Page 62 of Marrying My Professor

This room is full of people who would have killed me if Alexander hadn't intervened, hadn't sold his soul for mine, hadn't bound himself to this organization forever just to keep me breathing.

This room is beautiful and terrible and I want to burn it to the ground, want to watch these crystal chandeliers crash and these perfect floral arrangements catch fire and these smug, entitled faces finally show something other than polite interest.

But I don't. I smile. I nod. I let Alexander guide me through the crowd with his hand on my back like I'm something precious he's protecting instead of something dangerous he's trying to contain.

"Breathe," Alexander murmurs suddenly, his hand pressing more firmly against my spine. He leans down, pressing a kiss to my forehead that looks tender from the outside but I can feel the concern in it, the worry threading through the gesture. "Deep breaths, Pet. You're safe here. I promise."

Safe. What a fucking joke. I'm about as safe as a rabbit in a room full of wolves who've agreed not to eat me but haven't necessarily agreed to be vegetarians.

But I nod, forcing air into my lungs. In for four, hold for four, out for four. The breathing exercise my therapist taught me after Brandon died, back when panic attacks were a daily occurrence and the world felt like it was ending because, in a very real sense, mine was.

In for four. The smell of expensive perfume and even more expensive cologne mixing with the scent of the floral arrangements into something cloying and overwhelming.

Hold for four. Alexander's hand steady on my back, an anchor in the chaos.

Out for four. The image of Brandon's face in my mind, the way he looked the last time I saw him, smiling and hopeful and so fucking alive.

"There you are."

The voice makes my spine stiffen, every muscle in my body going taut with recognition.

Wesley Carter approaches through the crowd like he owns it—which, given his family's money and his position in the Sovereign Bastards, he probably thinks he does. He's wearing a tuxedo that probably cost more than my rent, his blonde hair artfully tousled in that way that takes either natural talent or an expensive stylist, his signature smirk firmly in place.

But there's something sharp in his eyes tonight. Something that wasn't there before. Something that looks dangerously close to hurt wrapped in anger wrapped in masculine pride.

"Wesley," Alexander says coolly, his body shifting slightly to position himself between us in a way that's subtle but unmistakable.

"Professor. Or should I say Mr. Draven, now that you're on leave?" Wesley's smile doesn't reach his eyes, doesn't even try to. "Congratulations on the marriage, by the way. Though I have to say, the timeline is... interesting."

Oh God. Here we go.

"Interesting how?" I ask before Alexander can respond, stepping slightly around my husband because I can fight my own battles, thank you very much.

Wesley's gaze shifts to me, and there's an accusation in it that makes my pulse spike, makes my carefully controlled breathing pattern falter. "Interesting in that you spent weeks flirting with me, sitting in my lap at my parties, letting me think you were interested—letting me give you my fucking number which you never called, by the way—and all along, you were fucking the professor. Using me to get close to the Veritas."

The words land like a slap, and I can feel people around us starting to pay attention, conversations pausing, heads turning subtly in our direction.

"Watch your mouth," Alexander says, his voice dropping to something dangerous, something that reminds me of the first night I met him, of the command in his voice when he told me I was his. "You're talking about my wife."

"Your wife who played me like a fiddle," Wesley counters, and there's real bitterness there now, the smirk dropping away to reveal actual hurt underneath. "Your wife who showed up at my parties, asked questions about initiations, snooped through my private files—oh yes, I figured that out, by the way. Jame’s ring mysteriously disappearing after you danced with him? Not exactly subtle, Elara."

Fuck. He knows. Of course he knows. I underestimated him, thought he was too drunk to notice, too self-absorbed to care. Another mistake in a growing list of them.

"That's enough," Alexander interrupts, stepping forward in a way that makes Wesley instinctively step back, that reminds everyone in this little circle exactly who has the power here. "I don't care what you think happened. I don't care about your wounded pride or your bruised ego or whatever narrative you've constructed where you're the victim. Elara is under my protection, which means you will speak to her with respect or you won't speak to her at all. Are we clear?"

The two men stare at each other, and for a moment I think Wesley might actually challenge him. Push back. Make this into something bigger than it needs to be, turn this from a private confrontation into a public scene that will be gossip fodder for weeks.

Instead, he raises his hands in mock surrender, that smirk sliding back into place like a mask. "Crystal clear, Professor. Enjoy your evening, Mrs. Draven. I hope it was all worth it."

He disappears into the crowd, and I release a breath I didn't know I was holding, my hands shaking slightly in a way I hope no one notices.

"Thank you," I say quietly to Alexander.

His hand tightens on my back, possessive and protective in equal measure. "You don't thank me for defending your honor. That's what husbands do."

Husbands. The word still feels foreign. Still feels like I'm playing dress-up in someone else's life.

"Dance with me?" I ask, needing to move, to do something with the adrenaline flooding my system, with the shame burning in my chest because Wesley's right—I did use him, I did play him, and the fact that it was for a good reason doesn't make it any less manipulative.