3. Caught

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IVORY POV

There are moments when the world pauses for a second... where time stretches, warping around the confusion in your chest and the weight of someone else’s gaze. This was one of them.

Daniel Connor.

The name alone sent my nerves dancing, but the man himself? He was more of a contradiction than anyone I had ever met.

One moment cruel and unreadable, the next… this. Concern. Softness. Rage, not directed at me—but seemingly for me.

Why should he care about my wounds, especially when his circle was the one who inflicted them?

My lips parted, words half-formed and stuck in the back of my throat. Maybe he could read my silence, because the smirk curling on his lips was maddening.

He leaned in, one hand pressed against the wall beside me as though he were claiming space—not just in the room, but in the chaos of my mind.

"Perhaps I get the honor of checking it myself," he drawled, his voice lazy, confident, and laced with trouble.

I blinked at him, stunned. "N-No," I managed, my voice barely above a whisper. My cheeks burned, as if someone had lit a fire under my skin.

"I… I can do it myself," I stammered again, trying to gather whatever dignity I had left. My fingers shook slightly as they reached for the hem of the school-issue gown I wore. I hesitated.

My whole body screamed against the idea of revealing my bruises to him of all people. But there was something in his eyes—not pity, not amusement—but intensity. And curiosity.

I bit the inside of my cheek and slowly, cautiously, began lifting the fabric. The hem crept above my knees, revealing angry red welts, bruises forming galaxies of purple and blue. His eyes followed every inch like he was studying a map—one written in pain.

His touch came without warning.

Two fingers brushed across a particularly raw mark on my thigh. It wasn’t rough or mocking. It was slow, almost reverent.

I clenched my jaw to stop the involuntary shiver. My skin responded before my mind could. A low heat crawled up my spine, and I hated it. Hated how aware he made me of every breath, every inch of myself.

“Is that all?” he asked, his voice suddenly deeper, rougher. When I looked up, I found his green eyes watching me—not like a predator, but like someone barely holding something back. His lashes fluttered slightly as he blinked, and damn those lashes. He looked like sin wrapped in soft silk.

Still wordless, I drew the gown down from my shoulders just far enough to reveal the scar just below my collarbone—grazing the top of my breast.

One of the girls must have scratched deep with those manicured claws. I hated how vulnerable it made me feel.

His eyes darkened.

"So… they did this to you?" he asked lowly, almost growling the words.

I nodded stiffly, feeling the lump forming in my throat. I didn’t trust myself to speak without it cracking.

“They went too far,” he muttered, almost to himself. He brushed his thumb lightly over the mark, as if trying to erase it. Then his gaze returned to my thighs, and his hands followed.

His fingers gripped my thigh more firmly this time, and then slowly, maddeningly slowly, began tracing upwards.

My breath caught. My back straightened. And then—God—my body betrayed me. A soft moan escaped before I could stop it.

Everything stilled.

His hand froze.

And just like that, the moment shattered.

His expression changed instantly. He pulled back with a jerk, eyes hardening like stone.

“Get out,” he snapped, his voice sharp and cold.

The words sliced through me, and I didn’t wait for a second command. I snatched the gown back into place and fled like a rabbit escaping a trap. But even as I ran, something twisted in my chest. I should’ve been relieved. Instead, all I felt was the sting.

Why did it feel like I had done something wrong?

I barely noticed how far I had walked until the school gates came into view. My legs felt weak beneath me, the adrenaline draining fast. I just needed air. Space. Quiet.

But apparently, fate had other plans.

"Well, well, if it isn’t the broken kitten herself,” a voice chirped behind me—shrill, sharp, and filled with poisonous delight. I turned, slowly, dreading what I already knew.

One of Stella’s minions. A redhead with overly polished nails and a mean streak wide enough to rival a river. She stood there with her arms crossed, a sick smile curling her lips.

“You got caught,” she announced, taking a step closer. “Caught with him. Daniel Connor, no less.”

Her eyes gleamed with something dark—vindication, maybe. Or the thrill of watching someone else's world fall apart.

“You know what this means, right?” she hissed with false sweetness. “Stella's going to love hearing this.”

I stood there frozen, watching the storm gather in her eyes. And I knew… this wasn’t over. Not even close.