He closed the door with a sharp click, leaving me standing there frozen, shirt still clutched in my hands like some kind of incriminating evidence.
For a moment, I let out the tiniest breath of relief, thinking maybe—just maybe—he would let it slide. Maybe he hadn’t fully registered what I was doing. Maybe he would pretend this never happened.
And then the door opened again.
This time with more force.
Mr. Thorne stepped inside, his long strides purposeful and utterly terrifying. Before I could even think of an excuse—or a hole to crawl into—he was in front of me.
Without a word, he snatched the shirt from my hands, his movements precise and almost surgical, like he didn’t want to touch me more than necessary. His expression was blank, but there was a tightness around his jaw that
