Page 75 of Marrying My Professor

"I know." She looks up at me, and there's something different in her eyes tonight—harder, darker, more determined. "That's why I'm not going after him directly. Not at first."

I push off the dresser and move to the bed, settling beside her amid the scattered papers. "Explain."

"The maze is divided into sections," she says, pulling out another document—this one looks like it was printed from a construction website, complete with architectural renderings. "Each section has a different theme. Greek mythology, medieval torture, Victorian gothic. But the final section, the one just before the exit, is always angel and devil themed."

"How do you know that?"

A small smile plays at her lips. "Because I've been volunteering to help with set design for the past week. Told them I wanted to contribute, to feel more involved in Veritas traditions. They thought it was sweet. Eager new wife trying to fit in."

The manipulation of it—the calculated deception—makes something primal and possessive flare in my chest. This is a side of Elara I've only glimpsed before, usually when she's angry or cornered. But now she's channeling it with purpose, with cold precision that reminds me why I fell for her in the first place.

She's fucking magnificent.

"So you have access," I say, keeping my voice level despite the heat building under my skin. "You know the layout, the timing, the security protocols."

"I know where the blind spots are." She taps another section of the floor plan. "The angel and devil section has these alcoves built into the hedges. Small rooms designed to look like confessionals or something equally dramatic. Most of them will have performers—actors hired to scare the initiates, add to the atmosphere. But there's one that's meant to stay empty. A decoy. Something for the initiates to discover that's supposed to be anticlimactic after all the other frights."

"And you'll be in that alcove."

"I'll be in that alcove," she confirms. "Dressed as one of the angels. Full costume, wings, mask—the works. No one will question it because I'm supposed to be there. I volunteered for performer duty, said I wanted to experience the Games from the inside."

The pieces are falling into place now, the full scope of her plan becoming clear. "And you'll lure James there somehow. Away from his guards, away from witnesses."

"He already wants to get me alone." Her jaw tightens, disgust flickering across her features. "Nathaniel told you he specifically requested my presence. That wasn't random, Alexander. James has been watching me since the Spring Ball. Making comments. Asking questions. He's interested."

The possessive rage that surges through me is immediate and visceral. My hands curl into fists against the duvet, every protective instinct I have screaming to lock her in this room and never let James Harrington within a hundred yards of her.

But I force myself to breathe. To think. To trust her.

"You're going to use that," I say quietly. "His interest. His arrogance. His assumption that you're just a pretty distraction he can manipulate."

"I'm going to use everything." She meets my eyes, and the steel in her gaze makes my pulse spike. "I'll flirt just enough to make him follow. Lead him into the alcove under some pretense—privacy, conversation, whatever he wants to hear. And once he's inside, once he realizes he's alone with me in a place no one can see⁠—"

She doesn't finish the sentence. Doesn't need to.

I reach out, my hand finding her knee through the silk of her robe, fingers pressing against warm skin. "How?"

"I haven't decided yet." Her voice is steady, clinical, like we're discussing a particularly difficult chess problem instead of premeditated murder. "Something that looks accidental. A fall, maybe. Or an injury that could be explained by the maze's hazards. The final game always has casualties—initiates who push too hard, who panic and hurt themselves. One more death wouldn't be suspicious."

The ease with which she discusses killing someone should disturb me. Should make me question what I've unleashed, what darkness I've helped cultivate in this brilliant, damaged woman I married.

Instead, it makes me want her with an intensity that borders on painful.

"You've thought this through," I say, my hand sliding higher on her thigh, feeling the way her breath hitches despite the calm expression on her face. "Every angle. Every risk. Every detail."

"I've thought about nothing else for a week." She doesn't pull away from my touch, doesn't break eye contact. "Brandon deserves justice. And if the Veritas won't give it to him, if Nathaniel is too compromised to act, if James is too protected to prosecute—then I'll give it to him myself."

The conviction in her voice, the cold determination, the absolute certainty that she can do this—it's intoxicating. Dangerous. Everything I should discourage and everything I want to worship.

"You're sure?" I ask, needing her to confirm it one more time, needing to know this is truly what she wants. "Because once you do this, there's no going back. You'll have killed a Veritas leader. Even if no one can prove it, even if it looks like an accident—you'll know. You'll carry that weight forever."

"I already carry weight." Her hand covers mine on her thigh, pressing my palm more firmly against her skin. "I carry Brandon's death. His unanswered questions. His stolen future. Adding James's death to that burden won't make it heavier. It'll make it bearable."

The logic is twisted, born from grief and rage and desperation. But I understand it. God help me, I understand it completely.

Because I've spent fourteen years carrying my own weight—the weight of forced conscription, of complicity in crimes I never wanted to commit, of watching the Veritas destroy lives while I stood by and did nothing. And if killing one man could lift even a fraction of that burden, could give meaning to all the suffering⁠—

I'd do it without hesitation.