Freedom tastes like blood and possibility.
The morning air hits my face as I step out of the car, and for the first time in seven days, I can breathe without feeling like I'm drowning. Not because my ribs have stopped aching—they haven't—but because I'm finally free from that suffocating room where silence and rage had been slowly eating me alive.
Seven days of lying in that bed, counting minutes and cataloging every reason Noah might have for pretending I don't exist. Seven days of Declan's psychological warfare. Seven days of wanting someone so badly that it felt like dying.
The pain in my ribs is nothing compared to the need clawing at my insides. Usually when this feeling gets too big, too consuming, I'd head straight to The Pit. Let someone break me open so I can bleed out all this toxic want. Let violence do what words can't—make the silence in my head stop screaming.
But I can't. My body's too broken, too fragile. And that makes everything worse. The need has nowhere to go except deeper, burrowing into my bones like infection.
I want to hurt something. Want to break something beautiful just to watch it shatter. Want to find Noah and pin him against a wall until he admits what his silence has been doing to me. Want to make him feel as hollow and desperate as I've been feeling.
The thought of Noah makes my hands shake. Not with fear. With hunger. With the kind of obsession that makes you understand why people do insane things for love. Except this isn't love. Love is soft. This is possession so complete it feels like dying.
Campus looks the same—students rushing to classes, living their small, safe lives. They don't know what it feels like to want something so badly that breathing becomes optional. Don't know what seven days of silence can do to someone who's already broken inside.
But I'm not broken anymore. I'm refined. Distilled down to pure want and rage and the absolute certainty that I'm done pretending to be civilized.
The walk across campus feels like hunting. Every step calculated. Every glance logged and analyzed for threat or opportunity. They're all looking at me—some curious, some wary, some already sensing that something fundamental has changed.
What they don't know is that the boy who went into that hospital bed was still pretending he could be normal. Still believing he could want someone in a healthy way. Still hoping that being good enough might be enough.
The man walking across this campus now knows better. Knows that normal is a lie. Knows that wanting someone like I want Noah requires becoming something most people would run from.
I find myself near the humanities building, and that's when I see them—a cluster of girls near the steps. Blonde, brunette, redhead. Pretty. Available. Eager.
Perfect weapons.
Because that's what they are, isn't it? Tools to make a point. Ways to trigger the possessive rage I know is lurking underneath Noah's careful control. Ways to make him feel what I've been feeling—that sick, violent jealousy that makes you want to destroy anyone who touches what's yours.
I change direction, heading toward them. Not because I want their attention. Because I want his.
The blonde sees me first. I watch her entire body language shift—spine straightening, lips curving, eyes going bright with the kind of interest that makes smart girls do stupid things. She wants me. They all do.
It should feel good. Should stroke whatever ego I have left. Instead, it makes me want to laugh. Or scream. Because their want feels like water when I'm drowning in desert sand. Meaningless. Inadequate. Wrong.
But useful. So fucking useful.
"Ladies," I say, letting my voice carry that lazy charm that's gotten me everything except the one thing that matters.
"Enzo!" The brunette practically purrs my name, and the sound makes my skin crawl. Because it's not his voice. Not the one that makes my nerve endings catch fire.
"We heard you were hurt. Are you okay? You look..." She trails off, eyes scanning my face like she's trying to read the damage.
The damage. If only she knew. The real damage isn't the bruises or the broken ribs. It's the seven days of silence that have been eating me alive from the inside out.
"Never better," I lie smoothly. Because I'm not better. I'm worse. I'm broken in ways that have nothing to do with physical injuries and everything to do with wanting someone who's decided I'm not worth the complication.
"Though I have to admit," I continue, letting my voice drop to something more intimate, "being laid up for days gave me time to think about what I've been missing."
"What have you been missing?" the redhead asks, stepping closer. Close enough that her perfume mixes with the morning air. Close enough that I can see the calculation in her eyes, the way she's already imagining what it would be like to be the girl who caught Enzo Moretti's attention.
The calculation makes me sick. Because it's nothing compared to the obsessive need that's been clawing at my insides for a week.
"Good company. Interesting conversation." I pause, letting the words carry more weight than they should. "Beautiful women who know how to appreciate a man's time instead of disappearing when things get complicated."
The bitterness bleeds through despite my best efforts. Because that's exactly what happened. Someone disappeared when things got complicated.
