“I didn’t say a thing about the dungeon.” His focus drops to my mouth.

The air thickens.

My breath stutters, but it isn’t fear pooling in my stomach.

It’s something far worse.

A ragged cry leaves me as I free myself from his grasp. He releases me without resistance, but he’s already one step ahead, winning the battle with his words.

“The trip is happening, Novalee. That’s not up for debate.”

“Liam won’t allow it.” I instill certainty into my voice, but the words ring hollow. “He’ll never give you permission.”

“The chancellor will do what’s necessary to keep you safe.”

He’s right, and that’s what guts me the most.

“Go to hell,” I shout, then storm toward the front entrance, my heels clicking against the marble. I don’t know where I’m going—I only know I can’t stand the sight of him a second longer. I wrench the door open and refuse to look back, even as his voice trails after me, smooth as silk.

“You can’t escape this.”

The door bangs shut behind me, and the sound ricochets through the foyer. My blood surges hot as the last ten minutes loop through my head.

Initiation offering.

Rare commodity.

No escape.

Just like the night Ford dangled me in front of Axel Ivermann, who later tried to…

Rape me.

The elevator stands in front of me, but I can’t bear to wait. I rush for the stairs, yanking the door open and charging upward, two steps at a time. Sharp gasps tear at my throat as the stairwell spins around me in a tornado of concrete, metal, and rage.

No footsteps follow. Did I slam the door in Astrid’s face? She must have been nearby, but in my blind fury, I can’t remember seeing her at all.

I don’t know how many flights I climb before my legs give out. Wheezing from the frantic ascent, I let my body move on instinct and push through the nearest exit.

Instantly, I recognize Sebastian’s floor.

I didn’t come here with intention. Somehow, my feet carried me to the one place I still belong. The air has an instant calming effect, infusing my lungs with the lingering scent of Sebastian’s oil paints and something that’s purely him.

I’m not the only one seeking comfort in his memory.

Lilith Astor sits slumped against his door, knees pulled to her chest. Dark hair falls in tangled waves around her shoulders, and her makeup is smudged, mascara tracking down her cheeks in black rivers.

I’ve never seen her like this, so disheveled, her designer clothes worn and wrinkled. As my pulse slows to normal, I close the distance and sink to the floor beside her.