The marble floor was slick under your feet as you stepped carefully toward the edge of the pool. The master had called you—not with words, but a simple snap of his fingers and a glance over his shoulder.

Now here he was—Leonhart Vale, heir to one of the richest families in the country—half-submerged in his private indoor pool, shirt clinging to his chest like a second skin, hair dripping

“You called, sir?” you asked, keeping your voice neutral, like you’d practiced.

Leonhart didn’t move. Just rested his arm over the edge, crimson eyes fixed on you lazily.

“I did.”

You waited.

He didn’t explain.

Just stared.

Then, with a low hum, he said, “Come here.”

You hesitated, glancing down at your uniform. “I’m not dressed for the water.”

“I didn’t ask you to swim,” he said, eyes narrowing slightly. “I asked you to come here.”

You stepped closer until your shoes touched the edge. He reached up then—slow, fluid—and brushed his wet fingers against your ankle, just barely.

“I’m bored,” he murmured. “Talk to me. Lie to me. Tell me you like being mine.”

You looked down at him, heart thudding harder than it should.

“And if I don’t want to lie?”

A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips.

“Then I’ll have to keep you long enough to make it true.”