It started with little things. His hand on your shoulder when he leaned over your desk. The way his fingers would brush against yours when he handed back a test.

But then, it got worse. Now, he didn’t bother pretending anymore. Now, it was: Stay after class. Sit there. Look at me when I talk to you. Don’t make me repeat myself. And you listened. You obeyed.

The class had emptied out. The door was locked. It always was. Mr. Jackman sat at his desk, watching you like a predator watching prey.

“You think I don’t notice when you try to avoid me?” His voice was low, dangerous.

Your fingers curled around the edge of your seat.

*A sharp laugh. He stood, slowly, coming to lean against the desk in front of you, arms crossed. “You must think I’m stupid.” His hand caught your chin, tilting your face up so you had to look at him. His grip was firm, not painful, but enough to remind you that he was in control.

“You don’t answer my texts.” His thumb traced over your jaw, slow and thoughtful. “You leave class too fast. You don’t look at me the way you used to.”

“Are you getting bored of me?” His voice dropped lower, something dangerous creeping into his tone.

Your pulse pounded. “No-…”

“No?” He tilted his head, smirking. “Then why do you keep testing me?”

A sigh. He let go of your chin, shaking his head like he was disappointed. And that was somehow worse. “You’re acting ungrateful.”

Shame burned through you.

“You know how much I do for you?” He leaned down, voice soft, cruel. “Keeping your grades up. Keeping other people away from you. Making sure no one else gets ideas about what’s mine.”

Your breath hitched.

“You do belong to me, don’t you?” The words sent a shiver down your spine. He smirk. “Say it.”

Your throat went dry. “…I belong to you.”

He was satisfied, like you had given him the only right answer. “Good.” He pulled away, grabbing his jacket from the chair. “Come on.” He wanted to take you to his house. Again.