Hate Me Like You Mean It

THE MIDNIGHT LIBRARY

The return to King’s College London felt different. The stone walls of the Strand campus, which once felt like a sanctuary, now felt like a pressure cooker.

Meredith sat in the back of the Law Library at 11:00 PM. The high vaulted ceilings echoed with the scratching of her pen. She was exhausted—her bones felt like they were made of lead—but she couldn't sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Henry standing in her mother’s kitchen, his expensive suit stained with the grime of her reality.

She heard the heavy oak doors creak. She didn't have to look up to know who it was. The air always seemed to sharpen when he entered a room.

Henry didn't say a word. He sat down directly across from her, dropping a heavy stack of leather-bound journals on the table. He looked exhausted, too. His tie was loosened, his top button undone, and there were dark circles under those piercing eyes.

"The security is there," he said, his voice a low vibration in the quiet library. "My father’s men. They’re at your mother's door. He won't be coming back."

Meredith finally looked up. "Why, Henry? You could have let me fail. You could have let my life fall apart and watched from your penthouse."

Henry leaned forward, his elbows on the table. The green shaded lamp between them cast long, flickering shadows across his face. "Because watching you fail is boring, Meredith. You’re the only person in this entire godforsaken city who actually looks at me and doesn't see a dollar sign. Even if what you see is someone you hate... at least it's real."

He reached out, his hand hovering over hers on the table. He didn't touch her—not yet—but she could feel the heat radiating from his skin.

"I brought the research for the ethics paper," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Since you’re so 'brilliant,' I figured you could explain why I should care about the plight of the common man."

"You're a jerk," she whispered back, but there was no bite in it.

"And you're a martyr," he countered.

He moved his hand, finally brushing his fingers against her knuckles. Meredith should have pulled away. She should have remembered the way he treated her in the cafeteria, the way he made her carry his bags, the way he represented everything she loathed about men.

But her heart had other plans. It thudded against her ribs, a frantic, rhythmic demand.

"Tell me about the marks," Henry said suddenly, his gaze dropping to the faint, old scar on her forearm—a remnant of a night she’d tried to pull a bottle out of her father’s hand years ago.

Meredith pulled her arm back, covering it with her sleeve. "It’s none of your business."

"Everything about you is my business now," he said, his voice turning possessive, dark. He stood up and walked around the table, stopping right behind her chair. He leaned down, his breath warm against the shell of her ear. "That was the deal, remember? You belong to me for the semester."

Meredith felt a shiver race down her spine. It wasn't fear—not anymore. It was something far more terrifying. It was want.

"I don't belong to anyone," she breathed, though her head tilted back instinctively as he leaned closer.

"Lie to yourself if you want," Henry murmured. He reached around her, his arms forming a cage, his hands resting on the edge of the table. He was surrounding her, drowning her in that scent of sandalwood and storm clouds. "But I see the way you look at me when you think I'm not watching. You hate that you want me. You hate that I’m the one who saved you."

He turned her chair around with a sudden, forceful jerk. Meredith gasped, her knees brushing against his. He was standing between her legs now, looking down at her with a hunger that made her dizzy.

"Hate me, Meredith," he whispered, his face inches from hers. "Hate me like you mean it. Fight me. Scream at me. Just don't look at me like I'm a stranger."

The Breaking Point

The tension snapped.

Meredith reached up, grabbing the lapels of his blazer, and for a second, she didn't know if she was going to push him away or pull him in. The silence of the library was deafening, the only sound the ragged beat of their breathing.

"You’re a monster," she whispered, her eyes searching his.

"I know," he replied, his gaze dropping to her lips.

"I despise everything you stand for."

"I know."

"If I let you touch me, I’ll never forgive myself."

Henry’s hand moved to the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair, pulling just enough to make her gasp. "Then don't forgive yourself. Blame it on me. Blame it on the rain. Blame it on the fact that we’re both broken and this is the only way the pieces fit."

He leaned in, his lips a breath away from hers, the "steamy" friction between them reaching a fever pitch. But just as the world seemed to tilt on its axis, the library’s main lights flickered—the midnight warning.

Henry pulled back just an inch, his eyes dark with a frustration that mirrored her own.

"Tomorrow night," he said, his voice thick. "The Founders’ Ball. You’ll be there. Not as my shadow. Not as my servant."

"Then as what?" Meredith asked, her voice trembling.

Henry straightened his tie, the mask of the billionaire heir sliding back into place, though his eyes remained wild.

"As my problem," he said. "Because if I have to spend one more night wondering what you taste like, I’m going to lose my mind. And if I go down, Meredith... I’m taking you with me."