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That skepticism in his tone… Maybe I should bring it down a notch.

“I mean, I wasn’t pining for you or anything, but…I’m kind of starting to like our conversations.”

He raises one brow. “Even when they end with me punching someone in the face?”

My lips close. How to answer this one? “Well, I don’t condone violence, but it’s kind of nice to have someone…defend my honor.”

I don’t condone violence, but it’s also kind of nice? Defend my honor? God, I’m bad at this. I’m too much of a goody-goody for seduction, and based on Damian’s amused expression, he’s not buying it.

“If you missed me so much, little doll—” his smile sends a jolt to my belly “—why don’t you give me a kiss?”

I scowl at him, unable to help myself. I hate when he toys with me.

His face falls. Is he disappointed?

I clear my throat. “I guess if I have to?—”

“No.” The word is sharp, and it resonates through the room. “Your little act was cute though. You find any little way you can to push back against me. You don’t like hierarchy.”

“You mean being forced into indentured servitude? No, I don’t.”

He chuckles, the sound so light it’s startling. “Please tell me why you said ‘indentured.’ I know it wasn’t by accident.”

I shrug. “I’m being punished for some crime—I don’t know what—and now I’m being forced to work.”

He lowers his chin. “‘Indentured’ implies there’s an end date. I wouldn’t assume that if I were you.”

My stomach hollows out, but I force myself to hold his gaze. “Well, I couldn’t possibly live in a frat house forever. Neither can you. So either my servitude will be up at some point, or…”

I search his face, but he gives nothing away.

“Or what?” he whispers.

Ah, he’s trying to scare me, and I hate that it’s working. I hate that my palms are sweating. Damian seems to love unspoken threats, probably because he knows nothing tortures quite like a person’s own anxiety.

I look away, trying to distract myself. It’s easy enough. The room is massive and deliberately excessive. The ceiling stretches high above, broken only by arched windows framed with heavy velvet drapes. A fire crackles in the marble hearth, casting flickering shadows over the deep navy and gold rug that stretches across the floor.

“I’ll be Prior until I age out at twenty-eight,” he says. “So I’ll be leading Thornecroft long after I graduate college.”

I frown. “Prior? I’ve heard people call you that. I thought it was just a silly medieval name for fraternity president.”

He looks like he’s fighting a smile. “It’s not.”

“But Coraline called you the regent. I guess it’s because you’re standing in for Ben.”

“You know a lot about succession rites.”

When I meet his gaze, there’s still that flicker of amusement. “Not really,” I say. “I know some things because I’m a big Jane Austen fan. But what is all this historical cosplay about?”

“Historical cosplay.” He shuts his eyes, shaking his head. “Where did you come from, Ava?”

I frown. “I can’t be the only person to ever ask this.”

“You are, actually. Most people wouldn’t dare.”

I raise both hands in the air, my frustration getting the better of me. “How do people not see how weird this is? This is a damnfraternity. And yet people are afraid to speak up? How does Ashford allow this?”

His smile fades. “You’re getting too comfortable. Careful.”