CHAPTER 80
CHAPTER 80
ARIA
His lips had already claimed every part of me once, had already left me trembling and undone beneath the force of his desire.
I should have been spent, sated, curled against him in the afterglow.
But he wasn’t done.
Not even close.
His mouth found mine again, urgent, insistent, as though he hadn’t already devoured me, as though the first time had only sharpened his hunger.
My breath caught, my body aching with sensitivity, every nerve still alive with the echo of what we had just done.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t patient.
It was fire meeting fire—his denial colliding with my certainty, my desperation burning against the cold distance he’d tried to build.
For a heartbeat, I felt him stiffen beneath me, every muscle locked in protest. His hands pressed hard against my shoulders, trying to hold me back, trying to push me away.
“Fuck—” he hissed under his breath, the curse rough and raw against my lips.
But I only clung tighter.
My fingers curled into his shirt, desperate, refusing to let go, anchoring myself to him like a drowning woman clutching the only thing that could keep her alive.
He groaned low in his chest, the sound edged with frustration, with hunger, with something he didn’t want to name.
Then suddenly, his grip changed—no longer pushing, but pulling.
His mouth crashed back into mine with a fierceness that stole the air from my lungs.
The kiss turned rough, consuming, his lips moving against mine as if he wanted to erase the space that had ever existed between us.
Heat tore through me, unravelling my thoughts, burning away doubt until nothing was left but him.
The muted shuffle of footsteps in the hallway drifted past, but I couldn’t bring myself to care.
The world outside didn’t exist.
All that mattered was his breath hot against my skin, the taste of him flooding my senses, the thunderous beat of my own heart echoing against his.
It was wild, desperate—two people torn apart, stitched back together in a collision too explosive to ever control.
His lips tore from mine only long enough for him to rasp against my mouth,
“—damn it, I shouldn’t—”
But his voice cracked, breaking on my name, and whatever protest he had dissolved as I pulled him down again, silencing him with another kiss.
I felt it then.
The shift.
When his eyes opened, they weren’t the cool, human-dark brown of Professor Lian.
They blazed golden, molten light spilling into the dim room like an animal breaking free of its cage.
My breath hitched.
My chest clenched so tightly it hurt.
Golden eyes.
Proof.
Another tear slipped down my cheek, caught between the fury of our kiss.
I wanted to scream, to laugh, to sob.
You can’t deny me anymore.
You can’t deny yourself.
Another tear slipped down my cheek, caught in the fury of our kiss.
I wanted to scream, to laugh, to sob—all at once.
My chest burned with the words I’d kept locked away for so long, words that clawed to be free.
“You can’t deny me anymore. You can’t deny your—”
But before I could finish, his mouth crashed back onto mine, devouring the rest of the sentence. His lips moved hard, urgent, almost angry, as though he could eat up the truth before it ever left my tongue.
The protest died in my throat, swallowed by the heat of him. His kiss was fierce, desperate, and consuming, and my hands fisted into his shirt as if I could anchor myself against the storm he was becoming.
I thought I couldn’t take any more—that my body had already been pushed past its limits, wrung dry of every ounce of strength.
But then the way he touched me again, kissed me again, all I could do was fall apart in his arms.
We had already been joined once, yet his hunger hadn’t eased. If anything, it had deepened, sharpened, as though he couldn’t stop himself, as though nothing could ever be enough.
His golden eyes burned down at me, feral and unrestrained, and when he entered me again, my breath splintered into a broken cry.
The pleasure was unbearable—too much, too raw—and yet I clung to it, clung to him, because he was mine. My Lian. My proof.
A sudden knock rattled the door, sharp and insistent.
“Professor Lian?” a voice called, muffled through the wood.
“Are you inside?”
My heart stuttered, panic threatening to cut through the haze—but he didn’t stop.
He didn’t even falter.
Every thrust, every kiss, every rough drag of his breath against my throat told me I was all he saw, all he wanted.
Whoever stood on the other side of that door, whatever reason they had for calling his name—it meant nothing to him in this moment.
“Professor?” The knock came again, louder this time, the urgency in the voice cutting through the faint sounds of the apartment.
But he didn’t respond.
