VALENTINE
I woke up to the scent of cedarwood and sin.
My sheets were still tangled, my skin still raw. His scent was everywhere. His hands—ghosts on my thighs. His teeth—still felt like they were pressed into my collarbone.
He'd left before dawn.
No note. No goodbye. Just the sound of my window clicking shut and a faint memory of a kiss to my shoulder.
Like I was his secret. Like he planned to keep me that way.
He showed up again that morning, pulling into the driveway like he owned it.
Aiden Ashbourne.
In a sleek, black Aston Martin DB11, matte finish, purring like a panther waiting to pounce.
I hadn't texted him. I hadn't told him where I lived.
Of course, he already knew.
I stepped out in a pleated skirt and an oversized black sweater. His eyes dragged over me like a weapon being unsheathed.
"You're staring."
"I fucked you against your headboard last night. Let me have my moment."
My face flushed. "You're impossible."
"Yet you let me in."
He opened the passenger door with a mocking bow. "Princess."
I rolled my eyes but climbed in anyway.
We didn't speak much as he drove. Imperial loomed ahead, drenched in pale sunlight, pretending to be a place for saints instead of serpents.
Except he didn't pull into the main parking lot.
He veered left—toward the faculty side—then slipped behind the abandoned conservatory where the lot was always empty.
"Aiden."
He turned off the engine, unbuckled his seatbelt, and leaned over like he'd been starving for this exact moment.
"I've been thinking about your mouth," he murmured, brushing his lips against mine.
"I thought you had to drop me off," I said breathlessly, already unraveling.
"I lied."
He kissed me like he owned every inch of me.
My back hit the car door. His hand curled around my neck, thumb stroking just under my jawline. His other hand was already pushing up my skirt.
I let him.
Because I couldn't not.
Because I was still drunk on him.
"Mine," he growled into my skin.
The worst part? I wanted to believe it.
The car windows fogged.
The glass trembled.
I moaned into his mouth, nails dragging across his jaw. And just when I thought I'd drown in it, he pulled back.
His pupils were blown wide. His lips swollen.
But his control?
Unshaken.
"Now," he said, fixing his cuffs, "let's go show everyone how pretty you look on my arm."
I regretted everything the second we stepped onto campus.
Because he wouldn't let go.
His hand clung to my waist like he was marking territory. And the second we walked past the courtyard, I saw them.
Keira.
Arjun.
Lucien.
And Killian—who stopped mid-conversation and stared like he was watching a car crash in slow motion.
Keira blinked.
"Did… you two finally bang?"
"Keira," I hissed.
"Jesus Christ," Killian muttered. "He told us this would happen."
"I expected more shame," Lucien added casually, sipping his espresso.
"Still might be a hostage situation," Arjun said, smirking.
Aiden's grip tightened, his eyes daring anyone to say more.
"She's my girlfriend," he announced, like a villain announcing war.
I gave him a look sharp enough to flay skin. "I'm going to push you down the stairs."
"You say the sweetest things," he whispered against my ear.
I needed space.
Time.
So I slipped away after Lit Theory and headed for the old wing of the library.
The sealed section.
No one ever went there. Most didn't even know it existed. It was buried beneath the law annex, where the original foundation of the school remained untouched.
The air changed the moment I stepped inside.
The doors closed behind me with a hollow thud.
I moved between shelves lined with dust-heavy books and forgotten records. A faint buzzing sound hummed from the ancient lighting.
Then I found it.
The archives.
And in them—a file.
Yellowed. Fragile.
I opened it.
Inside: a photograph of my mother.
Vivienne Danbury.
She looked like me. Or I looked like her. Same eyes. Same mouth. Same tilt of the chin.
The caption beneath it read:
Discharged 2008. Incident sealed by Ashbourne Trust.
My fingers trembled as I turned the page.
More names. More pictures.
And then I saw him.
Eli Ashbourne.
Alive.
The same eyes as Aiden. Same smirk. But colder. Emptier.
A list of case numbers followed. Patient transfers. Suppressed death certificates.
None of this was supposed to exist.
But it did.
I stuffed the file into my tote bag.
And that's when I felt it.
A whisper.
A chill.
I turned sharply.
The library was empty.
But the feeling didn't leave.
I wasn't alone.
I looked between the stacks.
Nothing.
Still—I knew.
Someone was watching.
No footsteps. No voice.
But a presence. Cold. Patient. And far too familiar.
I ran.
And even as I made it to the main building, heart racing, lungs burning—I knew the truth.
He hadn't just picked me up this morning.
Aiden Ashbourne had never left.