Page 71 of Marrying My Professor

"What are you suggesting?"

I meet Alexander's eyes, seeing my own anger reflected back at me, mixed with concern and something that might be resignation.

"I'm suggesting we bring him down," I say, my voice steady despite the adrenaline flooding my system. "Now. Ourselves. We find a way to make him pay for what he did."

Alexander's expression shifts into something cautious, worried, like he's watching me walk toward a cliff edge. "Elara⁠—"

"Don't tell me it's too dangerous." I squeeze his hand, needing him to understand the depth of my conviction. "Don't tell me we need to wait. Don't tell me to trust the system when the system is the problem, when the system is designed to protect people like James while sacrificing people like Brandon."

The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything unsaid, with all the ways this could go wrong.

Finally, Alexander reaches across the scattered papers with his free hand and cups my face, forcing me to look at him fully.

"I don't know how," he admits, and there's something devastating about hearing him say it, about seeing the limits of his power laid bare. "I don't know how to bring down James Harrington without getting us both killed in the process. He's protected by his faction, by his family's money, by decades of tradition that says what he did—even if it violated protocol—was technically within his rights as a Sovereign Bastard leader."

"Then we figure it out." I lean into his touch, drawing strength from the contact. "Together. Partners. Like we're supposed to be."

His thumb brushes across my cheekbone, the gesture achingly tender. "No more secrets?"

"No more secrets," I agree, and I can feel the weight of the promise settling between us. "Even the ones you think will hurt me. Even the ones you think I can't handle. I need to know everything, Alexander. Everything about Brandon, about the Veritas, about what we're up against. I need you to trust me enough to share the burden instead of trying to carry it alone."

"Okay." He nods slowly, something resolving in his expression, some decision being made. "Okay. Then let me start by telling you what I know about James Harrington, about the Sovereign Bastards, and about why bringing him down might be the most dangerous thing we've ever attempted."

I settle in, still holding his hand, surrounded by the wreckage of his career and the evidence of my brother's murder spread across the floor like a map to revenge.

And Alexander tells me everything.

About how the Sovereign Bastards are the wealthiest, most influential faction of the Veritas, their members coming from families with generational wealth and political connections that span the globe. About how James Harrington specifically comes from a media empire—his family owns television networks, newspapers, streaming platforms that reach millions of people daily.

About how the blood sacrifice tradition started in the 1800s as a way to ensure absolute loyalty, how each faction takes turns selecting and executing the victim, how the murder is planned and documented with the same bureaucratic efficiency as any other Veritas ritual.

About how Brandon was probably targeted specifically because he was asking too many questions, getting too close to understanding how the organization really worked, threatening to expose secrets that could bring down the entire structure.

About how Alexander has been documenting everything for years—keeping files, recording conversations, collecting evidence against them for the day when he might finally have enough leverage to escape or destroy the organization that's held him prisoner since he was seventeen.

About how none of it might be enough. How James might walk away from this unscathed. How justice might be impossible against an organization designed to protect its own at any cost.

He tells me everything, and I listen, and somewhere in the middle of his explanation—surrounded by scattered documents in his empty office at almost midnight—I start to formulate a plan.

A dangerous, reckless, probably suicidal plan.

But a plan nonetheless.

20

ALEXANDER

The observation deck overlooks the entire north field where they've constructed this year's first trial—an obstacle course that looks more like a medieval torture device than anything remotely educational. From up here, behind one-way glass that turns the initiates below into unwitting performers, I can see everything: the mud pits, the rope climbs, the sections deliberately designed to injure rather than challenge.

I hate this. Hate standing here with a scotch in my hand like I'm entertained by watching twenty-year-olds destroy themselves for the privilege of joining an organization that will own them forever.

But attendance isn't optional. Not for faculty members who are also Veritas. Not for the husband of a woman the Order is still deciding whether to fully trust.

"Quite the spectacle, isn't it?"

Evander Thorne materializes beside me, his grey robes looking out of place among the business suits and casual wealth on display. His hands are folded neatly behind his back, his expression placid as he watches an initiate slip in the mud and go down hard on his shoulder.

"It's barbaric," I say, not bothering to temper my disgust.