Page 67 of Almost Ravaged (Men of Evercrisp Orchard #1)

Chapter fifty-eight

Sawyer

T he secretary sends me back right away. I knock, and when I’m greeted by a faint “come in” from behind the mostly closed door, I push it open.

I make it all of two steps before I halt in my tracks.

Tytus is here.

He’s sitting across from the dean, occupying one of two chairs.

He doesn’t look up. In fact, he grips the armrests on either side of him tighter, hostility rolling off him in waves.

“Ty?” I ask softly.

He keeps his gaze fixed on the desk. No greeting, no acknowledgment.

Dean Stalworth holds out a hand, palm up. “Please take a seat, Ms. Davvies.”

With a wooden nod, I shuffle forward and plop into the available chair.

I don’t know whether to be more concerned for myself or for Ty. I know that look. I know the hard-set line of his mouth and the tense ticking of his jaw.

He’s livid , and he’s shut himself off from the world around him.

I rest my hand on his knee, hoping the contact will snap him out of it.

He startles as if he’s been burned, then drags his chair away, making its legs scrape against the polished wood floor .

Good grief.

“Ms. Davvies, as you know—”

The dean’s tone is serious, his fingers steepled, but I can’t find it in me to listen. My mind is solely focused on Ty and his current state. Why is he here? What did he do?

Should I text Atty, and call for backup? Or—

“According to the university handbook, sexual relations between students and faculty or members of the administration are strictly prohibited.”

My heart stutters, and my spine snaps straight. “Excuse me?”

The handbook.

Sexual relations.

He’s talking about misconduct between students and professors.

This is about Mercer after all.

I reach for my phone, but before I can tap out a text, Stalworth clears his throat and leans forward.

“I would appreciate your full attention, Ms. Davvies. There will be a secondary meeting with HR and the Title IX coordinator this afternoon, but given the… delicate nature of this situation, it’s imperative that you see the evidence for yourself. ”

With a grimace, he turns his computer monitor, revealing a blurry screen grab of two people.

Two people, who despite the grainy quality and the blur filters covering intimate parts, are very clearly having sex.

I blink, and all the breath leaves my lungs.

That’s me , bent over the locker room bench, as Mercer fucks me from behind.

My hair is draped over my face. You can’t actually see my expression. Could I deny it?

No. I’m wearing Ty’s jersey, which was a custom order from the pro shop, Tremblay clearly displayed along my back.

Dread washes through me. What do I say? How do I respond to this?

I open my mouth, but no words come. Think, Sawyer. Think .

“Sir,” Ty grits out beside me. “With all due respect, we can explain.”

I freeze, then slowly turn to him.

I still don’t even understand why he’s here.

“There’s nothing you can say to excuse this gross violation of university policy, Mr. Tremblay.

” Stalworth sits straighter, lacing his fingers on top of his desk.

“You are a freshman at this institution. Ms. Davvies is the graduate assistant for one of your classes. The power dynamic is not appropriate, nor is it sanctioned by this school.”

Wait. My mind spins, my thoughts jumbled. Does he think the man in the video is Tytus?

I lick my lips and try to speak, but my throat constricts, making it impossible. I dig my nails into the armrests of my chair, scraping to find purchase, racking my brain for a plausible explanation. How do I tell him that the man is Mercer, not Ty?

“That’s where I believe additional context could be helpful, sir.”

Tytus knows that’s not him in the video, obviously. But he’s going to try to take the fall.

“Ty.” It’s the only word I can get out when I want to tell him to stop talking and walk away. He has his whole future ahead of him. There’s too much riding on the opportunity here at Holt for him to throw it all away.

It’s my fault. It was my choice. There’s no way he’s going down with me.

Ty shifts forward, planting his elbows on his knees. “While Sawyer is the graduate assistant for one of my classes, we actually have a deeper connection that supersedes university policy.”

The dean arches a brow. “You will be hard-pressed to convince me that any sort of friendship or familiarity could supersede university policy, Mr. Tremblay.”

Hope flares inside me. Ty’s got the right idea. If we can explain our history, maybe—

“To be clear, that is Sawyer and me in the video.”

Fuck .

Why did he fucking say that? What does he think he’s doing?

Ty grasps my hand and laces our fingers in his lap.

I let him, because I don’t know what else to do. Panic flares inside me. For myself. But even more so for Ty.

I squeeze once. He squeezes twice in response.

But his squeezes aren’t like before. They don’t feel loving or tentative.

They’re not sweet or searching or kind. His grip is tight, even after the second squeeze.

The force of his hold makes it abundantly clear that he knows who’s actually in that video, and he’s not happy about it.

I stare at the screen, numb all the way to my core .

Stalworth sighs. “Unfortunately, with that kind of admission, there’s nothing I can do for you. My hands are tied. Effective immediately, Ms. Davvies is fired from her role as graduate assistant.” He focuses his full attention on me. “You are also expelled from Holt University.”

“Dean Stalworth,” Tytus seethes, rising out of his seat.

No.

No, no, no, no, no.

He’s going to make it worse. He’s going to lash out. He’s going to do or say something he can’t take back and get himself expelled in the process.

Scrambling to my feet, I yank on his arm. “Ty, please.”

He ignores me.

The dean stands as well, crossing his arms. “Mr. Tremblay, I must ask you to take your seat or leave my office. You are the victim here. Your attendance will be required at the Title IX meeting this afternoon. I’ll forward the details to your email and notify the team as well.

There’s nothing you could say to justify—”

“You’re wrong,” Tytus drawls, a smirk teasing one side of his mouth. The words sound light and airy, his tone in complete juxtaposition to his body language as he squeezes my hand painfully and glares at the man across the desk.

“Perhaps you’re the one who should take a seat, sir. Take a seat and feel free to pull up our student files so you can make the necessary updates.”

He pauses, continuing to glare, as if waiting for the dean to actually listen to him.

Stalworth squares his shoulders. “Mr. Tremblay. Ms. Davvies—”

Tytus cracks.

Seething, he says, “ Stop calling her Ms. Davvies. If you're going to speak to my wife, you may address her as Mrs. Tremblay. She’s not just a graduate assistant, and I’m not just a student in her class. Sawyer and I are married.”