Chapter 15

Roman’s POV

She Makes Me Lose Control

She doesn’t get it.

She doesn’t understand what she does to me. What I’ve turned into because of her.

And maybe that’s good because if Ariana ever saw the full version of me, the unfiltered, obsessive, jealous, barely-in-control version… she’d run.

Or maybe not.

Maybe that’s why I’m scared.

Because part of me thinks she’d stay.

I saw her laughing today.

Not with me.

With some guy Levi, or Liam, or whatever the hell his name was.

He sat too close.

Smiled too easily.

And she she fucking giggled.

My jaw locked so tight I thought I heard my teeth grind. I couldn’t hear what he said, but it didn’t matter. She touched her hair. She tilted her head. Her lips parted with that soft pink smile she never gives anyone but me.

I should’ve walked away.

Should’ve let her have her moment. Pretended like I didn’t care.

But I do.

I always do.

So I waited outside. Leaned against the brick, arms folded, watching her step out like nothing had happened like she hadn’t just sold pieces of herself to someone else’s attention.

She didn’t see the storm behind my eyes until I spoke.

“Who was that?”

She blinked, startled, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks. She looked guilty, even if she didn’t want to admit it.

When I got close, her breath hitched. I could smell the vanilla on her skin. Could feel the heat roll off her. My fingers itched to mark her. Remind her.

Remind me.

Because I was slipping again.

“You don’t get to tell me who to smile at,” she whispered.

Oh, baby girl… I wish that were true.

But when it comes to her there are no rules. No logic. Just pure, ruthless instinct.

I brushed her wrist, then her elbow. Slowly. Possessively. Like a man tracing the edges of something he owns.

“Next time you smile at him like that,” I whispered in her ear, “I’ll bend you over the nearest desk and remind you who you belong to.”

Her breath caught like a prayer.

And that was all I needed.

I walked away—barely.

Barely keeping myself from dragging her with me.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

Not during my lectures.

Not while sitting through pointless conversations.

Not even when girls tried to flirt, leaning a little too close.

I sent her two texts just to keep her awake in my head:

> Did you get home safe?

> I’m still thinking about that skirt.

That fucking skirt.

Short. Tight. Teasing me with every swing of her hips like she wanted me to lose it.

I lasted two more hours before I cracked.

Walked into her room without knocking because when it comes to Ariana, doors don’t mean shit to me anymore.

And what I saw?

God.

Her shirt was halfway up, her skirt barely hanging on. Her skin was flushed, hair messy, lips slightly parted like she’d been thinking of me too.

She turned, startled, her voice barely a whisper. “You didn’t say goodbye.”

“Neither did you.”

And for a second, we just stared.

No noise. No excuses.

Just us.

Her eyes searched mine like she didn’t know whether to run or let me ruin her again.

So I stepped forward and answered for her.

I kissed her like I was claiming oxygen from her lungs—like if I didn’t taste her, I’d die. And she let me. God, she welcomed me. Her hands tugged at my shirt, fingers desperate, mouth matching mine in pace and hunger.

I laid her down like she was mine to worship and to wreck.

My fingers slid under her skirt—soft heat and slick want met me there, and I almost lost it. But I didn’t. Not yet.

I needed to watch her come undone for me again.

I needed to remember that I could make her fall apart with nothing but my hand and my mouth and a look that said you belong to me.

And she did.

She always did.

Even when she pretended she didn’t.

When she came, I watched her fall apart like it was holy. Like it was mine.

But I didn’t take more.

Because if I did there wouldn’t be a next time. There wouldn’t be a “wait.” I’d take everything. And I wasn’t ready to break her that way.

Not yet.

So I whispered, “Next time, I’m not stopping.”

And I left.

Even though it killed me.

Even though every part of me screamed to crawl back into that bed and stay wrapped around her forever.

Because I’m not sure how much longer I can play this game without burning the whole damn world down just to have her fully.

To keep her.

To own her.

Ariana's POV

Campus was quieter today, but that didn't make it any less intimidating. I hugged my books to my chest, the morning sun already warm on my skin as I walked toward the literature hall. My body still ached from last night from Roman. The memories haunted me in waves: the feel of his lips on my neck, the way his hands claimed every inch of me like I was already his.

Maybe I was.

I was running late, thanks to Roman's fingers being places they shouldn't have been while I was trying to button up my skirt. My cheeks still flamed just thinking about how he whispered against my skin, "Let them see you with my marks." I rolled my eyes at the memory, but my lips twitched into a smile.

He was infuriating. And intoxicating.

I reached the lecture hall and slid into a seat just as the professor started. A second later, someone dropped into the chair beside me. I turned, a little startled.

"Hey," the girl said with a confident grin. "You're Roman Sinclair's stepsister, right?"

I blinked. Not what I expected. "Uh... yeah. Ariana."

"Lana," she said, sticking out her hand with chipped black polish. "You're kinda famous already, y'know. People don’t shut up about you."

My stomach twisted. "Famous?"

"You walked in with him. That’s enough to set off the entire female population of this campus."

I laughed nervously. "He's not that big of a deal."

Lana raised a brow, smirking. "Girl, please. Roman Sinclair is, like, the brooding wet dream of half the school. Smart. Rude. Beautiful. And totally untouchable. Until you."

My heart pounded. I looked away, pretending to focus on the professor.

"Relax," Lana whispered. "I’m not one of his groupies. I just think it’s kind of iconic that he actually talks to you. I've been here for over a year, and I think I've heard him say, like, five full sentences."

I grinned despite myself. Lana had this effortless charm the kind that made you feel like you'd known her forever. She smelled like strawberry gum and wore a crop top that violated at least three dress codes.

"Thanks," I said softly.

She nudged me. "Wanna grab lunch after this? The campus cafe sucks, but I know a spot off-campus with killer fries."

I hesitated. Roman was probably expecting me to come straight home.

"Unless you're busy with... broody business," she teased.

I laughed. "No. Fries sound good."

Roman wasn’t at the English building when I came out. My stomach flipped. I was used to him waiting, watching.

I texted him: Going to lunch with a friend. Be back later.

No reply.

Good.

Lana drove a beat-up old Mustang with a cherry air freshener hanging from the mirror. She sang loudly to the radio as we sped off campus, hair blowing in the breeze.

We ended up at a retro diner with red booths and waitresses who looked like they’d been here since the 80s. Lana ordered milkshakes and fries and made me laugh so hard I nearly cried.

"So," she said, sipping her strawberry shake. "You and Roman... you guys close?"

I froze. She must've noticed because she waved a fry at me.

"Chill. I'm not trying to dig. Just curious. You don't talk much, and he looks like he'd stab someone for breathing near you."

"He's... complicated."

Lana nodded like she understood more than I said. "Aren’t they all?"

By the time I got home, the sun was already dipping. The house was quiet.

Roman's door was open.

I stepped inside mine, tossing my bag on the floor and collapsing onto the bed. My phone buzzed.

Roman: Did you enjoy your date?

I smiled.

Me: It wasn’t a date.

Roman: You wore my marks. That’s all that matters.

I bit my lip.

Yeah. I was definitely his.