Page 3 of The Toy Collector

Feeling dazed, I leave Mrs. Ellis’ office. My plan is to shrug her warning off and head to the lecture, it’s one of my favorites after all. But no matter how much I tell my legs to carry me in that direction, they refuse.

For the first time in my twenty-six years of being alive, I skip class. I tell myself it’s fine—birthday privilege, mental health, whatever excuse I need to not sit through a lecture I won’t hear a word of. What I really need is caffeine, quiet, and distance from campus.

So I walk three blocks east until the buildings start to feel less academic and more curated. I duck into the café I favor when I want to disappear. It’s off the beaten path, and pretentious enough that no one I know comes here.

The girl behind the counter doesn’t even blink when I place my order. It arrives like a small piece of heaven in a glass, and I take it to a small corner table without bothering to open my laptop.

Instead of emailing alumni, rewriting my résumé, or even applying for that underpaid campaign internship Lena swears is a stepping stone, I just sit there.

The funny thing is, I should be panicking. But I’m not. I’m just floating—untethered, like I missed a step and now I’m waiting to land. Everyone else seems so ahead. Their placement secured, capstone outlined, LinkedIn updated like they’ve been prepping for this since birth.

And me? I’m still trying to figure out how I managed to fall behind without noticing. Still trying to stop the low-level dread from morphing into full-blown failure. Well, I guess I do know. I put all my hopes into one internship. I never heard back from them, and instead of picking myself up, I kept waiting for their reply.

I take a sip, wincing at how sweet it is. Lena would have a stroke if she saw this much sugar in one drink. The thought of her makes me smile, but it’s fleeting. My eyes wander out of habit, scanning the space without seeing anything—until they do.

He’s standing near the counter, framed by a support beam that casts half his face in shadow. The man is tall, definitely over six feet. Broad-shoulders, lean but undeniably built, like someone sculpted from tension and purpose.

The clothes he wears are all black and tailored to perfection, from his fitted suit jacket to the dark shirt buttoned neatly at the collar. The fabric stretches just enough across his chest to hint at the strength beneath it, and when he shifts slightly, I catch a glimpse of ink peeking out from the edge of his left cuff.

A five o’clock shadow is dusted along his sharp jaw, giving him the kind of rugged edge no amount of polish could tame. And his hair; jet black, styled back with a smooth wave that looks impossibly intentional. God, he’s… handsome doesn’t even come close to describing him.

When my green gaze lands on his blue ones, a chill slithers down my spine.

Lorenzo

I don’t believe in fate. But the moment her eyes meet mine, I start to question that.

Her green eyes—sharp, tilted, curious—hook into mine like barbed wire. One look, and something inside me locks into place like a steel trap. No warning. No build-up. Just instant, electric obsession.

Fuck.

I don’t think she really sees me, and before I can think of doing anything, her stare keeps moving like nothing happened. Like I didn’t just feel the tectonic shift of something I wasn’t supposed to want.

She’s cradling the glass in front of her like it’s the only thing holding her together. Long fingers, tense at the knuckles. Shoulders drawn up like she’s waiting for something to go wrong. She has the kind of nervousness people miss if they don’t know what to look for. But I do. I see it.

I see everything.

Most men would glance at her and think cute. Maybe even beautiful, if they were paying attention. And they wouldn’t be wrong. But she’s also so much more.

She’s a fucking goddess, and even the small scar slicing through her left eyebrow isn’t enough to make her a mere mortal.

Her chestnut brown hair is long and slightly wavy, pulled to one side like she can’t decide between polished or disheveled. Her full lips are pursed, and her arms reveal a tan she’s probably worked on all summer.

The black dress she’s wearing is tight across her tits, teasing a shape that makes my mouth and hands itch. The thought makes a groan threaten to slip out, and I have to grind my teeth together to keep it locked down.

There’s nothing staged about her—she’s not posing for the world. And there’s a silence in her stature. Not the quiet kind. Not the peaceful kind. The kind that hums under her skin like a storm waiting to be touched. The kind that demands to be broken open.

I want to touch that silence.

No—I want to destroy it.

When she looks back at me, my pulse stutters, and blood floods to my cock so fast I almost wince. This time, she keeps our gazes locked for longer. We justlook, suspended in the kind of moment that turns men into monsters.

And I’m already one.

But she doesn’t even seem to realize what she’s done—what she’s triggered.

She blinks once. The connection breaks as she turns her face slightly toward the window, looking outside at the people walking around.

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