The humanities building buzzes with morning chaos. Students rushing. Coffee spilling. Lives moving in meaningless directions. None of it matters. Only one thing matters now.
I take the stairs two at a time, pulse spiking with each step. This is it. Time to show Noah Aslanov that last night wasn't a game. That there's nowhere he can hide from me.
My father's voice echoes in my head as I climb. You're weak, Enzo. Distracted. A Moretti doesn't chase. A Moretti takes. Fuck him. I'll take Noah. Just not the way he'd approve of.
Professor Martinez's classroom. Third floor. Contemporary Ethics. A class I'm not enrolled in. A class I have no business being in. Perfect.
I pause outside the door. Listen to voices inside. Students settling. Professor shuffling papers. And somewhere in there, Noah. Probably thinking he's safe. Probably thinking I've lost interest. The thought makes something violent twist in my chest. I've never lost interest in anything I wanted. And I want Noah Aslanov more than I've wanted anything in my twenty-two years of breathing. He's about to learn how wrong he is.
I push open the door. Step inside. The classroom is smaller than expected—maybe thirty students scattered across tiered seats. My eyes scan automatically, predator seeking prey. There. Third row, center. Black sweater today. Platinum hair perfectly styled. That same rigid posture screaming control. Beautiful. Like a statue carved from ice and pain.
He doesn't see me at first. Too focused on arranging his notebook with mechanical precision. But other students notice. I feel their eyes tracking my movement as I walk down the aisle. Some recognize me—the Moretti name opens doors and closes mouths. Others just sense danger. Smart kids.
I don't care about them. I only care about what happens when Noah hears my voice for the first time. When he learns what his personal devil sounds like.
I move closer. Close enough to stand right behind his row. Close enough that when I lean down, my words will reach his ears and no one else's. Close enough to smell that clean, winter scent that's been haunting my dreams.
"Morning, beautiful," I whisper, mouth close enough to his ear that my breath disturbs the fine hairs at his nape.
The reaction is immediate. Devastating. Everything I hoped for and more. Every muscle in Noah's body goes rigid. His pen freezes halfway to paper. His breathing changes—becomes shallow, controlled, like he's fighting not to hyperventilate. But he doesn't turn around. Doesn't acknowledge that I spoke. Just sits there staring at the empty whiteboard like his life depends on memorizing every detail.
I can see the rapid pulse at his throat. The way his shoulders draw up toward his ears like he's bracing for a blow. The careful control it's taking for him to sit still instead of bolting from the room. He's affected. Shaken. Trying so fucking hard to pretend he doesn't care. But his body tells a different story. And I'm fluent in that language.
Professor Martinez walks in at that moment, coffee in hand, already launching into moral relativism. Perfect timing. I straighten up. Let my fingers ghost across the back of Noah's chair—not touching him, but close enough that he feels the threat of contact. Close enough that he knows I could touch him if I wanted to. And I want to. Christ, I want to.
"See you soon," I murmur, so quietly only he can hear. Then I walk back toward the door, leaving him to sit through fifty minutes of moral philosophy while thinking about me.
But I pause at the threshold. Turn back one last time. Noah still hasn't looked at me. Still sitting ramrod straight, staring at Professor Martinez like every word might save his soul. But I can see the tension radiating off him in waves. The way his pen hovers over his notebook without writing anything. The way his free hand is clenched into a fist in his lap. He knows I'm watching. And he's trying so hard to pretend he doesn't care that it's beautiful to witness.
I step into the hallway, but I don't leave immediately. I want to make sure Noah knows I was here. Want him to spend the next fifty minutes thinking about my voice in his ear instead of moral relativism. Want him to remember that nowhere is safe from me. Time to let my family know exactly what I'm doing.
Where are you? Valentina texts as I walk toward the dining hall. Hunting.Jesus Christ, Enzo.
I find them in our usual corner. Valentina's stirring sugar into her coffee with unnecessary violence. Matteo looks like he wants to strangle someone. Preferably me.
