Page 44 of Marrying My Professor

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

"I got lost," I say, my voice somehow steady even as panic claws at my insides. "I was looking for the bathroom."

“In a locked office?” The other man laughs. “That’s creative. I’ll give you that.”

“Lock it, Dominic.” James’s expression has gone cold, all the practiced charm from earlier evaporated. “Who sent you?”

"No one sent me. I told you, I got⁠—"

"Lost," he finishes. "Right. And I'm sure you just happened to have my ring. The one I've been wearing all night. The one that just happened to unlock this very specific door."

He holds up his left hand, wiggling his fingers. The ring is conspicuously absent.

Shit.

"Here's what's going to happen," Dominic says, moving to block the other exit I hadn't even noticed. "You're going to tell us who you're working for, what you were looking for, and why we shouldn't just throw you in the river and be done with it."

My mind races, cataloguing exits (none), weapons (also none), and chances of talking my way out of this (approaching zero).

"And if I don't?" I ask, because apparently my mouth has decided that defiance is the appropriate response to mortal danger.

James smiles, and it's the kind of smile that makes me understand, viscerally, how my brother could have ended up dead. "Then we find out how well you swim on a rainy April Day."

Dominic moves closer, and I back up until I hit the desk. My hand fumbles behind me, searching for anything I could use as a weapon, and lands on a letter opener.

Better than nothing.

I'm just closing my fingers around it when the door slams open with enough force to make all three of us jump.

Alexander stands in the doorway.

The black mask is gone, but the dark jeans and black T-shirt are the same ones the stranger wore in the crowd. He followed me.

And he looks absolutely murderous.

His eyes—those storm-gray eyes I've seen soft with desire and hard with control—are molten with rage. His jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping, and his hands are curled into fists at his sides like he's physically restraining himself from violence.

"Draven," James says, surprise flickering across his face. "We were just⁠—"

"Get your fucking hands off her." Alexander's voice is so low, so controlled, that it's somehow more terrifying than if he'd shouted. "Now."

Dominic doesn't move. "She was snooping in restricted areas. You know the protocol for⁠—"

"I don't care about protocol." Alexander steps into the room, and something about his presence makes the space feel smaller, more dangerous. "She's mine. Which means you don't touch her. You don't look at her. You don't breathe near her without my permission."

The word—mine—lands in the room like a bomb.

James and Dominic exchange glances, something passing between them that I can't interpret.

"Yours?" James repeats slowly. "Since when do you claim anyone, Draven?"

"Since now." Alexander's gaze finally shifts to me, and the intensity of it nearly knocks me backward. "Come here, Elara."

I don't hesitate. I cross the room and he immediately puts himself between me and the other men, one hand coming up to grip my hip in a way that's unmistakably possessive.

"You're vouching for her?" Dominic asks, and there's something dangerous in his tone. "You understand what that means?"

"I understand perfectly," Alexander says. "She's under my protection. Which means if anything happens to her—anything at all—you answer to me. Are we clear?"