The fog had descended early tonight, wrapping the faculty lane in a shroud of grey. It was the kind of weather that made people hurry home to warm fires and hot tea.

But Kai was walking in the opposite direction.

He walked slowly, his sneakers crunching on the gravel. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, his fingers tracing the outline of the bruise on his left wrist. It throbbed—a dull, rhythmic ache that seemed to sync with his heartbeat.

I should turn back, Kai thought, the fog swirling around his ankles. I should call in sick. I should tell my mom I have a headache.

He stopped under a flickering streetlight, his breath puffing out in white clouds.

She came into the locker room today. She almost got caught. She’s dangerous.

Logic screamed at him to run. Self-preservation screamed at him to hide. But there was another voice, louder and darker, rising from the pit of his stomach.

She kissed it.

The memory of her lips on his wrist, right in front of the lockers, sent a jolt of heat through his freezing body. The danger hadn't scared him off. It had turned him on.

That was the terrifying truth he was fighting as he stared down the dark lane toward Bungalow 4. He wasn't just going because he was afraid of her. He was going because he wanted to see what she would do next. He wanted to feel that suffocating, electric tension. He wanted her eyes on him, stripping him bare, finding the parts of him he didn't even know existed.

I’m enjoying it, he realized, the thought tasting like bile and honey. I’m sick. I actually like it.

He forced his feet to move. The closer he got to the bungalow, the faster his heart beat. It wasn't the heavy dread of the first night. It was a frantic, buzzing anticipation.

He reached the gate. The house was dark, save for the golden glow of the porch light and a single lamp in the living room window. It looked like a trap. It looked like paradise.

He walked up the steps, his hand shaking not from cold, but from adrenaline. He didn't hesitate this time. He pressed the bell.

Ding-dong.

The sound echoed inside. Kai held his breath, waiting.

The door opened.

"You are early," Anastasia said.

She wasn't wearing the red silk dress, nor the black slip. Tonight, she wore a pristine white oversized men's shirt that ended mid-thigh, and nothing else. The top buttons were undone, revealing the long, elegant column of her neck and the hint of her collarbone. It was casual, domestic, and devastatingly sexy.

She leaned against the doorframe, holding a glass of red wine. Her hair was loose, cascading over her shoulders in soft blonde waves.

"I..." Kai stammered, staring at her bare legs. "I thought... I didn't want to be late."

Anastasia smiled. It wasn't the cruel, mocking smile from the detention. It was softer, knowing. She saw the hunger in his eyes. She saw the conflict.

"Come in, Kai," she purred, stepping back. "The cold does not suit you."

Kai stepped over the threshold, the warmth of the house wrapping around him like a blanket. The scent of vanilla was stronger tonight, mixed with the rich, tannic smell of wine.

He heard the lock click shut behind him. Click.

It sounded like safety.

"Put your bag down," she said, walking toward the living room. "We have a lot to cover for tomorrow's class. The chapter on Control and Coordination is particularly... relevant."

Kai dropped his bag and followed her, his eyes glued to the sway of her hips beneath the white shirt. He felt like a moth flying straight into a blowtorch, and he didn't care if he burned.

"Ma'am?" Kai asked, his voice low.

She turned around by the sofa, looking at him over the rim of her glass.

"Yes, Kai?"

"About today," he started, rubbing his bruised wrist. "In the locker room. You... you really took a risk."

Anastasia lowered her glass. Her eyes darkened. She walked back to him, stopping only when she was toe-to-toe.

"Risk adds flavor, don't you think?" she whispered.

She reached out and took his left hand, lifting it to inspect the bruise. She ran her thumb over the mark she had left, her touch feather-light.

"It is turning a lovely shade of purple," she noted with satisfaction. "Does it hurt?"

"Yes," Kai breathed.

"Good," she murmured. She looked up into his eyes. "And tell me, Kai... did you think about me when it throbbed? Did you think about me when you were alone in your bed?"

Kai couldn't lie. Not to her. Not anymore.

"Yes," he confessed, the word barely a whisper. "All the time."

Anastasia’s eyes glittered. She knew she had him. The fight was leaving him, replaced by surrender.

"Then let us not waste time fighting it," she said.

She turned and sat on the sofa, patting the floor between her legs.

"Kneel," she commanded softly. "Tonight, we study from a new perspective."