I walked away from Noah and every instinct in my body screamed at me to turn back. To corner him again. To push until something in him finally breaks. But I didn't. Because I got exactly what I came for.
That look. Christ, that look when I called him a liar. When I told him we were both monsters. For just a second, his carefully constructed mask slipped and I saw it. The recognition. The hunger. The darkness he keeps buried so deep he probably thinks it doesn't exist. But it does. And I saw it.
My pulse is still racing as I make my way across campus. Not from the confrontation. From anticipation. From the knowledge that I was right about Noah Aslanov from the very beginning. He's not the quiet, controlled boy everyone thinks he is. He's something else entirely. Something dangerous. Something that matches the violence in my own bones.
I replay our conversation in my head, analyzing every word. Every micro-expression. Every tell. He said he doesn't respond to stalkers. Called it harassment. Said he's not interested. Lies. All damn lies. But his mouth looks so good when he's lying.
He stood there and let me touch his face. Let me get close enough to smell his skin. Let me see the way his pupils dilated when I whispered about monsters. He wants this. He just doesn't know how to admit it yet.
I find myself at the edge of campus, near the old chapel that no one uses anymore. It's quiet here. Private. The perfect place to think without interruption. I lean against the stone wall and close my eyes, letting myself remember that first night. The way Noah looked at me across that basement. Not with fear or disgust like most people do when they see what I'm capable of. With something else entirely. Understanding.
He watched me take hit after hit and didn't flinch. Watched blood spray and didn't look away. Most people can't stomach real violence. It makes them sick. Makes them run. But Noah didn't run immediately. He stood there, ice-blue eyes locked on mine, completely unfazed by the brutality.
That should have been my first clue. Most people watch that shit with excitement or fear. Get caught up in the rush. But Noah? He just watched. Cold. Clinical. Like he understood exactly what it was about. Like he knew what it meant to fight your own demons. Which means I was right.
My phone buzzes. Valentina. How did it go?
I stare at the message for a long moment. How did it go? How do I explain that every word out of Noah's mouth convinced me more that he's exactly what I thought he was?
Better than expected.
Meaning?
Meaning he's perfect.
Enzo. Please tell me you didn't do anything that's going to get us all killed.
I almost laugh. Killed. If only she knew how alive I feel right now. How every nerve in my body is buzzing with the certainty that I've found something worth destroying myself for.
I know what I'm doing, Val.
Do you? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're obsessing over a boy who wants nothing to do with you.
She's wrong. So fucking wrong it's almost funny. Noah wants everything to do with me. He just doesn't want to want it. There's a difference.
He called it harassment.
I type the words and wait for Valentina's response. Wait for her to tell me I've gone too far. That I need to back off. That this is proof Noah isn't interested.
And?
And he stayed. He fought. He let me touch him.
Enzo...
He's not afraid of me, Val. He should be. Anyone else would be. But he's not.
Maybe he's just good at hiding it.
No. It's something else.
I think about the way Noah's jaw tightened when I called him a liar. The way his breath hitched when I traced his face. The way he looked at me like he was seeing something familiar.
He recognizes me. What I am. What I'm capable of. And instead of running, he's challenging me.
That doesn't mean he wants you.
Doesn't it?
I put my phone away before Valentina can respond. She wouldn't understand anyway. None of them would. They see Noah's rejection and think it means I should give up. They don't understand that rejection isn't always what it seems. Sometimes it's a test. Sometimes it's an invitation. Sometimes it's the first move in a game you didn't even know you wanted to play.
I push off from the wall and start walking back toward the main campus. I have International Relations in twenty minutes. Should probably make an appearance before my professors start asking questions. But as I walk, my mind keeps drifting back to Noah. To the way he stood his ground when I got close. To the way he didn't actually tell me to stop touching him. To the way his voice dropped when he said my name.
Stay away from me. The words should be a warning. Should make me reconsider. Should make me respect his boundaries. Instead, they feel like a challenge.
