His Assistant. His obsession

Chapter 1

Perfect. That was exactly what I needed to ace Mr. Davidson’s impossible test.

The library was a cavern of shadow, silent and still.

The old librarian, Mr. Henderson, usually locked up and went home by eleven, I knew because I practically lived in these stacks, having helped Mr. Davidson with his research more times than I could count.

Too bad I was going to steal from him tonight.

Well, technically, I had no choice.

Professor Davidson’s Advanced Lit Theory test loomed in three days, a monstrous exam worth half our grade.

And the required text, an out-of-print critical edition priced like a used car, lived in “Special Reserve.” No checkout. No photocopies. No access unless your library card came with a trust fund attached.

All I had was a father working five jobs so I could survive Sterling.

A scholarship to a toptier academy was a lifeline, but it didn’t pay bills, and I couldn’t afford a C in a core subject.

A retake would mean the same torture, just delayed. I knew the punishment for theft, but at least I would have tried.

My footsteps echoed in the silence as I entered, the shelves reduced to ghostly shapes in the dark.

I moved straight to the fourth floor section, Advanced Econometrics, an aisle I had memorized so thoroughly I could navigate it blindfolded.

My heart slammed as I slid the leather bound monster from the shelf: A Critical Reappraisal.

Cold sweat slicked my palms, and my arms trembled. I just needed to copy the key passages and return it before Henderson’s dentures hit the floor.

I shoved it into my tote bag cheap, fraying, screaming poor in a sea of designer leather. My eyes darted across the library, searching for a hidden corner where no one would find me.

"Careful, Isabella. That's seventy-five thousand dollars you're holding."

I froze, blood turning to ice.

That voice was velvet wrapped in steel. I spun, my bag nearly spilling its contraband.

Leaning against the towering shelves, arms crossed over a chest that probably had its own zip code, stood Cassian Alexander Hale.

The Cassian Alexander Hale. Sterling’s king, its prince, its unspoken god. His family bought senators.

His lacrosse stick probably cost more than my rent.

He was captain of the lacrosse team, a debate star, and, infuriatingly, valedictorian, despite attending maybe a third of his classes.

He had never spoken to me. People like me didn’t exist to people like him.

My face drained of color. "I was... putting it away."

A slow smile spread across his lips. Devastating. Predatory. It didn’t touch his storm, gray eyes, eyes that peeled back my cheap coat and saw every desperate, filthy thought.

"At one-fifteen in the morning? With the lights off?"

He pushed off the shelf, stalking forward with the lazy grace of a predator who knew I had nowhere to run.

"Theft, Isabella. Felony theft, actually. A book of that value? Shame. A girl with your... potential... a permanent record is a bitch."

My throat closed. My father’s face rose behind my eyes, calloused hands, tired eyes, that smile when I got the scholarship letter. My girl. My brilliant girl. You'll change everything for us.

"Please." I hated the word. "I just need it for the test. I'm putting it back. I swear."

He tilted his head, studying me like a bug pinned to glass. "I know you will. But that's not the point."

His thumb and forefinger gripped my chin—gentle, almost tender, but it burned like a brand, forcing my gaze to his.

"The point is, I saw you. I walk to Henderson right now, show him the book in your bag, and your world collapses." He paused, letting the silence choke me. "Or... I keep your secret."

"What do you want?" Surrender tasted like ash.

"An assistant." He released my chin. "Errands. Schedule. Coffee." He leaned in, lips brushing my ear, his breath hot enough to sear. "And you'll warm my bed. That's the real job, Isabella. The rest is window dressing."

I should have said no. Walked away. Accepted the wreckage.

But I saw my father’s face again. His dreams. Mine. Crumbling because of one stupid, desperate mistake.

"Yes." Barely a whisper.

He smiled. It was the most terrifying thing I had ever seen.

"Good girl. Now come. I want to show you your new quarters."

***

His penthouse was larger than my entire apartment. Floor to ceiling windows swallowed the city skyline, and the furniture probably cost more than my father would earn in a lifetime.

I stood in the center of it all, cheap shoes sinking into plush white carpet, feeling like an intruder in a world I would never touch.

Cassian watched me from a leather armchair, a glass of amber liquid swirling in his hand. "You're shaking."

"I'm cold."

"You're terrified." He took a slow sip, eyes never leaving me. "Don't be. You agreed to this. You're safe here, as long as you remember the rules."

"What are they?"

He set the glass down and rose, stalking toward me with that same predator’s grace.

"One: you come when I call. Day or night. Two: no one touches you, not friends, not classmates, not professors. Three: you tell no one about this arrangement; it stays between us." He stopped inches away. "And four: you don't try to leave."

"I wouldn't..."

A finger pressed to my lips, warm and commanding, stealing my voice.

"You will try," he said softly. "You'll convince yourself you've endured enough, that you're strong enough to face the consequences. But you need to understand something, Isabella." His hand moved to my chin, tilting my face up until I had no choice but to drown in those storm-gray eyes. "If you try to leave, I'll have your scholarship reevaluated. Your financial aid dissected. Your father's employment history, every shift, every sick day, pulled apart until I find a reason to take everything from you."

My lungs seized. "You wouldn't."

"Wouldn't I?" A cold smile curved his lips. "You think I care about fair? This isn't about fairness, sweetheart. This is about what I want." His thumb traced my jaw, featherlight and devastating. "And right now, I want you."

He kissed me.

And I hated how my body responded, how my lips parted, how my hands fisted in his shirt before I could stop them. I hated that his touch felt like the first time anyone had ever handled me as though I were precious, not just convenient.

I was just a tool to him. A secret to use and discard.

But when he pulled back, his breathing uneven, something flickered in his eyes. Not just hunger.

Something darker. Something that looked almost like relief.

Like he had been waiting his whole life for this moment.

"You're going to stay," he murmured, his forehead resting against mine. "And you're going to stop shaking. Because you're mine now, Isabella."

His lips brushed my ear.

"And I take very good care of what's mine."