Silk ties and silver glances

POV SIENNA

On Monday morning at seven‑twenty‑five, a matte black Porsche Panamera waited idling before the manor steps, its engine thrumming with a low, steady purr that you felt more than heard, like the held breath of something powerful.

I tightened the strap of my canvas backpack and pressed my laptop to my chest, holding it like a shield against whatever lay ahead. I’d dressed to blend in: straight‑leg jeans, my worn Converse sneakers, and an olive‑green ribbed knit V‑neck top I’d picked up two weeks earlier at a second‑hand shop. Nothing noticeable. Nothing anyone could call provocative. Just comfortable clothes for sitting through hours of writing workshops.

As I reached the bottom step, the passenger door unlocked itself from inside with an electric click and swung open. I got in without looking at him, dropped my bag by my feet, and shut the door with a firm, deliberate thud.

"Treat the hinges with a little more respect, Hayes," Killian said, never taking his eyes from the rear‑view mirror as he pulled away, tires crunching smoothly on the gravel. "This car costs more than anything you have ever held in your entire life."

"Shame," I muttered, settling the laptop on my lap and covering it with both hands. "I should have brought a key to leave my mark on the paintwork."

The cabin was a luxury trap: flawless black leather, integrated screens, soft ambient lighting, and that scent — bright bergamot layered over burnt cedar and storm — filling my throat before I could steel myself against it. Killian wore a midnight‑blue pinstripe suit without a single crease, his silk tie knotted neatly but loosened just enough at the neck, and his shirt sleeves rolled twice up his forearms, showing corded muscle, his platinum watch, and veins that stood out when he gripped the wheel with one hand. The contrast between this polished, distant young executive and the beast who had backed me against a tree only days before was so sharp it ached.

He cleared Iron Ridge’s gates and merged onto the highway winding down toward the city. For the first fifteen minutes, only the soft hum of the engine and wind brushing the reinforced windows broke the silence. Then we stopped at a long traffic light at the edge of the metropolitan area.

I felt his gaze before I heard him. I turned my head left, ready to shoot him a look of pure disdain, but he was not looking at my eyes. His head was tilted toward me, his left hand resting lightly on the gear stick, his jaw tight, and those gray eyes were fixed, unashamed, on the V‑neck of my green top. They moved slowly, tracing the line of my collarbones and the shadow at the base of my throat, heavy and unblinking, his pupils dilating slightly as they drank in the pale morning light.

Heat flooded my cheeks, half anger, half something traitorous that made my skin prickle.

"Is there something you are looking at, you fool?" I snapped, crossing my arms sharply over my chest to cover myself.

Killian blinked slowly, entirely unapologetic. Instead of looking away like any decent person would, he lifted his gaze to my face with maddening leisure, a crooked, dangerous smile curling his lips.

"I was thinking how questionable the dress standards are among film students," he said, his voice rough and low, leaning his elbow on the console and crowding me with his posture. "Are you heading to a screenwriting class, or out to find someone to sponsor your project?"

I gritted my teeth so hard I nearly bit my tongue.

"It is just a shirt, Thorne. If your mind is filthy and your instincts cannot keep themselves in check, the problem is not my clothes. It is your lack of self‑control."

His smile widened, turning sharper, more predatory.

"My self‑control is flawless, little stray," he murmured, leaning closer still as the light shifted to green and he accelerated without breaking focus. "If it were not, that cheap fabric would be on the floor right now and you would be begging me not to leave a mark where everyone could see it before we reached the next corner."

A violent shiver ran the length of my spine. The absolute certainty in his tone and the fleck of gold glowing deep in his irises stole my breath. I looked away toward the window, refusing to let him see how fast my pulse hammered in my throat.

"Go to hell," I bit out.

"After you, stepsister," he replied with icy amusement, turning onto the main avenue toward the university district.

Ten minutes later, the Porsche slowed as we entered the St. Jude Academy roundabout. The campus buzzed with students, denim jackets, cameras slung around necks, steaming coffee cups. A matte black sports car stood out on its own, but when Killian pulled up right before the main steps, every head turned.

"Get out before I change my mind and decide not to come back," he said, unlocking the doors with a tap on the console.

"With pleasure," I answered, stepping out quickly and grabbing my bag.

I did not make it two steps onto the pavement. The driver’s door opened and shut firmly behind me. I froze. Killian had gotten out. He straightened his jacket with a fluid, easy motion, slipped one hand into his trouser pocket, and walked around the front of the car, slow and deliberate, carrying himself with the arrogant grace of a predator wandering among sheep. Girls on the steps stopped talking; a couple of students with tripods went still, staring at the man who looked as though he had stepped straight from the cover of a business magazine.

"What are you doing?" I hissed when he reached me, his frame blocking out the sun. "Leave now."

Killian did not answer. He stepped closer still, invading my space until we were mere millimeters apart. His scent swept over the sidewalk, thick and unmistakeable, so powerfully territorial that two lower‑rank wolves passing by instinctively ducked their heads without knowing why. Slowly, he lifted his right hand. I tried to pull back, but his fingers caught a stray lock of hair near my ear. The brush of his knuckles against my skin sent a searing spark through me that made my spine arch involuntarily. He tucked the hair gently behind my ear, the touch deliberate and falsely tender, his thumb grazing the side of my neck, right over the vein where my pulse hammered wildly.

"Five o’clock sharp, right here, Sienna," he said clearly, deeply, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear, his tone that of someone laying claim. "Do not make me wait."

He leaned in closer, his lips nearly brushing my temple in what looked like an intimate farewell, and whispered pure malice into my ear:

"And change that shirt before some idiot stares at what does not belong to him and I have to come back and break his arms right here on campus."

He pulled back with a satisfied, taunting smile, winked, and walked back to the car without looking at anyone else. The engine roared, tires whispered softly against the asphalt, and he sped away toward the corporate tower, leaving me standing alone at the entrance, skin burning, heart racing, and fifty pairs of university eyes fixed on me.