A week.
A week since I let the monster free and choked Declan O'Reilly unconscious. A week since I claimed Enzo publicly in that parking lot, in front of both our families, in front of everyone who matters. A week since I stopped pretending to be the perfect, controlled heir and became something honest.
Something dangerous.
The campus feels different now. Or maybe I'm the one who's different. Students move out of my way in the hallways without me asking. Conversations stop when I pass. Eyes follow me with a mixture of fear and fascination that I've never experienced before.
They see it now. The monster. The violence that lives in my bones. The thing I've been hiding behind careful control and strategic silence for twenty-one years.
And I like it.
The morning air is crisp as I walk across campus, coffee in hand, bag slung over my shoulder. Normal routine. Normal schedule. Everything exactly as it should be. Except nothing is normal anymore. Because I'm not the same person who walked these paths a week ago.
That person was weak. Controlled. Afraid of what he might become if he let himself want something.
This person takes what he wants. And what I want is currently recovering from broken ribs in some dorm room, probably cursing my name and planning his next move.
Enzo Moretti. The obsessive Italian who saw through every wall I built and decided I was worth destroying himself for. The beautiful psychopath who fought for me when I couldn't fight for myself. The monster who recognized my monster and wanted it anyway.
He's been silent for a week. No texts. No surprise appearances. No golden-hazel eyes burning holes through my concentration in class. Nothing. And the absence of him is driving me insane in ways I'm not ready to acknowledge.
But today that changes. Today I stop waiting for him to make the next move and start making my own.
I'm halfway to the business building when I see them.
The sound hits me first—laughter, light and musical, the kind that makes men do stupid things. Then voices, feminine and flirtatious, layered over a deeper rumble I recognize immediately.
My blood goes cold.
There, on the steps of the humanities building, surrounded by a cluster of female classmates, is Enzo Moretti.
He's leaning against the stone railing, one arm casually draped along the edge, the other gesturing as he speaks. Even from fifty feet away, I can see the way he's positioned himself—open, relaxed, completely in his element. The way he always looks when he's performing.
But it's not the performance that makes something violent twist in my chest. It's the audience.
Three girls. Maybe four. All hanging on his every word like he's revealing the secrets of the universe. Blonde. Brunette. Redhead. A carefully curated selection of campus beauty, each one positioned to showcase her best assets. The blonde has her hand on his arm. The brunette is standing close enough that her chest brushes his shoulder when she laughs. The redhead is playing with her hair, batting eyelashes that are definitely enhanced.
And he's letting them.
Enzo fucking Moretti, the man who supposedly can't think about anything except me, is basking in their attention like a cat in sunlight. Smiling that charming smile that used to be reserved for manipulating his way into my space. Letting them touch him like they have the right.
Like I don't exist.
The rational part of my brain—the part that's been trained since childhood to analyze situations objectively—knows exactly what this is. It's bait. A trap. He's putting on a show to get a reaction out of me. To make me jealous. To force me to act.
The irrational part of my brain, the part that's been unleashed and hungry for blood, doesn't give a fuck about rational analysis.
Someone else is touching what's mine.
I don't remember deciding to move. Don't remember dropping my coffee cup or adjusting my path. But suddenly I'm walking toward them with predatory intent, every step measured and deliberate. The way my father taught me to approach targets who needed to be eliminated.
The blonde sees me first. Her hand stills on Enzo's arm as her eyes track my approach. Something in my expression makes her take a step back. Smart girl.
The brunette follows her gaze and goes very still. The redhead stops playing with her hair.
But Enzo doesn't turn around. Doesn't acknowledge my presence. Just keeps talking like I'm not there. Like I'm not radiating enough violence to clear a thirty-foot radius.
"—so I told him, sometimes the best way to solve a problem is to eliminate the variables that complicate it," he's saying, voice smooth as silk. "Remove the distractions, focus on what really matters."
The blonde laughs, but it sounds forced now. Nervous. "That's so clever, Enzo. You always know exactly what to say."
"Do I?" He turns slightly, still not looking at me but positioning himself so I can see his profile. The sharp line of his jaw. The hint of a smile playing at his lips. "I find most people tell you exactly what they're thinking without realizing it. You just have to know how to listen."
I stop five feet away. Close enough to join the conversation. Close enough to be impossible to ignore. Close enough that everyone in the group can feel the tension radiating off me like heat.
The girls shift uncomfortably. Exchange glances. The universal female language that means danger, retreat, find safer ground.
But I'm not looking at them. I'm looking at Enzo, studying the line of his shoulders, the careful way he's holding himself. Looking for signs of the injuries I caused. Looking for evidence that he's still healing from the ribs Declan broke defending me.
There. A slight stiffness in his posture. The way he's favoring his left side. The careful control he's maintaining over his breathing. He's still in pain. Still vulnerable. Still mine to protect.