The blonde laughs, touching my arm with practiced casualness. "You always know exactly what to say."
Her touch burns. Wrong. Everything about this is wrong. But necessary.
"Do I?" I lean closer, letting my voice drop to something that sounds intimate but feels hollow. "I find most people tell you exactly what they're thinking without realizing it. You just have to know how to listen."
I can feel eyes on me from somewhere. That prickle of awareness that tells me someone's watching. The trap is working.
"You're terrible," the brunette says, but she's smiling. "Leading us on like this when everyone knows you're completely unavailable."
The word 'unavailable' makes something violent flare in my chest. Because I am available. I've been available for seven fucking days.
"Who says I'm unavailable?" I flash my most charming grin, the one that hides the violence underneath. "Maybe I'm exactly where I want to be. With exactly who I want to be with."
The lie tastes like acid.
The redhead practically melts at my words. "Really?"
"Really." I let my hand brush her arm, casual and deliberate. "Life's too short to waste time on people who don't appreciate what they have. Don't you think?"
The words slip out carrying all the rage I've been choking on.
"Absolutely," the blonde agrees, moving closer. "Some people don't realize what they're missing until it's too late."
"Exactly. And by then..." I shrug, the picture of casual indifference. The picture of someone who's moved on. Someone who's not slowly dying from the inside out. "Well. That's their loss, isn't it?"
I can feel the presence getting stronger. Closer. Time for the final act.
"—so I told him, sometimes the best way to solve a problem is to eliminate the variables that complicate it," I continue, voice smooth as silk. "Remove the distractions, focus on what really matters."
The blonde laughs, but it sounds forced now. Nervous. She can sense the predator approaching. "That's so clever, Enzo. You always know exactly what to say."
"Do I?" I turn slightly, still not looking behind me but positioning myself so whoever's watching can see my profile. "I find most people tell you exactly what they're thinking without realizing it. You just have to know how to listen."
The girls shift uncomfortably. Exchange glances. The universal female language that means danger, retreat, find safer ground.
"Enzo?"
The voice cuts through my performance like a blade through silk. Not one of the girls. Someone else entirely. Someone whose voice makes every nerve in my body catch fire, whose proximity makes the air feel electric and dangerous and alive.
The girls sense the shift immediately. The conversation dies. They exchange those quick female glances that mean danger, retreat, find safer ground. Smart girls. They can feel the violence in the air even if they don't understand what's causing it.
"We should probably get going," the brunette says quickly, already backing away. "That study group starts in twenty minutes."
"Right," the blonde agrees, practically fleeing. "Thanks for the chat, Enzo. See you around."
They scatter like prey animals, leaving me alone with the predator.
I turn slowly, letting him see exactly how reluctant I am to acknowledge his presence. How little his interruption means to me. How completely unimpressed I am by his sudden decision to break seven days of silence.
Those ice-blue eyes hit me like a physical blow. Even from six feet away, I can see the tension in his shoulders. The careful control he's maintaining over his expression. The way his hands are clenched at his sides like he's fighting the urge to reach for something.
To reach for me.
The thought sends something dark and hungry racing through my veins. Because despite everything—despite the silence, despite the abandonment, despite seven days of psychological torture—he's here. Looking at me like I'm something he wants. Something he needs. Something he can't quite bring himself to walk away from.
But wanting isn't enough anymore. Needing isn't enough. Not when it comes wrapped in the kind of careful distance that makes you feel like you're begging for scraps.
Time to remind him what happens when you try to cage a monster.
"Enjoy the show?" I ask casually, letting every ounce of venom I feel bleed into my voice.
The trap is sprung. Now we'll see if he's brave enough to step into it.
I watch him step closer, invading my space the way I used to invade his. The predatory intent in every movement makes something sick and hungry twist in my gut. Because this is what I wanted. This jealous, possessive reaction. This proof that I can still get under his perfect control.
"Was I supposed to?" His voice is quiet, dangerous. The tone that used to make my spine tingle with anticipation. Now it just makes me want to hurt him the way he's been hurting me.
My smile widens, sharpens. Because he's jealous. Actually jealous. The perfect, controlled Noah Aslanov is unraveling because other people were touching me. The knowledge tastes like victory and poison at the same time.
"Jealous, Noah?"
"Should I be?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with implications. I can see him calculating, trying to figure out the right answer. The safe answer. But safety isn't what either of us wants anymore. Safety is what got us here—him silent, me slowly going insane from the quiet.