"You're acting weird," Valentina says the moment I sit down. "Weirder than usual. And that's saying something."
"I'm not acting weird."
"You've been MIA since last night," Matteo points out. "And you have that look."
"What look?"
"The same look you get before you do something that's going to get us all killed," Valentina says. "Like right before you decided to fight three Bratva soldiers at once."
"That worked out fine."
"You were in the hospital for a week!"
"But I won."
Matteo slams his coffee cup down. "This isn't about winning, Enzo. This is about survival. Our survival."
"How do you know what this is about?"
"Because I can read you like a book," Valentina says. "Also because you've been obsessing over that Russian boy since yesterday." She grins, but there's worry in her eyes. "So what's the plan? Stalking him between classes until he falls madly in love?"
The word 'love' tastes like poison on my tongue. This isn't about love. This is about possession. About claiming something beautiful and dangerous and making it mine.
Matteo looks up, expression darkening. "Please tell me you're not talking about the Aslanov boy."
"I'm claiming myself a Russian prince," I say, taking a sip of coffee. "Nothing wrong with that."
The table goes quiet. Even the noise from other students seems to fade. Valentina's eyes widen. Matteo looks like he wants to murder me with his bare hands.
"Claiming," Matteo repeats slowly. "As in, an Aslanov."
"As in, Noah Aslanov specifically."
"Are you out of your fucking mind?" His voice drops to a whisper. "Do you know what Sergei Aslanov does to people who touch his children? Do you know what he did to the last Italian who looked at his daughter wrong?"
I shrug. "Same thing our father does when someone crosses us, I imagine."
"He flayed him alive, Enzo. Literally. Kept him breathing for three days while he peeled off his skin piece by piece."
The image should horrify me. Should make me reconsider. Instead, it sends heat racing through my veins. If Noah comes from that kind of violence, if he was raised in that world... No wonder he recognized the monster in me so easily.
"This isn't a game," Matteo continues. "This is suicide."
"Everything's a game, cousin. Some just have higher stakes."
"Higher stakes?" Valentina leans forward, eyes bright with fascination and fear. "Enzo, this could start a war between our families. A real war. Blood in the streets kind of war."
"Only if they find out."
"And how exactly do you plan to keep an Aslanov's attention secret?"
I think about Noah's rigid posture. The way he fought so hard not to react to my voice. The careful control he maintains over every breath, every movement, every micro-expression.
"By making sure he doesn't want me to."
Valentina stares at me. "You want him to keep it secret? That's your plan?"
"Men like Noah Aslanov don't give up control easily. Don't admit to wanting things that could destroy them." I lean back in my chair. "But they want them anyway. And eventually, that want becomes need. And need... need makes people do stupid things."
"What kind of want?" Matteo asks, though I can tell he already knows the answer.
I think about ice-blue eyes and the way Noah didn't flinch when blood splattered across the fight ring. The way his shoulders tensed when I whispered in his ear. The way he smells like winter and violence and everything I've ever craved.
"The kind that doesn't take no for an answer. The kind that eats you alive from the inside out until you'd rather die than keep fighting it."
"That's not want," Matteo says quietly. "That's obsession."
"What's the difference?"
The question hangs in the air between us. Valentina and Matteo exchange a look that says they think I've finally lost my mind completely. Maybe I have. Maybe this is what insanity feels like—this consuming need to possess something beautiful and dangerous and completely wrong for me. If it is, I don't want to be sane.
"Enzo," Valentina says carefully, "what happens when he rejects you? What happens when he tells you to fuck off and never speak to him again?"
"He won't."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because he's just like me." I check my phone. Twenty minutes left of class. "He's a monster pretending to be a man. And monsters recognize each other."
I'm already standing when Valentina calls after me. "Enzo!" I turn back. "Be careful," she says, and for once, there's no teasing in her voice. "Russians don't play the same games we do. They play for keeps."
