Violet walks away not wanting to hear Riley words anymore

Violet walks away from the petite woman. She hated how good the words that came from her mouth. She ask herself could she really spend the rest of her time at university being underneath just you.

...

Tre slip something into Ms. White drink as the young black man has gotten a new suitor to teach him more. Ms. White with arrogance drink without looking.

Tre watches her with an unnerving calm as she drinks the champagne, her expression one of bored authority. She had been lecturing him about the importance of precision, of subtle influence over brute force. The irony was lost on her.

She takes another sip, her emerald eyes narrowing as she feels the faint, almost imperceptible shift in the room. The music seems to fade, the chatter of the party receding into a dull, distant hum. A warmth spreads through her, not unpleasant at first, but rapidly becoming a disorienting, liquid heat.

"What was in that drink, Mr.?" she asks, her voice a little too tight, the professional facade beginning to crack.

"Call me Tre," he says, his voice a low, even purr. He doesn't answer her question. He simply watches her, a predator observing its prey, letting the drug do its work.

Her vision begins to blur, the edges of the room softening, bleeding into each other. Her powers, her control over her own body, feel distant, slippery. She tries to summon a shield of energy, to lash out, but her concentration is shattered, splintered by a wave of intense, almost hallucinogenic sensation.

"I... I can't..." she stammers, her hand gripping the table for support. Her body feels heavy, yet strangely light, as if she might float away.

"It's a new formula," Tre explains, his tone conversational, as if they were discussing the weather. "A little something the under grads R&D contacts were working on. A neural inhibitor. Not designed to knock you out. Just designed to... lower the defenses. Loosen the inhibitions. Make a woman more... suggestible. And honest."

He steps closer, towering over her, his presence a suffocating weight. "You wanted to build me into your perfect weapon? To use me to get back at him? You spent so much time focusing on my body, my strength, you forgot about my mind. You taught me how to be a threat, Ms. White. Now you're going to see the results of your tutelage."

Ms. White tries to fight it, to rally her formidable will, but it's like trying to swim through molasses. Her thoughts are sluggish, fragmented. The carefully constructed walls of her ambition are crumbling, replaced by a raw, primal fear and a shameful, burgeoning arousal.

"You wouldn't dare," she gasps, her breath coming in short, ragged pants.

"Wouldn't I?" he rumbles, his large hand coming to rest on the small of her back, a proprietary touch that makes her shudder. "You made a mistake. You saw John's power, and you wanted it for yourself. You saw a throne, and you wanted to sit on it. But you never stopped to ask what would happen if your weapon decided to point itself at you."

He leans in, his lips brushing against her ear, his breath hot against her skin. "John thinks he owns this school. He thinks he owns everyone in it. He's wrong. We're going to show him what real power looks like. We're going to burn his kingdom to the ground and salt the earth. And you," he murmurs, his hand sliding down to cup her ass, "are going to help us."

Ms. White is in trouble. Tre was going to use the teacher body for more than just training. She wonders who is this we he's talking about.

Tre didn't give her a chance to reply. He didn't need to. Her body, her treacherous, drug-compromised body, was already answering for her. He simply scooped her up, his powerful arms lifting her with an easy strength.

He push her into a bedroom where the dark professor Mr. Tatum is. His eyes on the buxom teacher. His new partner Tre living up to his expectations. Tre tosses her onto the bed as she tries to get up.

"Stay down," Tatum commanded, his voice a lazy, cultured drawl that was far more terrifying than Tre's brutish growl. He didn't move from his chair, simply watched her, a man admiring a particularly interesting insect he was about to pin to a board.

Tre stood by the door, a silent, imposing sentinel, a dark silhouette against the dim light from the hall. The drug still clouded Ms. White's mind, a thick, cloying fog, but Tatum's presence cut through it like a shard of ice. This was his domain.

"We," Tatum said, answering her unasked question with a smug, self-satisfied smile. "You didn't really think Tre came up with this little plan on his own, did you? He's a fine weapon, but he needs a master. Someone who understands the art of the long game."

He rose from the chair, moving towards the bed with a slow, unhurried grace. He was dressed in a simple, well-tailored suit, the old-world pilot costume from the party discarded. He looked less like a hero and more like a mob boss, a man who knows what he wants in the world.

"Your pity rivalry with John is what caused your downfall. That eagerness for his downfall will be your own."

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