The corridor outside the West Wing lecture halls was nearly empty.
It was late — too late for most students — but Zara Whitmore had never been "most students."
Her heels clicked sharply against the marble floor as she hurried around the corner, a stack of books balanced against her chest. International Law wasn't going to conquer itself.
She didn't see him.
Not until it was too late.
She turned the corner.
Hit something solid.
And the world tilted.
Books spilled everywhere.
A hand caught her waist.
Strong. Firm. Unmoving.
Her breath left her in a sharp gasp.
For half a second, she thought she might fall — but she didn't.
Because he didn't let her.
Zara looked up.
And immediately wished she hadn't.
Lucien Ashford.
Up close, he was worse than the rumors.
Taller than she remembered. Dark coat. White shirt slightly open at the collar. Calm expression. But his eyes…
His eyes were studying her.
Not surprised,
Not apologetic,
Studying
"You should watch where you're going," he said quietly.
His voice wasn't loud.
It didn't need to be.
Zara became very aware of two things at once:
His hand was still on her waist.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
"I could say the same to you," she replied, steadying her tone.
She stepped back
Or at least tried to.
His hand tightened — not enough to hurt, just enough to delay her.
One second too long.
Their eyes locked.
The hallway felt smaller,
Warmer,
Dangerous.
Lucien's gaze dropped briefly — not disrespectfully — but deliberately. Taking in the way her hair had fallen loose from its clip. The faint flush rising in her cheeks.
Then back to her eyes.
"You're Zara Whitmore," he said.
Her spine straightened.
"And you're blocking my way."
A flicker of something crossed his face.
Amusement.
Interest.
Most girls at Blackthorne either avoided him… or tried too hard to impress him.
She was doing neither.
He released her slowly.
But as she bent to pick up her books, he crouched too.
Their hands reached for the same one.
Fingers brushed.
Electric.
She pulled back first
He didn't.
"I've been meaning to meet you," he said softly.
Her pulse betrayed her.
"I haven't."
That earned a quiet, almost dangerous smile.
He stood first and handed her the last book.
Their fingers touched again.
Deliberately this time.
"You will," he murmured.
The promise in his voice wasn't romantic.
It was inevitable.
Then he stepped aside.
Just enough for her to pass.
Zara walked forward without looking back.
But she felt it.
His gaze on her.
And for the first time since arriving at Blackthorne University…
She felt something shift.
Not fear
Not curiosity
Something far more dangerous.
Interest.