"That depends. Do you care who I talk to? Who I let touch me?" I push off from the railing, closing the distance between us until I can smell his cologne. Until I can see the flecks of gold in his ice-blue eyes. Until I'm close enough to watch his pupils dilate with want he's trying to hide. "Because for the past week, you've given me the impression that what I do with my time is none of your business."
The hit lands exactly where I intended it to. I can see him processing the accusation, the truth of it settling between us like a blade. His jaw tightens. Good. Let him feel what I've been feeling. Let him understand that silence is violence when it's used as a weapon.
"Maybe I was giving you space to heal," he says quietly, and the careful control in his voice makes me want to scream. "Maybe I was being considerate."
Considerate. The word tastes like acid in my mouth. Like every lie I've told myself about why he stayed away. Like every pathetic excuse I made for him while I was lying in that bed, counting hours and wondering if I'd imagined everything.
"Considerate." I laugh, but there's no humor in it. Just sharp edges and bitter understanding. "That's what we're calling it? Because from where I'm standing, it looked a lot like running."
His entire body goes rigid. Because I just called him exactly what he is. A coward. Someone who runs when things get real. Someone who saves your life and then disappears when the adrenaline wears off and he has to face what that means.
"I don't run."
The denial makes something violent flare in my chest. Because it's such a fucking lie. Such a perfect, careful lie that probably sounds true to him. That probably lets him sleep at night.
"No? Then where have you been, Noah? Because I've been looking for you. Waiting for you. Wondering if that night in the parking lot actually meant something or if it was just adrenaline making you temporarily honest."
The words pour out of me, carrying all the rage and desperation I've been choking on. All the nights I lay awake replaying every moment, every look, every breath between us, trying to figure out where I'd imagined the connection. Trying to understand how someone could look at you like you're everything they've ever wanted and then vanish like you're nothing.
"I've been right here," he tells me, and the calm in his voice makes me want to claw his eyes out.
Because he's lying. Even standing three feet away from me, he's somewhere else. Behind walls I can't break. In that perfect control that keeps him safe from having to feel anything real.
"Have you? Because the Noah I knew would have come to check on me. Would have wanted to make sure I was healing properly. Would have cared enough to—"
He moves without warning. Closes the remaining distance between us and pins me against the railing with his body. Not hard enough to hurt my ribs—he's being careful, considerate, fucking perfect even when he's losing control. But hard enough to make his point.
My words die in my throat. Those ice-blue eyes are so close I can see myself reflected in them. Can feel the heat radiating off his skin. Can taste the desperation in the air between us.
This. This is what I've been starving for. Not his careful consideration. Not his polite distance. This raw, desperate need that matches my own. This proof that underneath all that control, he's just as fucked up as I am.
"You want to know where I've been?" His voice is barely a whisper, his breath touching my skin when he speaks. "I've been trying to figure out how to want you without destroying everything I've built. Trying to understand what it means that I'd rather watch the world burn than let someone else have you."
The admission hits me like lightning. Because this is what I've been waiting for. This honesty. This raw, desperate need that he's finally admitting to. The knowledge that I'm not the only one coming apart at the seams.
But it's not enough. Not after seven days of silence. Not after letting me think I'd imagined everything. Not after making me feel like I was losing my mind.
"And what did you figure out?" I ask, letting him hear the hunger in my voice. The way his proximity is affecting me. The way his admission is unraveling every defense I have left.
"That I'm done trying to be something I'm not. Done pretending I don't want things I shouldn't want. Done letting other people touch what belongs to me."
The possessive claim sends heat racing through my veins. Because he's finally saying it. Finally admitting what we both know. That this thing between us isn't healthy or normal or safe. That it's ownership disguised as want. Obsession masquerading as connection.
"What belongs to you?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper. But there's challenge in it. Testing. Pushing. Because I need to know how far he'll go. How much he's willing to admit. How deep this need runs in his perfect, controlled body.
He leans closer, until his lips brush my ear. Until I can feel him shiver against me. Until his voice becomes confession and threat all at once.
"You."
The word hangs between us like a brand. Like ownership papers written in blood. Like everything I've been dying to hear and everything that should terrify me.
It doesn't terrify me. It makes me hungry. Makes me want to grab him and never let go. Makes me want to burrow into his skin until there's no separation between us. Until we're one fucked-up entity that doesn't know where his obsession ends and mine begins.