Because Noah Aslanov isn't some innocent victim who needs protecting from the big bad Moretti heir. He's a Russian prince. Raised in the same world I was. Taught the same lessons about violence and power and taking what you want. He knows how to say no if he means it. Knows how to make it stick. The fact that he hasn't tells me everything I need to know.
I'm halfway to the business building when I see him again. Sitting alone at one of the outdoor tables near the library, books spread out in front of him like he's studying. But his posture is all wrong. Too rigid. Too aware. He knows I'm here.
I change direction without thinking about it. Move toward him like a compass needle finding north. I can't help it. Everything about Noah Aslanov draws me in. The careful control. The hidden fire. The challenge he represents.
He doesn't look up when I approach. Doesn't acknowledge my presence. Just keeps staring at his textbook like the words might reveal the secrets of the universe. But I can see the tension in his shoulders. Can see the way his pen hovers over his notebook without actually writing anything.
"Studying?" I ask, sliding into the chair across from him.
"Go away, Enzo."
My name on his lips sends heat racing through my veins. Each time he says it, it sounds like a sin he's confessing. Like it tastes dangerous. Like it might burn his tongue if he's not careful.
"I'm not doing anything wrong," I say. "Just sitting here. This is university property and I'm a student."
"Student, more like devil," he mutters. "And why were you in my class? You're not even enrolled in Contemporary Ethics."
"How do you know what I'm enrolled in?"
That gets a reaction. His eyes flick up to mine for just a second before he forces himself to look back at his book. But that second is enough. I see the frustration there. The anger. The way I'm getting under his skin. Good.
"Lucky guess," he says.
"Is it? Or have you been paying attention to me the same way I've been paying attention to you?"
"I haven't been paying attention to you at all."
"Another lie."
His jaw tightens. "Why do you keep saying that?"
"Because it's true." I lean forward, close enough that he'll have to work to ignore me. "How do you know what classes I'm taking? Guess I'm not the only one stalking, am I?"
"That's not—"
"You've been watching me, Noah. Just like I've been watching you."
"I haven't."
"Then how did you know I wasn't enrolled in Martinez's class?"
The question hangs in the air between us. I can see him thinking. Calculating. Trying to find a way out that doesn't involve admitting I'm right. He won't find one. Because I am right. About this. About him. About the way he looks at me when he thinks I'm not paying attention.
"Process of elimination," he says finally.
"Bullshit."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me." I smile. "You've been watching me the same way I've been watching you. The only difference is you're better at pretending you're not."
"I'm not pretending anything."
"No? Then why haven't you walked away? Why haven't you told your family what I'm doing? Why haven't you handled this the way our families handle problems?"
He goes very still. The pen in his hand stops moving entirely. For a moment, I think I've pushed too far. Revealed too much about what I know. About what I'm capable of.
"Maybe I will," he says quietly.
"No, you won't."
"Why not?"
"Because then this becomes about more than just us. And you don't want your father involved any more than I want mine to know about this." I lean closer. "Because then this ends. And you don't want it to end any more than I do."
For a moment, I think he's going to argue. I can see the war happening behind his eyes. The careful control warring with something darker. Something that wants to come out and play. Something that wants to admit I'm right.
Then he closes his book with more force than necessary. Starts packing up his things with mechanical precision.
"Where are you going?" I ask.
"Away from you."
"Running?"
The word stops him cold. His hands freeze halfway to his bag. His breathing changes. Something violent flickers across his face before he locks it down.
"I'm not running from anything."
"Aren't you?"
He looks at me then. Really looks at me. And for just a second, I see it again. That darkness. That recognition. That hunger he keeps buried so deep.
"What do you want from me?" he asks quietly.
The question is different this time. Less angry. More... curious. Like he genuinely wants to know. Like part of him is tired of fighting whatever this is between us.
"I want you to stop pretending," I say.
"Pretending what?"
"That you don't feel this too."
"Feel what?"
"The pull. The connection. The way everything else fades away when we're in the same room."
His breathing hitches. Just slightly. Just enough to tell me I'm getting through.
"You're delusional."
"Am I? Then why are you still sitting here?"
