Ray's POV
There are moments that make time crawl.
And then there are moments like this one—
Where everything fucking stops.
The lecture hall was cold, humming with low conversation and overpriced cologne. I'd taken her seat again. Obviously. It's a thing now. My own brand of academic terrorism.
But then she walked in—
And the air shifted.
White.
She was wearing white.
Not the crisp-white-shirt-and-blazer type of white. No. This was soft, sheer, summery, wrong.
Sky Valen didn't wear dresses. She wore tailored sin. Leather, power, black like her soul and her coffee.
But today?
She was in a goddamn white dress that fluttered just past her knees and clung like it was made for devouring men alive. Which—ironically—I fully planned to let her do.
The whole room turned to look.
I wasn't the only one who noticed. Just the only one she glared at.
But that glare didn't last. Her eyes flicked to the floor, like she already hated herself for walking in like this. Her black hair was down and long—so long—and it trailed down her back like it knew the power it held. Girls would pay in blood for that kind of hair.
She looked like a dream.
But not hers.
Someone else's.
Someone older.
Someone with control.
She walked over slowly, heels clicking with muted rage, clutching that iced vanilla oat latte like it was a lifeline. Dessert disguised as coffee, as always.
She said nothing. Just dropped into the chair beside me.
I turned to look at her fully, elbow on the desk, head tilted like I was inspecting artwork.
"Good morning, Angel," I murmured.
"Don't," she muttered. Not meeting my eyes.
I leaned in, slow. My hand slipped onto her thigh like it belonged there. Possessive. Confident. Criminal.
She flinched just a little. But she didn't move my hand.
"You hate white," I said.
Her jaw flexed.
"Let me guess," I continued. "Daddy Dearest picked it out."
Silence.
Bullseye.
I smirked. "Let me guess again. He caught you on that pretty little bike last night and gave you a full presidential address about the dangers of rebellion and bad, bad boys."
She sipped her latte. "You're such a smug piece of shit."
"I'm right, though."
Her eyes met mine, and they weren't angry—they were tired. Like she'd fought a war in heels and came out bleeding from the soul.
"Just shut up and keep your hand still," she hissed.
I didn't.
I squeezed, fingers dragging slowly up the hem of her dress.
She grabbed my wrist, nails sharp.
"Ray," she warned.
"Yes, sweetheart?"
She leaned in this time, lips near my ear, voice a venomous whisper.
"My dad will bury you in concrete if he finds out I'm even breathing near you."
I bit down on my smirk.
"Then let's give him a reason to build the coffin, hm?"
And then I did it. Right there in the back row of Criminal Law, while the professor droned on about intent and jurisdiction—I leaned over and kissed her jaw.
She stiffened like I'd shocked her.
"You're fucking insane," she whispered.
"And you're still letting me touch you," I whispered back.
Her cheeks were flushed. Her thighs tensed under my palm. She took another long sip of her drink, but her hand was shaking now.
I didn't move.
Neither did she.
That's the thing about Sky Valen.
She'll fight me in words, but her body always tells the truth.
And right now?
Her body was begging for another lie.