Then he dragged me to class.

Not by the wrist this time. His hand settled at the small of my back, fingers spread wide, guiding me through the corridor like I was something he had already won. Every girl in the room turned when we entered. Their eyes narrowed into slits, burning holes into my skin, my dress, the place where his palm still rested against my spine.

I'd received death glares before — being around Advik came with that territory — but this was different. This wasn't envy. This was territorial rage, raw and collective, like a pack deciding which throat to tear out first.

They stared at me like I was prey.

Again, he sat beside me. His hand found my arm, then slid to my waist, his thumb tracing idle patterns against my hip bone through the fabric of my dress. Possessive. Claiming. Marking territory in a language everyone in the room could read.

I turned back and saw Sahil.

He sat alone at a desk in the back, his shoulders hunched, his lunch untouched in front of him. Sorrow twisted in my chest, sharp and sudden. I felt sorry for him, truly sorry — for the bruise, for the public dismissal, for the way Advik had reduced him to a footnote in our story. But if I didn't listen to Advik, if I pushed back even once, he would hurt Sahil worse. And I couldn't let that happen.

Not because I loved Sahil.

Because I knew what Advik was capable of.

Soon, lunchtime came.

I escaped to the restroom to wash my hands and face, craving a moment of silence, of solitude, of air that didn't taste like Advik's cologne. But as soon as I pushed through the door, I saw them.

A cluster of girls waiting. Blocking the sinks, arms crossed, faces twisted with a malice that looked rehearsed.

One stepped forward — taller, sharper, radiating the kind of authority that came from being beautiful and cruel for a long time. The leader. She grabbed my collar, yanking me close, her nails digging into the fabric, her perfume flooding my lungs.

"You fucking bitch." Her voice was low, vicious. "Stay away from Advik. He is mine."

I looked at her. Really looked at her — the desperation in her eyes, the way her grip trembled with something that wasn't quite confidence. She didn't know him. She knew the idea of him. The status of him. She didn't know that he traced circles against a girl's pulse while threatening to ruin her life. She didn't know that he called women kitten before he destroyed them.

"If you want him," I said, my voice steady despite the hammering in my chest, "have him. Don't bark at me."

Her eyes flared. "You think just because he's sparing you a look, you're some kind of star?"

"I'm not." I leaned in, close enough to see the foundation cracking at her hairline. "And if you're so confident, go ask him to be your boyfriend. I'm sure he'd love that."

I knew Advik. I knew him better than anyone in this building. He was a collector of moments, not people. He wouldn't even kiss a girl a second time — not because he couldn't, but because repetition required attachment, and attachment required vulnerability. That was exactly why I had spent years keeping my distance. Getting close to someone who treated intimacy like a transaction was a recipe for becoming currency.

She raised her hand to slap me.

I was faster. I caught her wrist mid-air, shoved it back with enough force to make her stumble, and slipped past the group before they could close ranks. My heart hammered against my ribs as I pushed through the door, but my hands weren't shaking.

They were steady.

Because he had made me this — the center of attention, the target, the girl every other girl wanted to destroy. And somehow, perversely, that felt like power.

I grabbed my lunch and found Sahil, settling across from him in the crowded cafeteria. We were eating, laughing about some ridiculous meme he'd shown me on his phone, when the air shifted.

Shadows fell across our table.

Advik and his friends had surrounded us. Five of them, moving with the coordinated ease of wolves cutting a deer from the herd. Without a word, Advik slid into the seat beside me, his arm wrapping around my shoulders, pulling me flush against his side. His friends took the remaining seats, boxing us in, creating a wall between me and the rest of the world — and between me and Sahil.

Sahil's smile faltered. His eyes flickered to Advik's arm, then to my face, confusion and hurt warring in his expression. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it.

And I sat there, trapped again, wondering why Advik's possessive grip felt less like a cage and more like the only place I wanted to be.

He leaned into me, his weight warm and heavy, his chin nearly resting on my shoulder. I could feel his breath against my neck, slow and measured, like he was memorizing the rhythm of my pulse.

"Aren't you going to feed me?"