Still mine to claim.
"Noah!" The brunette's voice is bright with false enthusiasm. "We were just talking about you."
Liar. But I let my gaze slide to her anyway, taking inventory. Expensive highlights. Designer clothes. The kind of polished perfection that screams daddy's money and zero substance. Pretty enough to be decorative. Empty enough to be disposable.
"Were you," I say, and my voice is flat. Cold. The tone I use when I want people to remember exactly who they're dealing with.
She falters under my stare. "I mean, Enzo was telling us about your project. For Professor Martinez's class? It sounds fascinating."
"Does it."
Not a question. A statement. The kind that makes it clear I'm not interested in whatever performance she's putting on. The kind that makes smart people find somewhere else to be.
The redhead tugs on the brunette's arm. "We should probably get going. That study group starts in twenty minutes."
"Right," the blonde agrees quickly, already backing away. "Thanks for the help with the assignment, Enzo. See you in class."
They scatter like birds from a gunshot. Quick, efficient, desperate to put distance between themselves and whatever is about to happen. Within thirty seconds, it's just me and Enzo on the steps, the morning air thick with unspoken threats.
He still hasn't looked at me directly. Still leaning against that railing like he doesn't have a care in the world. Like he hasn't been avoiding me for a week. Like he wasn't just letting random girls put their hands all over him.
"Enjoy the show?" he asks casually, finally turning to face me.
Those golden-hazel eyes hit me like a physical blow. A week without seeing them and I'd forgotten how they could strip me bare with a single glance. How they could make me feel exposed and wanted and completely off-balance all at once.
But I'm not the same person who used to let him unbalance me. I'm not the quiet, controlled boy who ran from confrontation and hid behind walls of silence.
I'm something else now. Something that takes what it wants.
"Was I supposed to?" I step closer, invading his space the way he used to invade mine. "Or was that little display meant for someone else?"
His smile widens. Sharpens. "Jealous, Noah?"
"Should I be?"
"That depends. Do you care who I talk to? Who I let touch me?" He pushes off from the railing, closing the distance between us until we're close enough that I can smell his cologne. Close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his eyes. "Because for the past week, you've given me the impression that what I do with my time is none of your business."
The accusation hits exactly where he intended it to. Because he's right. I have been avoiding him. Staying away. Letting him heal without interference while I processed what happened in that parking lot. What I became. What we became.
But that doesn't give him the right to put on shows with other people. Doesn't give him permission to let random girls think they have a chance at something that belongs to me.
"Maybe I was giving you space to heal," I say quietly. "Maybe I was being considerate."
"Considerate." He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "That's what we're calling it? Because from where I'm standing, it looked a lot like running."
"I don't run."
"No? Then where have you been, Noah? Because I've been looking for you. Waiting for you. Wondering if that night in the parking lot actually meant something or if it was just adrenaline making you temporarily honest."
The words cut deeper than I expected. Because there's truth in them. I have been running. Not from him, but from what wanting him means. From what becoming the monster means. From the realization that once you let the darkness out, you can't stuff it back in the box and pretend it doesn't exist.
"I've been right here," I tell him.
"Have you? Because the Noah I knew would have come to check on me. Would have wanted to make sure I was healing properly. Would have cared enough to—"
I move without thinking. Close the remaining distance between us and pin him against the railing with my body. Not hard enough to hurt his ribs. Just hard enough to make my point.
His words cut off with a sharp intake of breath. Those golden-hazel eyes go wide with surprise, then darken with something that looks like satisfaction.
"You want to know where I've been?" I ask quietly, close enough that my breath touches his skin. "I've been trying to figure out how to want you without destroying everything I've built. Trying to understand what it means that I'd rather watch the world burn than let someone else have you."
His lips part slightly. I can see his pulse jumping at his throat. Can feel the way his body responds to my proximity despite his words.
"And what did you figure out?"
"That I'm done trying to be something I'm not. Done pretending I don't want things I shouldn't want. Done letting other people touch what belongs to me."
"What belongs to you?" His voice is barely a whisper, but there's challenge in it. Testing. Pushing. Seeing how far I'll go.
I lean closer, until my lips brush his ear. Until I can feel him shiver against me.
"You."
The word hangs between us like a claim. Like a promise. Like a threat.
For a moment, neither of us moves. We just stand there, pressed together on the steps of the humanities building, breathing the same air and pretending the rest of the world doesn't exist.
Then Enzo's hands come up to rest on my chest. Not pushing me away. Just touching. Claiming his own piece of contact.
"So you're making your move now?" he murmurs against my throat.
The question should sound mocking. Should sound like he's won some game I didn't know we were playing. Instead, it sounds almost... vulnerable. Like he's asking for reassurance. Like he needs to know that this is real.
