GAME OF SEDUCTION

SANDALWOOD

The cold sweat prickling at the back of my neck had nothing to do with the freezing air conditioning in the basement laboratory. It was entirely because of the man standing less than two feet away from my workbench.

I kept my chin down, staring fixedly through the dual eyepieces of my microscope at a slide of stained plant tissue. I didn't dare move. I didn't even dare breathe properly. My heart was slamming against my ribs like a trapped bird, each thud echoing in my ears so loudly I was terrified he would hear it over the low hum of the room's ventilation system.

He's just inspecting the department, I reminded myself in a desperate internal chant. He's a billionaire sponsor doing a routine walkthrough with the dean. He doesn't know. He couldn't possibly know.

And yet, when Liam Lockwood paused directly behind my stool, the ambient temperature of the room seemed to spike. His tailored suit jacket brushed against the back of my wooden chair. The faint, sharp scent of his expensive cologne—sandalwood, rain, and cold leather—washed over me, instantly dragging my mind right back to the dim amber light of VIP Booth Four. Back to the feeling of my fingertips tracing his sharp jawline. Back to the quiet, dangerous rumble of his voice when he asked if we had met before.

My throat went entirely dry. My fingers trembled slightly around the fine focus knob of the microscope, and I had to force my muscles to lock in place.

Then, he stopped walking.

I felt his gaze drop onto me. It wasn't a casual glance; it was an intense, heavy weight that made every instinct in my body scream danger. My heart literally caught in my chest—a sharp, suffocating pause where my lungs refused to expand. I couldn't breathe for a second. The world shrank down to the circle of light in my lens and the crushing presence of the man standing over my shoulder.

"Miss Hughes, isn't it?"

His voice cut through the quiet lab like a steel blade. It was low, rich, and filled with a razor-sharp analytical curiosity that made my blood run cold.

I took a slow, agonizingly steady breath, pushed my round wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of my nose, and turned around slowly on my stool. I forced my posture to slump just a bit, letting the oversized denim jacket drown my frame. I looked up at him through thick, unpainted lashes, plastering a look of timid, overworked student confusion onto my face.

"Yes, Mr. Lockwood?" I managed smoothly, my voice pitch-perfect—light, slightly hesitant, and entirely unthreatening. "Is something wrong with the lab setup?"

Liam didn't answer right away. His slate-gray eyes swept over my face, tracing the slope of my cheekbones, the line of my jaw, and the messy dark hair escaping my haphazard bun. He was looking for something. He was hunting.

For three agonized seconds, the silence stretched between us until I thought my chest would burst.

"No," Liam said quietly, his gaze lingering on my eyes for one beat too long before he stepped back. "Nothing is wrong. Carry on with your work, Miss Hughes."

He turned and continued walking down the aisle alongside Professor Vance, his hands clasped casually behind his back. The second his back was turned, I let out a ragged, silent exhale, my knuckles turning white as I gripped the edge of the black marble table.

Oh my God, I thought, my mind racing in a wild panic. That was a close call. A ridiculously close call.

The second the two-hour lab session officially ended, I stripped off my nitrile gloves, crammed my lab manual into my backpack, and practically sprinted out of the building. I needed to get back to my apartment. I needed to check on Mason.

I took the stairs to my third-floor apartment two at a time, pulling my keys from my jacket pocket with frantic fingers. I unlocked the deadbolt, pushed the heavy door open—and froze on the threshold.

Absolute chaos met my eyes.

Cushions from my small sofa were scattered across the living room floor like a makeshift fortress. Plastic toy figures were strewn everywhere, and a half-empty box of chocolate cereal was upside down on the coffee table. In the center of the disaster area, Levi had my eight-year-old brother, Mason, trapped in a loose headlock on the rug, ruthlessly tickling his ribs while Mason shrieked with laughter and tried to kick him off.

"Surrender, villain!" Levi barked theatrically, his hair sticking up in all directions. "Say the magic word or face the tickle monster for all eternity!"

"Never!" Mason gasped out between hysterical giggles, flailing his arms. "Camila, help!"

I stood in the doorway for three seconds, taking in the upturned furniture and the total destruction of my tiny living room. The terrifying stress from the chemistry lab instantly evaporated, replaced by exasperated affection.

"You animals!" I yelled, dropping my heavy backpack onto the floor with a loud thud and placing my hands on my hips. "Get out of this place!"

Levi snapped his head up, grinning like a madman as he released Mason, who immediately scrambled behind the couch to use it as a shield.

"Hey! We were in the middle of an epic tactical battle, Cami," Levi said, sitting up on the rug and casually pushing his dark hair out of his eyes. "You can't just interrupt war efforts."

