EPISODE 17- Fall In Line
Layla's POV
The cold dread from the photo is a physical thing, a block of ice sitting in the pit of my stomach. I stare at my phone screen, now dark, lying face-down on my desk. Chloe's voice is a distant buzz, a muffled concern I can't process.
He found us.
The thought loops, sharp and terrifying. The cabin was supposed to be a secret. His secret. Ours. A pocket universe where Gregory Marshall's reach ended. But someone had been there, hiding in the trees, a phantom with a camera. Watching us in our most private, unguarded moment. The violation is absolute, a thousand times worse than the shaky club video. That was a crime of opportunity. This was stalking. A hunt.
"Layla, talk to me!" Chloe's hand is on my shoulder, shaking me gently. "What was it?"
I can't tell her. Saying it aloud makes it real. Makes the walls of this dorm room feel like glass. "Nothing," I choke out, my voice strangled. "A… wrong number. A prank."
She doesn't believe me. Her eyes are wide, scanning my face. "You're white as a sheet."
"I'm just tired." I stand up, my legs unsteady. "I need a shower. I feel… grimy."
It's not a lie. I feel contaminated. The lingering scent of pine and Ethan on my skin, which just hours ago was a treasured souvenir, now feels like evidence. I need to scrub it away and scrub the feeling of unseen eyes off my body.
I gather my things on autopilot—towel, robe, and the cheap, floral body wash from the dorm pharmacy. Chloe watches me, a worried frown etched on her face, but she lets me go.
The communal bathroom is empty, steamy from a recent shower. The tiles are cool under my feet. I lock myself in a stall, leaning my forehead against the metal door. My breath fogs the painted surface. The image is burned behind my eyelids: us on the porch, wrapped in the blanket, my head on his shoulder. A moment of perfect peace, now poisoned.
I strip quickly, the air raising goosebumps on my skin. I turn the water as hot as I can stand, stepping under the punishing spray. It scalds, but I welcome the pain. It's a clean, simple sensation to focus on. I lather the soap, scrubbing my arms, my chest, between my legs, as if I can scour away the memory of his touch, the ghost of his mouth, the phantom weight of him inside me. But the more I scrub, the more I feel it. The ache. The delicious, hollow ache, his possession left deep in my core. My traitorous body responds to the memory, a pulse of heat flaring low in my belly despite the fear.
No. I squeeze my eyes shut. I can't. I can't want him now. Not when wanting him paints a target on my back. On his.
My hands are still on my soap-slicked stomach. I see his face in the cabin firelight, soft with sleep. I feel the scratch of his stubble on my inner thigh. I heard his broken groan as he came in my mouth. A violent, full-body shudder racks me—part terror, part pure, undiluted lust. The two feelings are twisted together, inseparable. The danger is an aphrodisiac. The thought of him fighting for me, defying his father for me… it's terrifying. And it's the hottest thing I've ever known.
My hand drifts lower, of its own volition. The water cascades over my shoulders, my breasts. My fingertips brush through the wet curls, finding the swollen, sensitive flesh beneath. I gasp. I'm still so tender from him, from two days of relentless, breathtaking sex. A single, tentative circle over my clit sends a jolt of pleasure so intense it makes my knees buckle. I brace a hand against the shower wall.
This is stupid. Reckless.
But my brain is offline. All that exists is the need to feel something good, something that belongs only to me, in this locked stall with the roaring water masking any sound. To reclaim the feeling he gave me from the violation of the photograph.
I imagine it's his hand. His long, sure fingers. I picture him kneeling before me in the shower, his blue eyes looking up, dark with intent. The fantasy is vivid, visceral. I slip two fingers inside myself, and I'm still so slick, so open from him. A soft moan escapes my lips, lost in the spray. I curl my fingers, searching for that spot he found so easily. There. A spark of lightning up my spine. My head falls back against the tile.
I work myself slowly, torturously, my hips rocking against my own hand. It's not enough. It's a poor imitation. I need his weight. His mouth. The feeling of being utterly filled. I add a third finger, stretching myself, imagining it's him, his thick, relentless push. My other hand finds my breast, pinching a nipple, rolling it hard. The dual sensation is overwhelming. The water runs over my face, mixing with the frustrated, needy tears that spring to my eyes.
I'm chasing it, chasing the release that will quiet the fear for just a second. My breath comes in ragged pants. I'm close, teetering on the edge, when a sudden, sharp bang on the stall door makes me jump violently.
"Occupied!" I yell, my voice shaky, my heart hammering against my ribs.
"Sorry!" a girl's voice calls back, footsteps retreating.
The spell is shattered. The climax recedes, leaving me throbbing and painfully empty. Shame floods in, hot and immediate. What am I doing? Hiding in a shower, touching myself while some anonymous threat holds a picture of my happiness like a knife?