"I'm not making a move," I tell him, pulling back just enough to look into his eyes. "I'm stating a fact."
"Which is?"
"You're mine. You've been mine since that night in the parking lot. Since you fought for me when no one else would. Since you looked at my monster and decided it was worth claiming."
His breath hitches. "Noah—"
"And if I see another girl putting her hands on you," I continue, voice dropping to something dangerous, "I'm going to remind her exactly why that's a bad idea."
For a second, I think he's going to surrender. Think he's going to look at me the way he did that night when everything changed. That look that blazed with golden fire and said everything his mouth couldn't. Think he's going to give me what we both want without a fight.
Then his expression shifts. Hardens. The vulnerability disappears behind that sharp, defiant mask I know so well.
"Hell no."
The words hit like a slap. Sharp. Definitive. Completely unexpected.
I blink, certain I misheard. "What?"
"I said hell no." He pushes against my chest, not hard enough to dislodge me but firm enough to make his point. "You don't get to ignore me for a week, then show up and start making claims like you own me."
"I wasn't ignoring you. I was—"
"You were running. Just like you always do when things get real. When the monster comes out to play and you remember why you built all those walls in the first place." His eyes flash with something that looks like hurt. "You were scared."
The accusation hits too close to home. Because he's right. I was scared. Terrified of what I'd become. Of what wanting him was turning me into. Of the realization that I'd burn down everything I've built for five minutes of his undivided attention.
But I'm not scared anymore.
"Maybe I was," I admit quietly. "But I'm here now."
"Are you? Or are you just here because you saw me with other people and your possessive streak couldn't handle it?"
The question cuts straight to the heart of it. Because that's exactly what this is. Not some grand romantic gesture. Not a declaration of feelings I'm finally ready to acknowledge. Just primitive, possessive jealousy making me stake my claim before someone else can.
"Does it matter?"
"It matters to me." He pushes harder this time, creating enough space to look me directly in the eye. "I'm not some prize you get to claim when it's convenient for you, Noah. I'm not something you can ignore when you're scared and possess when you're jealous."
"That's not—"
"That's exactly what this is. You saw me with other people and it triggered every territorial instinct you have. But where were those instincts last week? Where was all this possessive energy when I was lying in a hospital bed with broken ribs, wondering if you gave a shit whether I lived or died?"
The words hit like physical blows. Each one designed to cut. To hurt. To make me understand exactly how badly I fucked up by staying away.
"I was giving you space—"
"I didn't want space. I wanted you. I wanted the person who choked a man unconscious to protect me. I wanted the monster who finally stopped pretending to be something he wasn't." His voice drops to something dangerous. "But that person disappeared the moment the adrenaline wore off. Left me with nothing but silence and questions and the growing certainty that maybe I imagined the whole thing."
Guilt twists in my chest like a knife. Because he's right. I did disappear. Did retreat behind my walls the moment I had time to think. Did leave him to wonder whether that night meant anything or if it was just temporary insanity brought on by violence and rage.
"Enzo—"
"So no," he continues, cutting me off. "You don't get to show up now and start making demands. You don't get to claim me like property just because your jealousy finally outweighed your fear."
He pushes past me, heading down the steps with that careful precision that tells me his ribs are still bothering him. Still healing from the fight with Declan O'Reilly.
I should let him go. Should respect his boundaries and give him the space to be angry. Should apologize and try to explain why I stayed away.
Instead, I grab his arm and pull him back.
He spins around, eyes flashing with surprise and fury, mouth opening to tell me exactly what he thinks of being manhandled. But I don't give him the chance to speak.
I kiss him.
Hard. Desperate. Without permission or apology or any of the careful control I've spent years perfecting. My hand fists in his shirt, pulling him closer despite his injured ribs. My other hand cups the back of his neck, holding him still while I claim his mouth the way I should have claimed it a week ago.
He makes a sound - surprise, maybe, or anger - but then his hands are on me too. Gripping my jacket. Pulling me closer instead of pushing me away. Kissing me back with the same desperate hunger that's been eating me alive.
This. This is what I've been running from. This feeling like I'm drowning and breathing for the first time simultaneously. This certainty that I'd burn down the entire world before I'd let him go.
When I finally pull back, we're both breathing hard. His lips are swollen, his eyes dark with want and confusion and something that looks like triumph.
"Look who's running now," I murmur against his mouth.
He touches his lips with the back of his hand, eyes never leaving mine. There's something wild there now. Something that wasn't there before the kiss.
"Where are you going?"
"Nowhere now," he says quietly. "Why?"
"Do you still want to manhandle me?"
"No. Because we're not done talking."
"No? Then what else is there to say?" But there's no heat in his voice now. No anger. Just something that looks like wonder. Like he can't quite believe I finally stopped running long enough to claim what I want.