My hands come up to rest on his chest. Not pushing him away. Never pushing him away. Just touching. Claiming my own piece of contact. Feeling his heartbeat hammer against my palms like a caged animal.
"So you're making your move now?" I murmur against his throat, letting my breath make him shiver.
The question should sound mocking. Should sound like I've won some game we've been playing. Instead, it sounds vulnerable. Desperate. Like I'm asking for reassurance that this is real. That he's not going to disappear the moment I let myself believe him.
"I'm not making a move," he tells me, pulling back just enough to look into my eyes. "I'm stating a fact."
The certainty in his voice makes something dark and satisfied uncurl in my chest. Because this is what I wanted. This admission. This claim. This proof that seven days of silence didn't mean what I thought it meant.
"Which is?"
"You're mine. You've been mine since that night in the parking lot. Since you fought for me when no one else would. Since you looked at my monster and decided it was worth claiming."
The possessive declaration makes my breath hitch. Because he's right. I am his. Have been since the moment I saw him lose control. Since I watched him become something dangerous and beautiful and absolutely ruthless. Since I realized that underneath all that careful control was something that matched the darkness in me.
"Noah—"
"And if I see another girl putting her hands on you," he continues, his voice dropping to something deadly, "I'm going to remind her exactly why that's a bad idea."
The threat sends electricity racing through my system. Because this is what I needed. Not his consideration. Not his space. His possessiveness. His admission that he can't stand the thought of anyone else touching me. His promise that he'll hurt anyone who tries.
For a second, I think I'm going to surrender. Think I'm going to look at him the way I did that night when everything changed. Think I'm going to give him what we both want without making him work for it.
Then something shifts inside me. Hardens. Because this isn't how this works. He doesn't get to ignore me for seven days, make me think I was losing my mind, and then show up making territorial claims like nothing happened.
He wants to own me? He's going to have to prove he deserves it.
"Hell no."
The words hit him like a slap. Sharp. Definitive. Completely unexpected.
He blinks, certain he misheard. "What?"
"I said hell no." I push against his chest, not hard enough to dislodge him but firm enough to make my point. To show him that his pretty words and territorial claims aren't going to fix what his silence broke. "You don't get to ignore me for a week, then show up and start making claims like you own me."
"I wasn't ignoring you. I was—"
"You were running. Just like you always do when things get real. When the monster comes out to play and you remember why you built all those walls in the first place." I let him see the hurt in my eyes. The damage his careful consideration did. "You were scared."
The accusation hits too close to home. I can see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way his control wavers for just a second before he locks it down again. Can see the recognition that I'm right. That he was terrified of what wanting me means. What becoming his real self costs.
"Maybe I was," he admits quietly, and the honesty in his voice makes something in my chest clench. "But I'm here now."
"Are you? Or are you just here because you saw me with other people and your possessive streak couldn't handle it?"
The question cuts straight to the heart of it. Because that's exactly what this is. Not some grand romantic gesture. Not a declaration of feelings he's finally ready to acknowledge. Just primitive, possessive jealousy making him stake his claim before someone else can.
"Does it matter?"
The casual dismissal makes me want to hit him. To make him understand that it matters to me. That the difference between wanting me for me and wanting me because someone else was touching me is everything.
"It matters to me." I push harder this time, creating enough space to look him directly in the eye. "I'm not some prize you get to claim when it's convenient for you, Noah. I'm not something you can ignore when you're scared and possess when you're jealous."
"That's not—"
"That's exactly what this is. You saw me with other people and it triggered every territorial instinct you have. But where were those instincts last week? Where was all this possessive energy when I was lying in a hospital bed with broken ribs, wondering if you gave a shit whether I lived or died?"
Each word is designed to cut. To hurt. To make him understand exactly how badly he fucked up by staying away. By leaving me to wonder if I'd imagined everything. By making me feel like I was going insane from the silence.
"I was giving you space—"
"I didn't want space. I wanted you. I wanted the person who choked a man unconscious to protect me. I wanted the monster who finally stopped pretending to be something he wasn't." My voice drops to something dangerous, something that promises consequences. "But that person disappeared the moment the adrenaline wore off. Left me with nothing but silence and questions and the growing certainty that maybe I imagined the whole thing."