His lips sealed against mine, swallowing my startled gasp, and my hands dug into his shoulders as his thrusts grew more insistent, faster, consuming.
He didn’t pause, didn’t even glance toward the door—nothing outside mattered.
Not the knocks.
Not the voice.
Not the world.
Only us.
I cried out as the waves of pleasure ripped through me, nearly undoing me, and still he held me, moved against me, utterly lost in me.
The world shattered inside me a second time, my body convulsing under the relentless force of him.
I cried out, the sound breaking into his mouth as my release tore through me, raw and uncontrollable.
My nails dug into his back, desperate to anchor myself as wave after wave consumed me until I was nothing but trembling limbs and shallow breaths.
He held me only a moment longer, his body taut and straining, and then he pulled back.
His movements shifted—quick, hurried, no longer tender but practical, purposeful.
I blinked up at him, dazed, still reeling, as he straightened, tugging his shirt back into place, smoothing his collar with hands that trembled faintly.
“I have to go,” he muttered, voice rough, eyes refusing to meet mine.
The urgency in his tone cut deeper than I wanted to admit.
He looked almost frantic, as though whatever awaited him beyond that door couldn’t wait another second.
I stayed where I was, sprawled across tangled sheets, my chest rising and falling unevenly, watching him gather himself back into the role of Professor Lian—the mask he clung to so tightly.
The door shut behind him, leaving the silence to rush in.
It was then, as I pushed myself up on shaky elbows, that I really looked around.
My heart stilled.
As if time itself had folded in on me.
The same worn desk in the corner, scarred with the faintest scratches, exactly where it had always been.
The faded curtains, the same pale fabric that filtered light into the room in soft, uneven streaks.
Even the small crack along the plaster by the closet, the one I used to trace with my finger absentmindedly when nights stretched too long.
It wasn’t just similar—it was a mirror image. Every detail perfectly recreated, down to the smallest corner of our old apartment.
The furniture, the layout, even the faint scent that lingered in the air—it was as if time itself had folded, carrying pieces of our past into this space.
He hadn’t just moved into a hotel room; he had rebuilt it to be ours again, preserving every memory, every nuance.
I pressed a hand to my lips, as though I could hold in the tidal wave crashing through me.
A part of me wanted to smile, to believe this was proof of what I’d always known—that he was mine, that he had never truly left me.
But another part ached with something heavier.
As if our home… our sanctuary from years ago… had been waiting all along.
And I sat there, trembling, whispering to myself, It’s him.
It’s really him.
A lump rose in my throat, a knot of grief and wonder that stole my breath.
He had built this life here, wrapped himself in the disguise of Professor Lian, learned how to move through the human world as though he belonged.
He had adapted, concealed every trace of what he was.
To anyone else, he was just a man—brilliant, aloof, untouchable.
But the room betrayed him.
He had kept this.
These walls.
These memories.
Me.
It was like a tether he couldn’t cut, no matter how far he ran.
My chest tightened with a mix of sorrow and something dangerously close to hope.
For all his denial, for all the sharp words and the walls he tried to put between us, this room betrayed him.
His heart was still here.
With me.
No matter how carefully he tried to fold himself into this world, some part of him had remained rooted in us. In me.
This space was proof of it. Proof that he carried the memory of what we had, even if he refused to admit it.
I sank back against the pillows, the feather still hidden in the drawer, my body sore, my mind raw.
He could pretend all he wanted, but this space told the truth I had felt in my bones from the moment I saw him again.
My chest ached with the weight of it all—longing, relief, anger, love.
The emotions tangled together until I couldn’t separate one from the other.
Tears pricked my eyes, unbidden, hot and relentless.
He still remembers.
He hadn’t let go.
And neither had I.
He could deny me, mock me, call me insane—but the walls around me whispered the truth louder than he ever could. He hadn’t let go.
Not really.
Even if he wore another name, another face, even if he buried himself in lies, his heart was still tethered here.
To me.
I pressed a hand to my chest, swallowing the sob that threatened to break free.
“I won’t let you hide from me,” I whispered to the empty room.
Because no matter how far he tried to run from who he was, from who we were—his heart was already mine.
And deep down, he knew it.