"That I'm sorry. That you were right about me running. That I've been a coward who was too afraid to admit what you mean to me."
His eyes search mine for deception. For cracks. For signs that I'm just telling him what he wants to hear after a moment of physical weakness.
"And what do I mean to you?"
"Everything. You mean everything, and that terrified me. But I'm not terrified anymore."
"No? Then what are you?"
"Hungry. For you. For this. For whatever war you're planning to drag me into."
His smile is sharp enough to cut. "Careful what you wish for, beautiful. Because I'm going to hold you to that."
The question hangs between us like an accusation. Like a challenge. Like everything I've been avoiding for a week.
Because the truth is, I don't know where I was. Lost in my own head. Trying to reconcile the monster I'd become with the person I'd spent years believing I should be. Wondering if wanting him was worth destroying everything else.
The truth is, I was exactly where he said I was. Running.
But I'm not running anymore.
"I was figuring out how to be worthy of what you're offering," I tell him quietly.
His expression flickers. Just for a second. Long enough for me to see the hurt underneath the anger.
"And what am I offering?"
"Everything. You're offering me everything, and I've spent my whole life being taught that I don't deserve it. That wanting things makes you weak. That needing people gives them power over you." I step closer, close enough to see the gold flecks in his eyes. "But I'm done believing that."
"Are you?"
"I'm here, aren't I?"
"You're here because you got jealous. Not because you missed me. Not because you were worried about me. Because you saw other people touching me and your possessive streak couldn't handle it."
He's right. And wrong. And everything in between.
"Maybe that's how it started," I admit. "But that's not why I'm staying."
"No? Then why are you staying, Noah?"
The question hits like a challenge. Like a test. Like everything I've been avoiding putting into words for a week.
Because the truth is complicated. Messy. Dangerous in ways I'm not sure I'm ready to handle.
The truth is that seeing him with those girls didn't just make me jealous. It made me realize how empty the past week has been without him. How quiet. How colorless. How much I've missed the way he looks at me like I'm something worth fighting for.
The truth is that I haven't been avoiding him because I don't want him. I've been avoiding him because I want him too much. Because wanting him feels like losing control. Because needing him feels like weakness.
But maybe weakness isn't the right word. Maybe wanting something enough to fight for it makes you strong.
"Because you were right," I tell him quietly. "About the monster. About what I really am underneath all the control. About what I want."
"And what do you want?"
"You. All of you. The obsession, the chaos, the way you see straight through every wall I build. The way you make me feel real instead of manufactured."
His eyes search mine for deception. For cracks. For signs that I'm just telling him what he wants to hear.
He won't find any. Because for the first time since that night in the parking lot, I'm being completely honest.
"And what are you willing to do to get it?"
The question is loaded. Dangerous. Full of implications I'm not sure I'm ready to explore.
But I know the answer anyway.
"Whatever it takes."
Something shifts in his expression. The anger doesn't disappear, but it transforms into something else. Something hungrier. More dangerous.
"Prove it."
"How?"
His smile is sharp enough to cut. "Stop running. Stop hiding. Stop pretending you don't know exactly what this is between us."
"And what is it?"
"War. You and me against everyone who thinks we should stay in our separate corners. Everyone who thinks wanting something is weakness. Everyone who thinks monsters like us should be ashamed of what we are."
The word hangs between us like a promise. Like a threat. Like everything I've been too afraid to acknowledge.
Because he's right. This is war. Has been since the moment our eyes met across that basement fight ring. The only question is whether I'm ready to pick up arms and fight for what I want.
"Okay," I say quietly.
"Okay?"
"War. You and me. Whatever it takes."
His smile widens. Sharpens. Becomes something beautiful and terrible and absolutely predatory.
"Good. Because the girls were just the beginning. If you want me, Noah, you're going to have to prove you can handle what comes with claiming a Moretti."
"Which is?"
"Everything. The obsession, the chaos, the violence. The fact that I don't do anything halfway. The fact that once I'm yours, I'll expect the same in return." He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his skin. "Can you handle that?"
The question should terrify me. Should make me remember all the reasons I built walls in the first place. Should send me running back to the safety of silence and control.
Instead, it makes something dark and hungry unfurl in my chest.
"Try me."
His eyes flash with something that looks like triumph. Like he's finally gotten the answer he's been waiting for.
"Careful what you wish for, beautiful. Because I'm going to hold you to that."
He turns and walks away, leaving me standing on the campus pathway with my heart racing and my hands shaking and the absolute certainty that I just started something I can't take back.
But for the first time in a week, I don't want to take it back.
I want to see exactly how much damage two monsters can do when they stop pretending to be human.
I want to find out what happens when I stop running and start claiming what's mine.
I want war.
And I'm going to win.