I turn off the water, trembling. I dry myself with rough, angry motions. I can't go back to the room. I can't face Chloe's questions. I wrap the robe around me and flee the bathroom, my wet hair dripping down my back.
The hallway is dim, quiet. My phone is a lead weight in my robe pocket. I should call him. I should tell him about the photo. But the memory of his face as we drove back—the mask slipping back into place—stops me. He has his own battle to fight. One his father started. I can't be the weak link. The "leverage."
I end up in a deserted study lounge on the third floor. It's late afternoon, the grey light leaching in through tall windows. I curl into an armchair, pulling my knees to my chest, trying to make myself small.
My phone buzzes. Not a call. A text.
My breath catches. It's from him.
> Ethan: Where are you.
Not a question. A demand. The period is a full stop. My fingers are clumsy, cold, as I type back.
> Me: Dorm. Study lounge. 3rd floor.
The response is immediate.
> Ethan: Stay there.
Twenty minutes later, the door to the lounge opens silently. He fills the frame. He's changed into dark jeans and a black sweater that makes his eyes look like glacial ice. His face is a mask of controlled fury. He scans the empty room, his gaze landing on me, curled in the chair like a wounded animal.
He closes the door. Locks it with a soft, definitive click.
The sound echoes in the silent room. He doesn't speak. He just walks toward me, each step measured, deliberate. The air crackles, thick with everything unsaid. The photo. His father. The gala. The threat.
He stops in front of my chair, looking down at me. I can see the tension in the line of his jaw, the pulse beating fast in his throat. The controlled heir is gone. This is the raw, furious boy from the cabin.
"Show me," he says, his voice a low rasp.
I don't have to ask what he means. I unlock my phone with trembling hands, find the message, and hand it to him.
He takes it. His eyes skim the grainy image, the caption. A muscle ticks in his jaw. A wave of cold, violent anger rolls off him so palpable I can feel it in the air. He doesn't throw the phone. He doesn't shout. His stillness is more frightening than any outburst.
"Marcus is tracking the IP," he says finally, his voice deadly quiet. He hands the phone back as if it's diseased. "It's a dead-end relay. Professional."
"Who?" My voice is a whisper.
"Someone my father pays. Or someone who wants something from him." His eyes burn into mine. "This is a message. For me. To fall in line."
The ice in my stomach spreads. "What are you going to do?"
"What I should have done from the start." He reaches down, his fingers closing around my wrist. His grip isn't painful, but it's unbreakable. He pulls me to my feet. My robe gapes open, and I clutch it closed. "I'm done playing his games on his board."
"Ethan—"
"He thinks this is a chess match," he continues, his other hand coming up to cup my face. His thumb strokes my cheekbone, a stark contrast to the fury in his eyes. "He thinks he can move you, move me, like pieces. Sacrifice the pawn to protect the king." He leans in, his breath warm against my lips. "But you're not a pawn. And I'm not his king. I'm the goddamn queen. And the queen moves wherever the fuck she wants."
His mouth crashes down on mine.
It's not like the kiss in the library. That was passion and defiance. This is pure, unadulterated claiming. A violent, desperate branding. His lips are hard, demanding. His tongue forces my mouth open, not asking, taking. It's a kiss that says mine in the face of every threat, every watching eye. It's a rebellion sealed with flesh.
A broken sound tears from my throat. I clutch at his sweater, fisting the soft wool, holding on as the world tilts. All the fear, the anxiety, the violation—it channels into a white-hot need. I kiss him back with equal ferocity, biting his lower lip, sucking his tongue into my mouth. The taste of him—mint and anger and Ethan—is a drug. The only antidote to the poison of that photo.
He groans, a deep, ragged sound that vibrates through my entire body. His hands slide down my back, over the thin terrycloth of the robe, and grip my backside, hauling me flush against him. I can feel him, hard and insistent, through his jeans. The contact sends a shockwave of pure desire straight to my core, which clenches violently, aching and empty.
He breaks the kiss, breathing harshly. "He wants to watch?" he growls against my mouth, his voice thick with a dark promise. "Let him watch this."
In one swift motion, he spins me around, bending me over the back of the plush armchair. My hands scramble for purchase on the fabric. He yanks the belt of my robe loose and pushes the material apart, baring me from the waist down. The cool air of the lounge hits my heated skin.
"Ethan, the door—" I gasp, even as I arch my back, presenting myself to him.
"Is locked," he grunts, his hands smoothing over the curves of my ass. "Let them hear. Let the whole fucking world hear who you belong to."
The crude, possessive words should offend me. Instead, they ignite me. My skin flames. The ache between my legs becomes a throbbing, desperate void. I hear the rasp of his zipper, the rustle of clothing. Then the hot, heavy press of his cock against my slick, exposed flesh.
