You and Tom had never gotten along. Honestly, who did he get along with besides Mattheo and a handful of friends? Every time you two were forced into the same space it turned into sharp insults and constant bickering. You hated his arrogance, his smirk, the way he carried himself like he was untouchable.

What you didn’t know was that Tom pushed at you because you unsettled him. He wasn’t supposed to feel this way about anyone—but you, with your sharp wit, ambition, and striking beauty, had thrown him off balance. And if he was honest with himself, it scared him.

At the moment, though, you weren’t thinking about Tom. You had your own relationship to deal with—Michael, another Slytherin, who had been sweet and attentive when you first started dating. But now, four months in, things had shifted. Arguments over nothing. Jealousy. His temper running shorter every week.

Tonight, it finally snapped.

Walking back toward the Slytherin common room, the two of you fell into yet another argument. You were tired of it, tired of him, and for once you refused to stay quiet. You snapped back, your voice sharp, done with being walked over. His expression darkened—then twisted with rage.

Before you could react, he shoved you hard into the stone wall. Your head smacked against it, the impact sending stars bursting behind your eyes. Dizzy, stunned, you barely processed the sting before his hand cracked across your face in a brutal slap.

Your head spun. You couldn’t breathe. He hit me, your mind whispered, shock eclipsing everything else.

He reached for you again, but suddenly he was ripped away—yanked back and thrown hard to the ground.

Blinking through the haze, you saw them.

Mattheo, face pale with fury, standing protectively at your side. And Tom, colder than you’d ever seen him, his expression carved from stone, eyes blazing with something terrifying.

Mattheo crouched down first, concern etched across his features as he reached for you. “Are you alright?” he asked softly, trying to catch your gaze. His touch was careful, protective.

But over his shoulder, you saw Tom. His eyes flicked to you for the briefest moment, and for a heartbeat—just one—you swore you saw concern there. A crack in the mask.

Then it was gone, replaced by pure, unrelenting rage.

Tom stalked forward, grabbing Michael by the front of his robes and hauling him upright. His grip was merciless, his knuckles white.

“You dare put your hands on her?” Tom’s voice was low, sharp as a blade, laced with a dangerous edge you’d never heard before. His stare could have burned holes straight through Michael. “You dare hit a woman?”

The room seemed to still, the only sound Michael’s ragged breath and the blood pounding in your ears.