Page 69 of Marrying My Professor

I stare at him, this man I married, this man whose past I'm only now beginning to understand. "Until I came along."

"Until you came along," he confirms. "And I extended my sentence anyway. Made it official. Permanent. Forever."

The word hangs between us like a noose.

I look back down at the files scattered across the floor—Brandon's initiation record, Alexander's conscription record, evidence of an organization that destroys lives as casually as filing paperwork.

"You've had this information about Brandon in your office," I say, my mind working through the implications, through what this means. "You've known he was a Sovereign Bastard initiate. You've known James sponsored him. You've known about the promises they made him."

"Yes."

"And you didn't think to mention any of this when I told you I was investigating my brother's death? When I asked you to help me find out what happened to him?"

"I was trying to keep you alive!" The words explode out of him, his composure finally cracking, and I can see the desperation beneath now, the fear he's been holding back. "Every piece of information I gave you was another reason for them to kill you. Every document, every name, every connection—it all put a target on your back. So yes, I held back. Yes, I waited. Because I needed to figure out how to give you justice without getting you murdered in the process."

"That wasn't your call to make," I say, and my voice is steady now, cold with certainty. "You don't get to decide what I can handle. You don't get to decide what information I'm strong enough to bear. We're supposed to be partners, Alexander. Partners share information. Partners trust each other."

"I do trust you⁠—"

"No, you don't." I cut him off, the clarity of it settling over me like ice water. "You trust yourself. You trust your ability to protect me. But you don't trust me to make my own decisions about my own life."

The accusation hangs in the air between us.

Alexander's hand curls into a fist at his side, then releases. Curls again. Releases. Like he's physically fighting the urge to reach for me.

"You're right," he says finally, and the admission seems to cost him something. "You're absolutely right. I've been making decisions for you without asking. Withholding information because I thought it was safer. Treating you like you needed protection instead of partnership."

I wait, saying nothing, needing him to finish this thought.

"But Elara, I need you to understand—I've spent fourteen years in this organization. Fourteen years watching them destroy people who get too close to the truth. Fourteen years learning that the only way to survive is to keep secrets, to trust no one, to assume that every piece of information you share could be the one that gets you killed."

He takes a breath, and I can see him struggling to put words to something he's never said out loud.

"So when you walked into my life—this brilliant, reckless, beautiful woman who was actively investigating the most dangerous organization on the East Coast—my instinct wasn't to trust you with everything. My instinct was to protect you by keeping you ignorant. By controlling what you knew and when you knew it. Because that's the only survival strategy I've ever learned."

The honesty in his voice makes my chest ache, makes some of the anger start to drain away despite my best efforts to hold onto it.

"That's not an excuse," he continues. "It's an explanation. And I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry that I didn't trust you enough to handle the truth. That I treated you like you were fragile when you're probably the strongest person I've ever met."

I look down at the scattered files again, at the evidence of both our traumas laid bare on institutional carpet.

"My brother's name was in the sacrifice book," I say quietly. "The Annual Rites folder I photographed at the club. Someone crossed out another name and wrote Brandon's in red ink."

Alexander's expression shifts—surprise flickering across his features before settling into something grimmer. His eyebrows draw together, and he goes very still.

"That's impossible," he says, but there's doubt in his voice now, uncertainty.

"I know what I saw." I meet his eyes, needing him to believe me. "Someone crossed out a name Amelia—I couldn't read what it said originally because of the red ink and wrote 'Brandon Hayes’s in its place. In the section marked 'Blood Sacrifice.' That's why I was in James's office that night. That's why I was photographing everything."

Alexander is quiet for a long moment, his jaw working like he's processing information that doesn't fit with what he knows. When he speaks again, his voice is careful, measured.

"The sacrifice last year was Amelia York," he says, and I can hear the certainty in his voice, the kind that comes from official documentation. "Twenty-two years old. Economics major. Found dead in her apartment from an apparent overdose. The Dominion's Sons were in charge of the sacrifice, and Julian Voss personally selected her."

"Then explain why Brandon's name was in that folder," I challenge, crossing my arms across my chest. "Explain why someone felt the need to change the victim and hide it."

He's quiet, jaw working as he processes this new information, as I watch understanding dawn across his features.

"It's possible James changed it," he says slowly, like he's working through the implications as he speaks. "The Sovereign Bastards were supposed to oversee the ritual last year. Make sure it happened correctly, that the chosen sacrifice died in a way that couldn't be traced back to the Order."