"I was here first."
"That's not why."
"Then why?"
I lean closer. Close enough to see the gold flecks in his ice-blue eyes. Close enough to watch his pupils dilate despite his words. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin.
"Because you want to see what happens next. Just like I do."
He stares at me for a long moment. I can see him thinking. Processing. Fighting with himself. Fighting with the truth that's written all over his face.
Then he stands up abruptly. Grabs his bag. Looks down at me with something that might be fear or might be anticipation.
"Stay away from me, Enzo."
"No."
"I mean it."
"So do I."
He walks away without another word. But I can feel the weight of his attention even after he's gone. Can feel the way this conversation affected him. The way I affected him.
He looked me in the eye. Stood his ground instead of running. Fought back instead of cowering. He wants this. He just doesn't know how to handle it yet.
But he will. Because men like Noah Aslanov don't stay hidden forever. Eventually, the mask slips. The control breaks. The monster comes out to play. And when it does, I'll be here waiting.
I pull out my phone and send a quick text to Valentina. He's getting closer to breaking. I can feel it.
So?
He's been watching me. Even learned my schedule. And I'm a stalker? Fuck him.
That doesn't mean what you think it means.
Doesn't it?
I put my phone away and lean back in my chair. Noah left his pen on the table. Black ink, expensive. The kind of thing someone would miss. The kind of thing someone would need back.
I pick it up and slip it into my pocket. He'll have to talk to me to get it back. And when he does, I'll be ready.
But first, I need to understand him better. Need to figure out what makes Noah Aslanov tick. What his weaknesses are. What buttons to push to get the reaction I want.
I pull out my phone and scroll through the academic records Marco hacked for me. Noah's schedule, his grades, his course history. All the surface-level information that tells me nothing about who he really is underneath all that control.
But there are other ways to learn about someone. Other sources of information. I think about Luka's text from earlier. Stay away from my cousin. This is your only warning. The protective cousin routine. Which means Noah told him about our encounters. Or Luka's been watching us himself.
Either way, it tells me something important. Whether Noah ran to his cousin or Luka's been watching us himself, the Aslanovs are paying attention. And when people start paying attention, they start making moves.
That's when things get interesting.
My phone buzzes again. Matteo this time. Where are you? You're going to be late for International Relations.
Fuck. I check the time on my phone. Class starts in five minutes and I'm still sitting here obsessing over Noah instead of heading to the business building.
Something came up.
Like what?
Research.
Jesus Christ, Enzo. You can't be late to classes because you're stalking some boy.
I'm not stalking anyone.
Then what would you call it?
Courtship.
The response comes immediately. That's not courtship. That's obsession.
Maybe he's right. Maybe this is obsession. But so what? Great love has always looked like madness to people who've never felt it. Great passion has always seemed dangerous to people who live safe, quiet lives.
Noah Aslanov is worth a little madness. Worth a little danger. Worth everything.
I'm handling it.
Are you? Because from what I can see, it looks like you're losing your mind.
My mind is perfectly fine.
Is it? When's the last time you thought about anything other than this boy?
I pause with my fingers over the screen. Two days. It's only been two fucking days since I first saw him, and already everything else feels like background noise. School, family business, all the shit that used to occupy my mind - none of it seems to matter anymore.
I can't remember. Every thought leads back to him. Every plan revolves around him. Every decision gets filtered through the question of how it will affect my pursuit of him.
That's not a bad thing.
Isn't it? What happens when he graduates? What happens when his family calls him home? What happens when this fantasy you've built up crashes into reality?
I stare at the message for a long time. Matteo's questions hit harder than I want to admit. What will happen when Noah graduates? When his family expects him to return to Russia and take his place in their organization? What happens when this ends?
The thought sends something cold and sharp through my chest. Something that feels suspiciously like panic.
No. I won't let it end. Whatever it takes, however long it takes, I'll find a way to make this permanent. To make Noah mine in every way that matters.
It won't crash.
How can you be so sure?
Because he wants this too.