He doesn't enter me. Not yet. He rubs the thick head through my folds, coating himself in my wetness, teasing my clit with each pass. I'm panting, pushing back against him, a wordless plea.
"Tell me," he commands, his voice rough. One hand wraps in my damp hair, not pulling, just holding. Anchoring. "Tell me you want this. Tell me you're mine."
"I'm yours," I whimper, the truth of it a raw scrape in my throat. "God, Ethan, please. I need you. Now."
With a guttural sound of triumph, he sheathes himself inside me in one deep, brutal thrust.
I cry out, a sharp, loud sound that echoes in the quiet room. He fills me so completely, stretching me, banishing the empty chill with his searing heat. The position is deep, invasive, overwhelming. He doesn't pause. He sets a punishing, relentless rhythm from the first stroke, each powerful drive of his hips slamming me into the back of the chair.
The friction is exquisite, brutal. Every nerve ending is alight. My hands claw at the upholstery. The world narrows to the slap of skin on skin, our ragged breaths, the creak of the chair, and the glorious, overwhelming sensation of being taken. Owned. Marked from the inside out.
"That's it," he grunts, his voice strained with effort. One hand leaves my hip and slides around my front, diving between my legs. His fingers find my clit, already swollen and hypersensitive. The dual assault is too much. It's everything.
"Look at you," he breathes, his pace never faltering. "Taking me so deep. So perfect. Mine."
His words, filthy and possessive, are the final trigger. The coil of pleasure in my belly snaps. My orgasm crashes over me with a force that blots out thought, sight, sound. It's a silent scream, a convulsing, endless wave of ecstasy that ripples from my core out to my fingertips. My internal muscles clamp down on him, milking his length, and I feel him swell even thicker inside me.
He curses, a low, reverent stream of filth as my contractions pull his own release from him. His rhythm stutters, becomes erratic. With a final, deep thrust that presses him against my cervix, he buries himself to the hilt and comes. I feel the hot, rhythmic pulses against the barrier of the condom—he'd been prepared, even in his fury—and the full-body shudder that wracks his frame as he collapses over my back, his weight pressing me deeper into the chair.
We stay like that for long moments, a tangled, sweating, panting heap. The only sounds are our gasping breaths and the distant hum of the building. The smell of sex, sharp and primal, fills the air.
Slowly, he softens and slips out of me. A trickle of warmth follows. He straightens, his hands gentle now as he turns me around. My legs are jelly. I would collapse if he weren't holding me up.
He looks wrecked. His hair is disheveled, his lips are swollen from my kisses, and his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. He searches my face, the fury gone, replaced by something vulnerable, raw.
"I will burn his world to the ground before I let him touch you," he whispers, his forehead resting against mine.
It's not a romantic promise. It's a vow. A declaration of war. And in this moment, covered in the evidence of our rebellion, I believe him.
He helps me fix my robe, his touch now tender. He tucks a strand of wet hair behind my ear. The contrast between the violent, passionate claiming and this softness leaves me reeling.
"Go back to your room," he says, his voice still hoarse. "Act normal. I'll handle this."
"How?" The word is a whisper.
A ghost of his old, arrogant smile touches his lips, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "By being the son he raised me to be. Ruthless." He kisses me, soft and lingering this time. "I'll text you tonight."
He unlocks the door, checks the hall, and is gone as silently as he came.
I slump into the armchair, my body humming, sore, and utterly spent. The fear is still there, a cold knot beneath the warm haze of pleasure. But it's joined now by a fierce, defiant certainty.
He's in. All in.
And so am I.
The walk back to my room is a blur. My body feels heavy, languid, marked. Chloe takes one look at my flushed face, my glazed eyes, and the freshly-bruised look on my lips, and her expression shifts from worry to something like awe.
"You saw him," she states.
I just nod, crawling into my bed, pulling the covers over my head. The scent of him, of us, is on my skin, in my hair. I don't want to wash it away this time. I breathe it in, letting it anchor me.
My phone, on my nightstand, buzzes with an alert. Not a text. A calendar notification.
> Reminder: Philosophy 302 - Office Hours. Prof. Carter. Tomorrow, 3 PM.
Professor Carter. Susan Carter. The one who'd emailed about "responsible use of social media." The one linked to the disciplinary committee.
A new kind of cold seeps into my bones. It's not the sharp fear of a stalker's camera. It's the slow, dread chill of the system. Of polite, institutional pressure.
The game isn't just in the shadows with long lenses. It's in daylight, in offices, in scholarship committees.
I close my eyes, the phantom feel of Ethan moving inside me a stark, carnal comfort against the gathering storm.
He said he'd handle it.
But as I drift into an exhausted, troubled sleep, the last thing I see is not his face, but the grainy, smiling photo of us on the cabin porch, and the single, menacing line beneath it.
Who's the weakness now?
—