She hates him with every breath. The elite bully who rules their university, who made her scholarship feel like a mark of poverty, who looks at her like she is already his to ruin.
The ancient library after hours was supposed to be her sanctuary. Instead it became the place where her hatred finally caught flame. His hands on her wrists, his mouth demanding, his body pressing her against shelves of forgotten books. She told herself she would fight. She did not fight. She came apart under him, again and again, and left carrying the proof of her undoing.
Now her body swells with his child, and his obsession has become something hungrier than cruelty. He tracks every change in her with a possession that terrifies her. He feeds her in the middle of the night. He spreads his hand across her stomach in lecture halls where anyone might see. He whispers that she will be bred like this always, that her scholarship and her pride were only ever foreplay.
She should run. She should protect herself from a man who knows only dominance. But when he kneels before her growing belly, when he offers his mouth where she aches most, when he looks at her with something broken and desperate underneath the command, she finds herself opening for him still. Wanting him still. Begging him still.
This is the trap she cannot escape. The more he claims her, the more she needs to be claimed. The more he ruins her plans, her body, her boundaries, the more she spreads herself wider for his ruin. She is carrying his heir. She is carrying his mark. And she is beginning to suspect that surrender to this particular destruction might be the only honest thing she has ever chosen.
