The sun rising over St. Jude's Academy felt like a personal insult to Ren Laurent.
The light was too bright, the white marble of the dormitory hallways too sterile, and the silence of the morning far too loud. He sat at the edge of his bed, his silk sheets tangled around his waist, staring at his hands. They were trembling. Not from the five hours of cello practice he'd missed, but from the memory of Jace Vanderbilt's skin.
He could still feel the phantom pressure of Jace's fingers digging into his hips, pulling him onto the cold basement floor. He could still taste the bitter, electric tang of Jace's mouth.
Ren closed his eyes, pressing his palms into his sockets, but the darkness only made the mental images sharper. He saw the way the red emergency lights had caught the sweat on Jace's throat. He heard the wrecked, guttural sound Jace had made when Ren finally stopped fighting and pulled him in.
He was a Laurent. He was the future of the Philharmonic. He didn't crave things. He achieved them. But this… this wasn't an achievement. It was a fever. His body felt heavy, his skin sensitive to the point of pain where the air hit it. He wanted to go back to that basement. He wanted to throw away his bow, grab Jace by the collar, and demand he finish what he started.
"Get it together," Ren whispered to the empty room. His voice was hoarse, a reminder of the soft moans he'd let slip in the dark.
He dressed in his usual uniform—crisp white shirt, tailored blazer, gold academy pin. He looked perfect. But as he caught his reflection in the mirror, he noticed the faint, dark smudge on the side of his neck. A bruise. A mark. Jace's signature written in blood and heat.
Ren adjusted his collar, pulling it high to hide the evidence of his ruin, and headed for the cafeteria.
The Great Hall was a sea of blue blazers and the clinking of silver spoons against porcelain. All seventy students were there, the air buzzing with the usual gossip about the "Cut-List" and the upcoming Ensemble reveals.
Ren walked in, his head held high, his expression a mask of ice. But the moment he stepped through the doors, he felt it.
A pair of eyes, burning like a forest fire, locked onto him from across the room.
Jace was sitting at a corner table with the other "Modern" scholarship kids. He looked like he hadn't slept a wink. His hair was a chaotic mess, his tie was undone, and he was leaning back with a predatory grace that made the students around him look like children.
When their eyes met, Jace didn't look away. He didn't smirk. He stared at Ren with an intensity that felt like a physical touch, his gaze dropping to Ren's collar, knowing exactly what was hidden beneath the silk.
Ren's heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He tried to walk to his usual table, but his legs felt like lead. He could feel Jace's obsession across the room—a thick, suffocating cloud of "I want you back in the dark."
He sat down with the other classical students, but the conversation around him sounded like static.
"Ren, are you alright? You haven't touched your tea," Sarah, a violinist, asked, her voice laced with concern.
"I'm fine," Ren said, his voice clipped. "Just tired."
Suddenly, the bench shifted. A shadow fell over the table.
"Mind if I join the elite?"
The table went silent. Jace was standing there, holding a single black coffee, looking down at Ren. The classical students looked scandalized. Scholarship kids didn't sit at the Legacy tables. It was an unspoken law.
"Vanderbilt," Ren said, his voice trembling slightly. "This isn't your table."
"Every table is my table if I decide it is," Jace murmured, leaning down. He placed his coffee on the table and leaned in, his shoulder brushing against Ren's. The heat radiating off him was unbearable. "Besides, we have a composition to discuss. Our partner work."
Jace reached out, his hand moving under the table where no one could see. He found Ren's knee, his fingers splaying out over the fabric of Ren's trousers. The touch was bold, possessive, and hidden.
Ren gasped, a small sound he covered with a cough. Under the table, Jace's thumb began to move in a slow, torturous circle.
"You look stressed, Ren," Jace whispered, his eyes dancing with a wicked, obsessive delight. "Did you have trouble sleeping? I know I did. I kept hearing this... sound. Like a cello breaking."
"Stop it," Ren hissed, but he didn't move Jace's hand. He couldn't. He was paralyzed by the surge of desire that shot through him at the touch.
"Make me," Jace challenged, his voice dropping so low it was a growl. "You told me to leave last night. But here you are, shaking because I'm touching your knee in a room full of people. Who's the one in control now, Golden Boy?"
Jace leaned in closer, his lips almost brushing Ren's ear. The scent of rain and cheap citrus was like a drug to Ren's senses. "I'm obsessed with the way you taste, Ren. And I know you're thinking about it. I know you want to go back to that room and let me do everything I promised."
Ren's fingers curled into the edge of the table. He was a second away from standing up and dragging Jace out of the hall. The "Golden Boy" was dead. There was only a boy who was hungry for the chaos Jace offered.
"Midnight," Ren whispered, his voice shaking with the weight of his surrender. "The same room."
Jace's grip on Ren's knee tightened for a second—a silent, bruising promise. He stood up, taking his coffee with him, a victorious smirk finally breaking across his face.
"Don't be late this time," Jace said loudly, loud enough for the table to hear. "We wouldn't want to fail our... composition."
As Jace walked away, the entire cafeteria was staring. Ren picked up his tea, his hand shaking so violently the liquid spilled over the rim. He had never felt so exposed. He had never felt so alive.
He didn't just want the kiss. He wanted to be consumed. And as Jace looked back one last time from the doorway, his eyes dark with a possessive fire, Ren knew that by midnight, there would be nothing left of the person he used to be.