Based on what? The fact that he told you to stay away from him? The fact that he called you a stalker?
Based on the fact that he's still here. Still engaging. Still fighting.
That's not the same thing as wanting you.
Isn't it?
I put my phone away before Matteo can respond. He doesn't understand. None of them do. They think Noah's resistance means I should give up. They think his rejection means he's not interested.
They don't understand that some people fight hardest against the things they want most. I've seen it before. In business deals that seem impossible until suddenly they're not. In territory disputes that drag on for months before someone finally breaks. In people who spend years denying what they really want before finally giving in.
Noah is fighting because he knows if he stops fighting, he'll fall. And he's not ready to fall yet. But he will be. Eventually. Everyone has a breaking point. Everyone has a moment when the walls come down and the truth comes out.
I just need to be patient. Strategic. Careful. I need to find the right pressure point and apply exactly the right amount of force.
My phone vibrates with a new message. Not from Matteo or Valentina this time. From an unknown number.
You have my pen.
My pulse spikes. Noah. He's texting me. Actually texting me. Finally.
Do I?
Black ink. Expensive. You took it when I left.
Prove it.
It has my initials on it. N.A.
I pull the pen out of my pocket and examine it more closely. Sure enough, there's a small engraving near the clip. N.A. in elegant script. Noah Aslanov. Like he's marking his territory on everything he owns.
Maybe I found it.
You took it. I want it back.
Then come get it.
Where?
I think for a moment. Where can I meet him that gives me maximum advantage? Somewhere private enough to talk without interruption, but public enough that he won't feel trapped. Somewhere that belongs to neither of us.
Library. Third floor. Section M.
When?
Now.
The response takes longer this time. I can picture him thinking about it. Weighing his options. Trying to decide if getting his pen back is worth another confrontation. Worth putting himself in my orbit again.
Fine. But just to get my pen. Nothing else.
Of course.
I'm already moving before I finish typing. The library is only a five-minute walk from here, but I want to get there first. Want to choose my position carefully. Want to be waiting when he arrives.
The third floor is mostly empty this time of day. A few graduate students hunched over research materials. A couple of undergrads pretending to study while actually scrolling through social media. Perfect.
Section M is in the back corner. Philosophy and ethics. Appropriate.
I position myself between two tall stacks where I can see anyone approaching but they can't see me until they're close. Then I wait.
It takes him twelve minutes to show up. I know because I've been checking my phone every thirty seconds like some lovesick teenager. But when I finally see him walking down the narrow aisle between the stacks, everything else fades away.
The careful way he moves. The rigid set of his shoulders. The way his eyes scan the area like he's looking for threats. Smart boy.
"You came," I say, stepping out from between the stacks.
He stops about six feet away. Far enough that I can't reach him without moving. Close enough that I can see the way his jaw tightens when he sees me.
"I want my pen."
"I know."
"So give it to me."
"Ask nicely."
His eyes narrow. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me. Ask nicely and I'll give you your pen."
"I'm not playing games with you."
"Everything's a game, Noah. The question is whether you want to win or lose."
"This isn't about winning or losing. It's about you stealing my property."
"I didn't steal anything. I found it."
"You took it when I left."
"Can you prove that?"
"I don't need to prove it. I know what happened."
"Do you? Or are you just making assumptions?"
He takes a step closer. Then another. Until he's close enough that I can smell that clean, winter scent of him. Until I can see the flecks of gold in his ice-blue eyes.
"Give me my pen."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because you want it. And I like watching you want something you can't have."
Something flickers across his face. Something dark and dangerous and absolutely fucking beautiful.
"You're sick."
"Maybe. But so are you."
"I'm nothing like you."
"Keep telling yourself that."
"I don't need to tell myself anything. I know who I am."
"Do you? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're lying to yourself about a lot of things."
"Like what?"
"Like the fact that you're enjoying this conversation. Like the fact that you came here not just for your pen, but because you wanted to see me again. Like the fact that you're standing close enough to touch me instead of staying safely out of reach."
He goes very still. I can see him processing my words. Can see the moment he realizes I'm right about the distance between us.
