Dmitri's POV
A few days had passed since the Winter Arts Exhibition, and the echoes of that night lingered in every corner of St. Aurelia Academy like a persistent fever. The strange shift in the student body had reached a tipping point. Boys followed her with their eyes more than ever now; the once-hostile attention had fully transformed into a frantic, clumsy fascination.
Letters filled her locker, some timid, penned on cheap notebook paper, others bold and embossed. Gifts arrived in quiet secrecy. One student had even dared to leave a brand-new, professional-grade violin for her, but she had rejected it outright, leaving it in the lost and found as if it were a piece of trash.
I saw all of it. Every subtle interaction, every stolen glance, every laugh that wasn't meant for me. It clawed at something inside me, a jagged, restless thing I refused to name.
I couldn't sleep properly. My thoughts circled her endlessly: the way she moved with that newfound, haunting confidence; the delicate precision in her gestures; the laugh that lingered in my chest longer than it should. Her voice, soft yet unyielding, haunted my waking hours.
When our eyes met, the world narrowed until it was only her, a silver-eyed ghost in a world of cardboard people. I hated it. I hated the way she invaded my mind, the way she had the power to unsettle my pulse with a single, fleeting look.
Music became my primary excuse. Adrien and I visited the Music Club often, ostensibly to discuss "senior compositions" or to check the winter rehearsal schedules. But every time, I found myself lingering near the corner of the room where she practiced.
I watched the way her bow drew out notes that seemed to vibrate in my own ribs. Each time our eyes locked through the glass, a small, unwanted thrill crept through me, and I cursed it. I cursed her for being everything I didn't want to admit I craved.
The morning of that day, Calculus had started with an unusual, heavy calm. Julien was absent, he had excused himself for a piano masterclass in Geneva to "refine a piece" for a recital. His absence was a vacuum that I was more than happy to fill.
I noticed her the moment Adrien and I entered the room. Her head was bent over her notebook, but she was surrounded. A group of boys were clustered around her desk like scavengers, trying desperately to win her attention with clumsy jokes. My jaw tightened until my teeth ached.
She looked peaceful, yet distracted by their mindless chatter. I didn't hesitate. With measured, deliberate steps, I made my way straight to her desk. The murmuring students fell silent as my shadow crossed her paper. The boy sitting next to her shifted uneasily, looking up at me. I didn't even have to speak; he scrambled to his feet, muttering an apology, and fled to the back of the room.
I slid into the empty space beside her. I sat closer than was socially acceptable, my shoulder nearly brushing hers. Her eyes widened, sharp, alert, and beautifully startled.
"Why… why are you sitting here?" she whispered, her voice a mix of disbelief and budding irritation.
I leaned in, the scent of her, faint lavender and rosin filling my senses. "Because I want to."
Adrien found a seat nearby, giving us a wide, concerned berth. The class had barely begun when I decided to stir the waters. I waited for the teacher to turn toward the chalkboard, then, with the stealth of a thief, I passed her a folded slip of paper.
She opened it, her brow furrowing in suspicion.
"Why are you frowning, Isabelle?" I had written.
She glared at me, muttering something under her breath before crumpling the note and flicking it into her bag. I felt a surge of adrenaline. I slid another across her desk. This one bore a more pointed observation:
"You remind me of my pet. She is a cardinal… bold, sharp, and impossible to ignore. Just like you."
Her eyes snapped to mine. Shock, disbelief, and a touch of delicious exasperation danced in her silver gaze. I saw the faintest blush rise across her pale cheeks, her lips pressing together as if to contain a retort. I let myself smile not my usual cold smirk, but something fainter, almost sheepish, just to rile her further.
Our gazes locked. I let the silence stretch, the air between us becoming thick and electric. I wanted to see every inch of her, every hidden expression, every subtle crack in that "scholarship girl" facade.
"Isabelle Duval, Dmitri Volkov," the teacher's voice cut through the tension like a guillotine. "Both of you… outside. Now."
Gasps rippled across the room. I rose with deliberate slowness, enjoying the scandal of it. The hallway swallowed us, the door clicking shut behind us, leaving us in the hollow silence of the corridor.
"What did you do that for?" she snapped, turning on me the second we were alone. "I was trying to understand the calculus, and now I've completely lost the thread! This is on you!"
I leaned against the cold stone wall, my eyes narrowing. "And what am I supposed to do about it?"
"You…" she pointed a finger at my chest, her voice rising in exasperation. "You distracted me! Now I'll never catch up!"
I let a slow, dark smile creep across my face. "Then I'll take responsibility."
She blinked, incredulous. "Take responsibility? How? By sitting there looking smug?"
"I'll make it worth your while," I murmured, stepping into her space. My voice was low, vibrating with a teasing edge that made her breath hitch. "You're holding your breath again, Isabelle. It's exhausting, isn't it? Trying to keep that mask from slipping? Personally, I think it looks better when it's cracked."
Her cheeks flushed a deeper crimson. I noticed Emmeline watching us from the classroom doorway, her eyes sharp and calculating, her brows drawn down in a silent scowl. Arabella hovered behind her, whispering. They were watching the hierarchy dissolve in real-time.
Isabelle shook her head, her red hair catching the hallway light. "You are impossible!" she hissed, stepping away from me.
I let my gaze follow her, appreciating the way her anger made her look more alive than anyone else in this building. Adrien stepped out a moment later as the bell rang, looking at me with deep concern.
"What was all that about, Dmitri?"
"Nothing," I said, my voice returning to its stoic mask. "Just a bit of fun."
But alone in my room that night, the "fun" felt like a lie. I replayed her flush, her glare, the way her eyes narrowed at me. I was smiling into the darkness, shocked that she could evoke more emotion in me than my own father's cold demands ever could.
I told myself it was stress. Boredom. A temporary obsession to relieve the tedium of being a Volkov.
But the next day, the lie collapsed.
I saw her in the courtyard. She was laughing. Not the polite, strained laugh she gave me, but something free and genuine. She was with Julien. He was leaning in close, his hand hovering near her arm, their comfort with each other obvious to everyone.
Something snapped inside me. A white-hot flash of possessiveness, raw and ugly surged through my veins. My pulse spiked. My fingers clenched into fists until my knuckles turned white.
The world narrowed until it was only them. Only her.
And I realized, with a sharp, terrifying clarity, that I wouldn't let anyone else touch her. I wouldn't let anyone else take her from under my gaze.
The tease was over. The obsession had taken root, and it was growing into something that would eventually consume us both.