Bound By Sin

Chapter 4: Don’t Look Away

I should have avoided him.

That was the plan I repeated in my head the entire morning. Stay quiet. Stay focused. Stay invisible.

It didn’t work.

The moment I stepped into the lecture hall, something in me shifted. Like my body already knew he was there before I even saw him.

Then I did.

Dominic Vale stood at the front of the room, flipping through a stack of papers like nothing in the world could touch him. Calm. Controlled. Untouchable.

But the second I walked in, his head lifted.

And his eyes locked on mine.

Just like that.

My steps faltered for half a second before I forced myself to keep moving, gripping my bag tighter than necessary. I refused to look away first. I refused to be the one affected.

That lasted all of three seconds.

I broke eye contact and took my seat.

My heart was already racing.

This was ridiculous.

Nothing had even happened yet.

And still, I felt like I had walked into something I couldn’t escape.

The lecture started normally. Too normally. His voice was steady, his movements precise, his expression completely unreadable. If someone had walked in without context, they would think he was just another strict professor doing his job.

But I knew better now.

Every word felt heavier. Every glance felt deliberate.

And every time his gaze flicked toward me, something inside me tightened.

I tried to focus. I really did.

I opened my notebook, wrote down the date, even underlined it like that would somehow ground me.

It didn’t.

Because I could feel him.

Not physically. Not yet.

But there was this constant awareness sitting just under my skin, like heat that refused to fade.

“Miss Cole.”

My grip on my pen tightened.

Of course.

I looked up slowly, forcing my expression to stay neutral. “Yes, Professor?”

His eyes held mine, steady and sharp. “Answer the question.”

My mind went completely blank.

I hadn’t heard the question.

I hadn’t heard anything.

“I…” I paused, searching for something, anything. “I’m not sure.”

A few students shifted in their seats. I could feel their attention now too, but it didn’t matter.

Only his did.

“Not sure,” he repeated, his voice quieter now, more focused. “Or not paying attention?”

My jaw tightened slightly. “I was paying attention.”

Another lie.

He knew it.

I knew it.

And the way his gaze lingered made it clear he wasn’t going to let it go.

“Then come here.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

My pulse spiked as I hesitated for just a second too long before standing. Every step toward him felt deliberate, like I was walking into something I wouldn’t be able to step out of.

When I stopped in front of him, the distance felt wrong. Too close for something that was supposed to be normal.

He leaned slightly toward me, just enough that his voice dropped low enough for only me to hear.

“You’re distracted again.”

My breath caught. “I said I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” he replied calmly.

My chest tightened. “Why do you care?”

The question slipped out before I could stop it.

For a second, something flickered in his expression. Not anger. Not surprise.

Something deeper.

“Because it’s affecting your performance,” he said, louder now.

Professional again.

But the way he looked at me said that wasn’t the whole truth.

“Go back to your seat.”

I turned quickly, needing distance, needing space to breathe. But as I stepped past him, his fingers brushed mine.

Light. Quick. Almost nothing.

And still, it hit me like everything.

I froze for half a second before forcing myself to keep walking.

My skin tingled where he had touched me.

It didn’t go away.

Not even when I sat down.

Not even when I tried to focus again.

Not even when I told myself it didn’t mean anything.

Because it did.

And that was the problem.

The rest of the class passed in a blur. I wrote things down without really seeing them, nodded at the right moments, pretended to be present.

But I wasn’t.

Not really.

Because part of me was still stuck in that moment.

That brief, accidental touch that didn’t feel accidental at all.

By the time the lecture ended, my nerves were already on edge.

I packed my bag quickly, ready to leave, ready to put as much distance between us as possible.

“Miss Cole.”

I stopped.

Of course I did.

Slowly, I turned back around. “Yes, Professor?”

“Stay.”

One word.

That was all it took.

My pulse quickened as the room emptied around us. Students walked past, talking, laughing, completely unaware of the tension sitting heavy in the space between us.

When the door finally closed and it was just the two of us again, the silence felt louder than anything.

“What is it?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

He didn’t answer right away.

He just watched me.

That same intense, unreadable look that made it impossible to look away.

Then he stepped closer.

Not fast.

Not hesitant.

Just certain.

I held my ground, even as my heart started racing again.

“You’re making this difficult,” he said quietly.

My brows furrowed slightly. “I’m not doing anything.”

“That’s exactly the problem.”

My breath caught.

“What does that even mean?”

“It means,” he said, taking another step closer, “you’re pretending this isn’t happening.”

My back hit the edge of a desk before I realized how close he had gotten.

Trapped again.

Not by force.

But by something stronger.

Something I wasn’t fighting.

“Nothing is happening,” I said, softer now.

Another lie.

His gaze dropped briefly to my lips before lifting again.

“You’re still doing it.”

My fingers curled slightly against the desk. “Doing what?”

“Denying it.”

The word settled between us.

Heavy.

Unavoidable.

My heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might give me away.

“There’s nothing to deny.”

He didn’t respond immediately.

Instead, his hand lifted.

My breath caught as his fingers hovered near my face again.

Close enough for me to feel the heat.

But not touching.

Not yet.

“If that’s true,” he said quietly, “then this won’t matter.”

And then he closed the distance.

His fingers brushed along my jaw, slow and deliberate, tilting my face up just slightly.

My breath hitched instantly.

I didn’t pull away.

I didn’t stop him.

I leaned into it without meaning to.

And that was all the confirmation he needed.

His grip tightened just enough to hold my attention.

Not rough.

Not forceful.

Just certain.

My lips parted slightly, my chest rising faster with each second that passed.

This was it.

The moment we should stop.

The moment we should step back.

We didn’t.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, his voice lower now.

I couldn’t.

I didn’t want to.

So I stayed silent.

And the silence said everything.

His gaze darkened, something shifting beneath that calm exterior.

He leaned in slowly, closing the space between us until I could feel his breath against my skin.

Warm.

Steady.

Too close.

My heart pounded as I stayed exactly where I was.

Not moving.

Not stopping him.

Waiting.

Right on the edge of something we wouldn’t be able to undo.

Then voices echoed from the hallway.

Close.

Real.

A reminder.

Everything snapped back into place.

He pulled away immediately, stepping back like nothing had happened.

Like he hadn’t just been inches away from crossing a line we both knew we shouldn’t.

I stood there, breath uneven, skin still burning where he had touched me.

“Go,” he said, his tone cold again. Professional.

Controlled.

Like before.

But this time, I saw through it.

Because as I walked out of that room, one thing was clear.

This wasn’t just tension anymore.

It was something far more dangerous.

And neither of us was trying to stop it.