"I can when the war efforts ruin my rug," I scoffed, though a smile broke through my tough exterior despite my best efforts. I looked over at Mason, whose cheeks were flushed bright pink with joy—a stark, beautiful difference from the crying, terrified child I had rescued from my stepmother's porch last night. "Come on, both of you. On your feet. We're going out for ice cream around campus before I lose my mind."

Ten minutes later, the three of us were strolling down the sunny sidewalk near the Houston University quad. The afternoon heat was heavy, but the breeze kept it tolerable. Mason was happily marching between us, holding a massive waffle cone dripping with mint chocolate chip, while Levi and I shared a tub of strawberry gelato.

"So," Levi said, nudging my shoulder with his elbow as we waited near the pedestrian crosswalk. "How was the grand sponsor inspection? Did the scary billionaire give the department another million dollars?"

"It was fine," I lied smoothly, keeping my voice light. "Just the usual speeches about funding and innovation."

Before Levi could press further, a deep, throaty rumble of an engine roared down the avenue.

A sleek, pitch-black Maserati Levante glided smoothly toward the intersection. The car was absolute perfection—dark, aggressive lines with heavily tinted windows that mirrored the afternoon sun. It slowed down as it approached the crosswalk where we were standing.

For a brief, suspended moment, the heavy dark tint of the front passenger window rolled down an inch.

Sitting in the back seat, holding a sleek tablet in one hand, was Liam Lockwood.

My heart did a violent flip in my chest. I couldn't stop myself—my eyes locked directly onto his through the glass. He turned his head toward the sidewalk, his sharp slate-gray eyes cutting right through the space between us. For one split second, our eyes met. A silent, electric jolt passed through the air, so intense that the loud chatter of the campus street vanished into background noise.

I immediately snapped my head away, looking down at Mason and pretending to fix the collar of his shirt.

The Maserati accelerated smoothly, its engine humming as it vanished down the boulevard into downtown Houston.

I stood on the curb, my pulse hammering against my ribs, an uncomfortable, knotting sense of unease settling deep in my stomach. He was everywhere. First the lab, now the streets near my apartment. The city was suddenly feeling far too small.

"Hey," Levi's soft voice broke through my frantic thoughts. He was staring at me, his brows pulled together in quiet concern. "Cami? What's wrong? You look like you just saw a ghost."

"Nothing," I said quickly, forcing a bright, reassuring smile onto my face as I wiped a stray drop of ice cream off Mason's chin. "Nothing at all. Just tired. Long week."

Levi looked at me skeptically for a moment, clearly not fully believing me, but he let it drop. "Right. Well, we should get this kid back so I can crush him in video games."

We walked back to my apartment in comfortable silence. Once Mason was settled on the living room rug with his coloring books and a cartoon show playing softly on the TV, I pulled Levi into the small kitchen area, keeping my voice down.

"Hey, Levi... can I ask you a huge favor?"

Levi leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. "Name it."

"Can you babysit Mason for the night?" I asked, hating the lie as it slipped past my lips, but needing the cover story to protect him. "I managed to pick up an overnight shift at a 24-hour cafe nearby. With Mason staying here now, I really need the extra cash to cover his food and school stuff. I'll be back early in the morning before his breakfast."

Levi's face softened instantly with deep sympathy. He reached out and squeezed my shoulder tightly. "Cami, you don't have to explain. Of course I'll stay. I'll order us pizza, watch a movie, and make sure he's asleep by nine. You just focus on what you need to do."

"Thank you," I whispered, genuinely moved. "You have no idea how much this means to me."

Four hours later, the quiet, exhausted student in simple blue jeans and wire-rimmed glasses had completely vanished.

I stood in the luxurious, velvet-lined dressing room backstage at The Velvet Lounge. The bass from the main floor thumped low and heavy through the walls, vibrating up through the soles of my six-inch black heels.

I adjusted the thin straps of a shimmering dark silver dress that swept low down my back and fit like a second skin. I applied a thick layer of deep red lipstick, smoothed down the cascading curls of my dark wig, and stared at my reflection in the lit vanity mirror.

Camila Hughes was safe at home, her brother was taken care of, and her life was under control. Here, under the dim crimson lights, I was Vixen.

A sharp knock sounded at my dressing room door, and Marcus poked his head inside, his expression unreadable.

"Vixen, you're up," Marcus said, his voice dropping into a low hush. "VIP Booth Four again. The same high roller from last night just arrived—and he specifically demanded your table."

My breath hitched in my throat, a cold rush of adrenaline flooding my veins as I turned toward the door. The game wasn't over. It was just getting started.