"I know." I flash my most charming smile, the one that hides the violence underneath. "That's what makes it interesting."
I make my way back to the humanities building with fifteen minutes to spare. Plenty of time to position myself exactly where I want to be when Noah walks out of that classroom. The hallway is mostly empty now. Just me and the occasional student hurrying to their next class. I lean against the wall directly across from Professor Martinez's door and settle in to wait. This is my favorite part. The anticipation. The moment before everything changes.
Ten minutes. I can hear Professor Martinez's voice changing, getting that wrap-up tone professors use when they're running out of material. Papers rustling. Chairs scraping. Students getting restless. Class is almost over. Almost time to see how badly I've gotten under Noah's skin.
Five minutes. The rustling gets louder. Students packing bags, checking phones, mentally preparing for their next commitment. But I'm not going anywhere. Nothing else exists except what happens in the next few minutes.
Two minutes. I push off from the wall and position myself directly in front of the classroom door. Not blocking it—that would be too obvious. But making sure Noah will have to see me the moment he steps out. Making sure there's no way for him to pretend I'm not here.
One minute. The door opens. Students start filing out in the usual chaotic rush. I scan each face, looking for platinum hair and ice-blue eyes. There. Third one out. Head down, shoulders rigid, moving with that careful precision that screams control freak. Black sweater, bag slung over one shoulder, expression carefully neutral. But I can see the tension. The way he's holding himself like he's bracing for impact.
He doesn't see me at first. Too focused on escaping the crowd. But when he looks up and our eyes meet, he stops dead in his tracks. For just a second, his mask slips. I see something raw and desperate and afraid flash across his features before he locks it down again. Beautiful.
I push off from the wall and fall into step beside him like it's the most natural thing in the world. "Miss me, beautiful?"
Noah doesn't respond. Doesn't acknowledge that I spoke. Just keeps walking with that same measured pace, like he's counting steps to stay calm. Like I'm not even here.
"Silent treatment?" I ask, matching his stride easily. "How original."
Still nothing. We walk in silence for thirty seconds while I study his profile. The sharp line of his jaw. The way his lips are pressed together in a thin line. The barely perceptible tremor in his hands. He's affected. Badly. But he's not going to make this easy. Good. I like a challenge.
"You know," I say conversationally, "ignoring me isn't going to make me disappear. Just like ignoring my texts didn't work."
That gets a reaction. His step falters for just a second before he catches himself. Progress.
"Nothing to say about that?" I press. "I sent you two perfectly polite messages last night. The least you could do is respond."
"I don't respond to stalkers," Noah says quietly, his voice deadly calm.
The word should offend me. Should make me angry. Instead, it sends heat racing through my veins.
"Stalkers?" I laugh, low and dark. "That's a bit dramatic, don't you think? I sent you two text messages."
"You somehow got my private number. You somehow know my class schedule. You showed up to a class you're not enrolled in just to let me know you're watching me." He still doesn't look at me when he speaks. "What would you call it?"
"Interest."
"I call it harassment."
The word hangs between us like a blade. I step closer, close enough that he has to acknowledge my presence. Close enough that I can smell that clean, winter scent that's been driving me crazy.
"That's a harsh word, Noah. But if you don't want me showing up places you don't expect me, there's a simple solution."
He stops walking. Turns to face me fully for the first time since I sat behind him in criminology class. Those ice-blue eyes are even more devastating up close. Cold and calculating and absolutely fearless. Like looking into the heart of a glacier. Beautiful and deadly and deep enough to drown in.
"And what's that?"
"Answer when I call or text you."
The silence stretches between us. I can see the war happening behind his eyes. Careful control warring with something darker. Something that wants to tell me exactly what he thinks of my demand. Something that wants to fight back.
"Let me make something very clear," he says, voice soft but laced with steel. "I am not interested in whatever sick game you think you're playing. I am not interested in your attention. And I am definitely not interested in you."
