Chapter 6

KNOX’S POV

“What do you want, Knox? Tell me, and I’ll give it to you if it means this stops.”

I paused with my hand on the doorknob, the cool metal biting into my palm.

I didn't turn around. I didn't want to see the desperation in his eyes, because looking at it made my own blood simmer with possession and irritation.

The air in the room was suffocating, with the scent of cologne and the lingering, sweet musk that belonged to him—a scent that had been haunting my dreams for weeks.

I didn't answer.

I reached for the handle, ready to walk out, ready to put distance between us before I did something that couldn't be undone.

Then, I felt it.

A hand—slender, warm, and trembling wrapped around my wrist.

The contact sent a jolt of electricity straight up my arm, settling deep into my chest.

My breath hitched, a traitorous reaction I immediately forced down.

I glanced over my shoulder. He was standing there, his face pale, his blue eyes wide and glassed over with a desperate light. He looked like he was bracing himself for a blow, yet his grip didn't falter.

"Tell me," he pleaded, his voice cracking. "Is it the money? Is it the status? I just need to get through this year. I don’t want problems or anything. Is that too much to ask? I apologised! I know I crossed a line, but you're systematically destroying my school life and everything I am. Why?"

I shifted my gaze to where his fingers held my skin. His grip was a stark contrast to the way people usually touched me—with caution.

I turned my body slowly and looked down at his hand, then up to his face, trying to keep my face void of any emotion.

"You think this is about what you can give me?" I drawled, my voice dropping. "You think you have something, anything, that I don't already own? That’s remarkably bold of you, Finn. Touching me without permission is a very big mistake that you just made"

I watched, fascinated, as his hand shook violently against my pulse. He didn't let go.

He couldn't.

I could see the pulse jumping in his throat, while my own skin burned where he touched me, a searing sensation that made my fingers itch to grab him—not to shove him away, but to drag him closer until the space between us disappeared.

I shoved those thoughts into the back of my mind, locking them behind a door.

I was the king of Apex-crest. I was Knox Cole. I didn’t yearn. I only consumed.

"Let go," I ordered, my voice clipped.

"No," he defied, his chin tilting up, a spark of stubborn pride flickering behind his fear. "I can't live like this. Every day is a countdown to when the next thing is taken from me. I made one mistake—one! And you’re acting like I committed a capital crime. I won't let you go until you tell me what you want from me."

He was testing me, standing on the edge of a cliff, and instead of backing away, he was leaning into the wind.

It was maddening yet so perfect.

It was the most aggravating, intoxicating thing I had ever experienced.

I hated that he wasn't shivering in terror like the others.

I hated that he dared to hold onto me. But most of all, I hated that I didn't want him to let go.

"I won't warn you a second time," I whispered.

"I don't care," he hissed back, his grip tightening. "I can't have my life ruined because of your ego. Just tell me!"

The dam in my head cracked.

I was tired of the games, tired of the way he looked at me, and tired of the way my own heart was betraying me.

I didn't just want him to bow; I wanted him to break under the weight of his own desire for me, even if he didn't know what it was yet.

With a sudden movement, I ripped my wrist from his grasp and shoved him.

It was meant to be a warning.

He stumbled back, his boots losing their grip on the floor and he hit the floor with a dull, sickening thud, his head snapping back against the wall.

For a split second, a flare of genuine panic surged through me—an urge to reach out, to catch him, to pull him up and apologise.

I crushed it. I stepped over the gap between us, looming over him as he gasped for air.

"You think this is a negotiation?" I asked, my voice cold enough “You think I want something you can give? I don't want your money, and I don't want your apologies."

He looked up at me, his eyes bruised with shock and hurt. He looked small.

He looked like he belonged to me.

"You are a stain on this school," I said, leaning down until my face was inches from his. I could smell the faint scent of rain and soap on him, and it made my head spin. I forced my features into a sneer. "You deserve everything that’s coming to you. Every look, every laugh, every moment of misery you’ve suffered since you walked through those gates."

I stood up straight, towering over him, ensuring he saw every ounce of the cold, unfeeling predator I was supposed to be.

"This isn't the end, Grant," I murmured, "This is only the beginning. I'm going to watch you destroy yourself, piece by piece, until there's nothing left but the realisation that you never should have looked my way in the first place."

I didn't give him a chance to respond. I turned, opened the door, and walked out, my heart hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm against my ribs.

I was burning.

I was absolutely, completely miserable. And I was going to make sure he felt the same heat until he burned right along with me.