I can see the guilt twisting in his chest. The recognition that I'm right. That he did disappear when I needed him most. That his careful consideration felt like abandonment to someone who was already broken.
"Enzo—"
"So no," I continue, cutting him off. "You don't get to show up now and start making demands. You don't get to claim me like property just because your jealousy finally outweighed your fear."
I push past him, heading down the steps with careful precision. My ribs are still bothering me, still healing from everything that happened. But I need to move. Need to get away before I do something stupid like forgive him too easily. Like let him think his pretty words erase seven days of psychological torture.
I make it three steps before his hand closes around my arm, pulling me back.
The touch sends electricity racing through my system. Because even angry, even hurt, even absolutely furious with him, I still respond to his hands on me like I'm hardwired to need his touch.
I spin around, eyes flashing with surprise and fury, mouth opening to tell him exactly what I think of being manhandled. But I don't get the chance to speak.
He kisses me.
Hard. Desperate. Without permission or apology or any of the careful control he's spent years perfecting. His hand fists in my shirt, pulling me closer despite my injured ribs. His other hand cups the back of my neck, holding me still while he claims my mouth the way he should have claimed it a week ago.
I make a sound - surprise, maybe, or anger - but then my hands are on him too. Gripping his jacket. Pulling him closer instead of pushing me away. Kissing him back with the same desperate hunger that's been eating me alive.
This. This is what I've been starving for. Not his words. Not his explanations. This raw, desperate contact that makes everything else fade away. This proof that underneath all his control, he needs me as much as I need him.
When he finally pulls back, we're both breathing hard. My lips are swollen, my eyes dark with want and confusion and something that looks like triumph.
Because this is it. This is what I wanted. Noah Aslanov, finally stopped running long enough to claim what he wants.
"Look who's running now," he murmurs against my mouth.
The words send heat through me, but there's something in his tone. Something that sounds like he thinks he just won.
I touch my lips with the back of my hand, eyes never leaving his. There's something wild there now. Something that wasn't there before the kiss. But also something that looks like satisfaction. Like control.
"Where are you going?" he asks.
"Nowhere now," I say quietly. Because despite everything, despite my anger, despite knowing he thinks he just played me perfectly, I can't bring myself to walk away from this. "Why?"
"Do you still want to manhandle me?"
The question makes me want to laugh. Because he has no idea what he just started.
"No," I tell him, stepping closer instead of backing away. "Because we're not done talking."
"No? Then what else is there to say?" But there's no heat in his voice now. No anger. Just something that looks like wonder. Like he can't quite believe he finally stopped running long enough to claim what he wants.
And that's when I realize it. He thinks this is over. He thinks that kiss solved everything. He thinks he can ignore me for a week, show up when he gets jealous, kiss me into submission, and everything will go back to how he wants it.
He thinks he's the one in control.
The realization hits me like ice water. Because this isn't about him finally admitting what he wants. This isn't about him choosing me over his carefully constructed control.
This is about him proving he can manipulate the situation. That he can push and pull and make me dance to whatever tune he's playing. That he's the one with power in this dynamic we've created.
He thinks he just proved he's in control.
The thought makes me laugh. Actually laugh, sharp and dangerous enough that he takes a step back.
He has no idea what he just started. No idea that kissing me like that—claiming me in front of everyone and then looking at me like he's the one calling the shots—has just triggered every possessive instinct I have.
No idea that he's about to learn exactly what happens when you try to control a Moretti.
"You think this is about you having control," I say quietly, stepping closer until he's backed against the building wall. "You think you can dictate the terms of this thing between us. You think you can push and pull and manipulate the situation to your advantage."
Something flickers in his eyes. Uncertainty, maybe. Or the beginning understanding that he's miscalculated. That kissing me wasn't him winning—it was him starting a war he's not prepared to fight.
"You think that kiss was you proving something to me. You think silence followed by public claiming means you're the one setting the rules here."
I lean closer, close enough that my mouth brushes his ear when I speak. Close enough that he can feel the violence radiating off me like heat.
"You have another thing coming, beautiful. Because you just declared war on the wrong person. And now you're going to learn what real control looks like."
I pull back just enough to see his face. To watch understanding dawn in those ice-blue eyes. To see the moment he realizes that he's not the hunter in this scenario.
He's the prey.
And I'm about to show him exactly what happens when you try to claim a Moretti and then pretend you're the one in charge.
Starting right now.