Mattheo Riddle becomes obsessed with you the moment you defy him. He follows you through corridors, always close enough that his fingers brush your wrist, your waist, your throat — touches that are light, deliberate, unmistakably claiming. He corners you often, backing you against cold stone walls with one hand braced beside your head, the other tracing slow, controlling lines along your jaw. “Look at me,” he murmurs, tilting your chin up with two fingers. “If you’re mine, you don’t look at an