pillow to my chest and make an exaggerated frowny face. But Braxton just laughs, plants a kiss on my forehead, and heads for the bathroom. “To be continued,” he calls.

A moment later, I hear a spray of water coming from the shower, and I slip out of bed and head for his closet in search of something to wear so I don’t have to walk through the halls in last night’s dress.

Not that anyone would care. Gray Wolf operates on an entirely different set of rules than the typical school. Still, the dress is sort of skimpy, and I’m in the mood for something warmer. And if it happens to smell like Braxton, well, bonus.

Like everything in this place, Braxton’s closet is pure luxury. A spacious walk-in filled with so many designer pieces, it’s like wandering into an upscale men’s store. I tip onto my toes, reaching for the very top shelf, and I grab a black Gray Wolf sweatshirt with the academy logo emblazoned on the front. And I can’t help but wonder what the color might represent.