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Kai

I watch her leave, her thick braid swinging with each measured step.

The flowing white dress skims over an ass that could stop traffic. That damn purple thing slides off her shoulder, teasing glimpses of soft, creamy skin—just enough to make my jaw clench.

She moves quickly, head down, as if she could outrun the weight of my stare. As if she doesn’t know I can still feel her.

Every instinct I have screams at me to follow, drag her back, and demand answers to questions I haven’t even formed yet.

Instead, I stay rooted to the spot, my left hand fisting in my pocket. My mouth continues moving, words fall, and students scribble in their notebooks, nodding along like I’m saying something brilliant when, for the first time in my life, I don’t know what the fuck is coming out of my mouth.

A postgrad student. At Aldridge Business School. Where I’m locked into teaching for the next semester.

It’s like the universe is playing a sick joke, dangling her in front of me and daring me to pretend I have control.

Her fiancé, the Aldridge kid, is still slouched in his chair, his arms sprawled over the seat backs like a king surveying his kingdom. His gaze tracks her until the doors swing shut.

It’s a possessive look. And I fucking hate it.

Then he moves. A sharp inhale. A shift in his shoulders. His body coils as he stands, his movements too deliberate to be casual.

Another jock-looking guy pats him on the shoulder, murmuring something low.

Encouragement? For what?

And then I realize it’s because he’s going after her.

Heat builds low in my gut, dark and ugly.

No one touches what is mine.

The thought slams into me before I can shut it down. I’ve not even fucked the woman and yet, the idea of another man touching her? Feeling the way she trembles, even looking at her scars, makes me want to kill something.

A muscle in my jaw twitches.

Forcing myself to focus, I glance at the clock to see there’s fifteen more minutes until the end of the lecture.

I won’t last that long.

“Theories are useless without action,” I say, barely registering my own words. “So here’s your challenge—develop a branding pitch for a wellness product. Real or imagined. Presentations start next week. Impress me.”

Pens scratch against paper. A few students murmur, already brainstorming. I take the opportunity to grab my iPad, masking the slight tremor in my hand as I scroll through the roster.

Her name appears almost instantly.

Nicole Abbott.

Twenty-four. First degree. Physical therapy. Summa cum Laude. The highest scorer on entry into the program.

But now? She’s barely keeping her scholarship.

Why?

I close the roster and glance up. The room slides back into focus, students gathering their things. Then comes the applause—a low rumble, then a crescendo. Normally, it would fuel me. The satisfaction of knowing I’ve owned this room.

Today, it’s just noise.

Without acknowledging it, I step off the stage and make a direct line for the exit.

The corridor feels too narrow, too warm, my footsteps too heavy as I navigate through it on autopilot.

Nicole Abbott.

A scholarship student in one of the most competitive programs in the state. Failing.

She teaches burn survivors how to move again. She applied twenty-six fucking times to join Lana’s charity. She’s working herself into the ground for something—but what?

If she put even half that effort into her degree, she’d be unbeatable.

So why the fuck is she letting herself sink?