The words hit like physical blows, but they also send heat racing through my veins. This. This is what I wanted to see. Not the quiet, controlled mask he wears in public. The steel underneath. The fight. The fire he keeps buried so deep most people never see it. But I see it. And it's fucking magnificent.
"Liar," I say softly.
His jaw tightens. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." I step closer. Close enough to see the gold flecks in those ice-blue eyes. Close enough to watch his pupils dilate despite his words. "You're lying."
"I don't lie."
"Everyone lies, Noah. The question is why."
"I have nothing to lie about."
"No?" I tilt my head, studying his face like he's a puzzle I need to solve. "Then why won't you look at me when you speak? Why do your hands shake when I get close? Why haven't you walked away?"
He glances up briefly. Those ice-blue eyes meet mine for just a second before he forces himself to look away again. But that second is enough. I see it. The hunger. The recognition. The thing he's fighting so hard to deny.
"Because I have nothing to say to you," he says.
"Another lie." I smile, and I know it's not a nice expression. "You're getting better at it, though."
"What do you want from me?" The question bursts out of him like he's been holding it back. Like the words have been clawing at his throat. "What possible interest could you have in me?"
"Isn't it obvious?"
"No. It's not. We don't know each other. We've barely spoken. We have nothing in common."
"We have everything in common."
"Like what?"
I lean closer. So close I can feel the heat radiating off his skin. So close I can see the way his breath catches. So close I could count his heartbeats if I wanted to.
"We're both monsters pretending to be men."
He goes very still. Every muscle in his body tenses like I've just touched a live wire.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do." My voice drops to a whisper. "You recognized it the moment you saw me in that basement. Just like I recognized it in you. The hunger. The violence. The need to break things just to see if they'll bleed."
"You're wrong."
"Am I?" I reach out slowly, telegraphing the movement so he has time to stop me if he wants to. He doesn't. "Then why haven't you walked away? Why haven't you told me to fuck off? Why are you standing here letting me touch you?"
My finger traces along his jaw, and his skin is softer than I expected. Warmer. I can feel the tension thrumming through him like electricity.
For a moment, I think he's going to answer. I can see the war happening behind his eyes. Control warring with something darker. Something that wants to come out and play. Something that wants to bite back.
Then he steps back, and the moment shatters. The mask slides back into place. The walls go up. The fire disappears behind ice.
"Stay away from me," he says.
"No."
"I'm not asking."
"Neither am I." I smile, and this time I let him see exactly how dangerous I can be. "See you around, Noah."
I turn and walk away before he can respond. But I can feel his eyes on me the entire time. Can feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing. He wants me. He can deny it all he wants, but his body doesn't lie. The way he leaned into my touch instead of pulling away. The way his breathing changed when I got close. The way he didn't actually tell me to stop touching him.
Noah Aslanov is going to be mine. It's not a question of if. It's just a question of how much we're both going to bleed before he admits it. And I have all the time in the world to find out. Because monsters like us? We don't give up what we want. We take it.
I'm halfway across campus when my phone buzzes. Unknown number. For a split second, hope flares in my chest. Maybe Noah— But when I open the message, it's not from him. Stay away from my cousin. This is your only warning.
I stare at the text for a long moment. Then I start laughing. Luka Aslanov thinks he can threaten me. Thinks one text message is going to make me back down. He has no idea what he's dealing with.
I type back quickly: Tell your cousin to answer his phone. We need to talk.
The response comes immediately: He doesn't want to talk to you.
Then why hasn't he blocked my number?
Silence. No response. Because Luka knows the truth, even if Noah won't admit it yet. Noah wants this. Wants me. Wants to see where this thing between us leads. He's just too afraid to admit it.
But fear is temporary. And I'm very good at making people face their fears. I pocket my phone and head toward my next class. International Relations. A subject I'll need to understand intimately if I'm going to navigate the delicate politics of claiming a Russian prince for myself.
Because that's what this is. A claiming. A conquest. And Morettis always get what they want. No matter the cost.