Page 29 of Marrying My Professor

Sovereign Bastards.

He takes my hand before I can pull it back, lifting it to his lips in a gesture that's so smoothly executed it almost doesn't feel slimy. Almost.

"James Harrington," he says, his mouth curving into a smile that's all charm and no warmth. "And you are?"

James.

The name lands like a stone in my stomach. I force myself to keep smiling, to let my gaze drift over him slowly, appreciatively, like I'm cataloging him for later. He's handsome in that polished, dangerous way that probably works on most girls. The kind of guy who knows he's attractive and wields it like a weapon.

The kind of guy who might have killed my brother.

"Elara," I say lightly, slipping my hand free. "And sorry, pretty boy, but I'm here with Wes."

His smile doesn't falter, but something flickers in his eyes—annoyance, maybe, or interest. Hard to tell. "Wesley's a lucky man."

"He is," I agree, already turning away.

I grab the jello shot and down it in one go, the artificial sweetness coating my tongue as I scan the room for Wesley. It doesn't take long to find him. He's holding court in the center of the room, sprawled across a leather couch that looks like it cost more than my tuition, one arm draped over the back, the other holding a drink that's sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

He's surrounded. Girls perched on the armrests, guys leaning in to laugh at whatever he's saying, everyone orbiting him like he's the sun and they're desperate for warmth. He's drunk—I can tell from here by the way his movements are just a little too loose, his grin just a little too wide.

King of the fucking castle.

I make my way over, Georgia trailing behind me, and Wesley's eyes lock onto me the second I'm within range. His grin sharpens, turns predatory in a way that makes my skin crawl even as I keep my expression coy.

"There she is," he announces, loud enough that the people around him turn to look. "The most beautiful girl in the room."

"Flattery will get you everywhere," I say, stopping just in front of him.

He pats his lap. "Sit."

I hesitate for half a second—not because I want to, but because sitting on Wesley Carter's lap feels like crossing a line I'm not sure I can uncross. But I need information. I need access. And if playing the role of arm candy gets me that, then I'll fucking play.

I slide onto his lap, angling my body so I'm facing him, one arm draped over his shoulders. His hand settles on my hip immediately, fingers spreading wide, thumb brushing the bare skin exposed by the high cut of my bodysuit.

"Much better," he murmurs, his breath hot and sweet with alcohol.

Up close, he's even more gone than I thought. His pupils are dilated, his movements slow and exaggerated, and when he lifts his drink to take another sip, his hand shakes just slightly.

"You having fun?" I ask, letting my fingers trail up the back of his neck.

"Best night of my life," he says, tipping his head back against the couch. "You?"

"Getting there."

He laughs, the sound rough and unguarded. "You want something to drink? Coke? Molly? Whatever you need, baby, I got you."

"I'm good for now," I say, keeping my tone light. "What's this party for, anyway? Seems a little... intense for a random Friday."

His grin widens. "Initiation."

"Initiation?" I echo, tilting my head. "I thought rushing season was in the fall."

He takes another sip, his eyes glinting with something that might be pride or cruelty—it's hard to tell. "Smart girl," he says, his free hand coming up to trace the line of my jaw. "This isn't rushing. This is... something else."

"Something else?"

He gestures broadly with his drink, sloshing liquid over the rim. "See those guys?" He points toward the bar, where a group of shirtless guys are moving through the crowd with trays of drinks and shots, their movements mechanical, eyes downcast. "Those are our initiates. Seven left out of fourteen. We're seeing who can keep up."