But instead of stepping back, he moves closer.
"You want to know what I think?" he says quietly.
"Always."
"I think you're confusing obsession with attraction. I think you're so desperate for someone to want you back that you're seeing interest where there isn't any."
The words hit like physical blows. Each one designed to cut. To hurt. To make me doubt myself. But they have the opposite effect. Because the Noah I saw in the basement wouldn't bother trying to hurt me unless I was getting to him. The Noah who doesn't care wouldn't waste time trying to make me feel bad.
"Nice try," I say softly. "But you're going to have to do better than that."
"Better than what?"
"Better than pretending you don't feel this too."
"Feel what?"
I reach out and trace one finger down his cheek. Just like I did this morning. Just like I've been craving to do again.
He doesn't pull away.
"This," I whisper. "The way your breath catches when I touch you. The way your pupils dilate when I get close. The way you came here knowing exactly what would happen but came anyway."
"I came for my pen."
"You came for me."
"You're delusional."
"Am I? Then why haven't you moved away? Why haven't you told me to stop touching you? Why are you standing here letting me do exactly what I want?"
For a moment, I think he's going to answer. I can see the war happening behind his eyes. The careful control warring with something darker. Something that wants to come out and play.
Then he grabs my wrist. Not to push me away. To hold me still.
"Give me my pen," he says quietly.
"Say please."
"No."
"Then no pen."
His grip tightens on my wrist. I can feel the strength in his fingers. The way he could hurt me if he wanted to. The thought sends heat racing through my veins.
"You're playing a dangerous game," he says.
"So are you."
"I'm not playing anything."
"Aren't you? Then what do you call this?" I gesture between us with my free hand. "This conversation. This tension. This thing that happens every time we're in the same room."
"Harassment."
"Bullshit."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me. If this felt like harassment, you wouldn't have texted me. You wouldn't have come here. You wouldn't be standing this close." I lean closer. "You like it when I touch you. That look in your eyes. That fire. I want to see more of it."
"I didn't let you do anything."
"No? Then why is your hand still on my wrist?"
He looks down like he's just realized he's been holding me. For a second, I think he's going to let go. Going to step back and rebuild those walls.
Instead, he pulls me closer.
"You want to know why I'm here?" he asks quietly.
"Yes."
"Because I want you to understand something."
"What?"
He leans close enough that his lips brush my ear when he speaks.
"I am not afraid of you, Enzo Moretti. I am not impressed by you. And I am definitely not interested in whatever twisted game you think you're playing."
His words should discourage me. Should make me reconsider. Instead, they make me smile.
Because Noah Aslanov just proved every theory I had about him. He's not afraid. He's not intimidated. He's not backing down. He's everything I thought he was and more.
"Good," I whisper back.
"Good?"
"I was hoping you'd say that."
He pulls back to look at me. Confusion flickering across his features.
"Why?"
"Because fear is boring. Because intimidation is easy. Because I don't want someone who backs down."
I reach into my pocket and pull out his pen. Hold it between us like an offering.
"I want someone who fights back."
He stares at the pen for a long moment. Then at me. I can see him thinking. Processing. Trying to figure out what game I'm playing now.
Finally, he reaches out and takes it. His fingers brush mine as he does, and I feel the contact like electricity.
"This doesn't change anything," he says.
"Doesn't it?"
"No. I still want you to stay away from me."
"And I still won't."
"Why not?"
"Because you don't really want me to."
He opens his mouth to argue, but I'm already walking away. Already putting distance between us before he can say whatever cutting thing he's planning.
But I pause at the end of the aisle. Turn back to look at him one more time.
"Same time tomorrow?" I ask.
"For what?"
"To return whatever you leave behind next."
I'm gone before he can respond. But I can feel his eyes on me the entire way out of the library.
He'll be back. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not for something he left behind. But he'll be back. Because Noah Aslanov is exactly what I thought he was. And now he knows I see him. Really see him.
The monster hiding behind the mask. And instead of running from it, I'm running toward it. Toward him.