His Voice Alone

Chapter 26

Leia’s POV

It started with a knock on the frame of my professor’s office door. Not loud or firm, just soft enough to sound like pity in disguise.

“Leia,” she said, smiling in that practiced, empathetic way professors do when they’ve already made up their minds. “Can we talk for a moment?”

I nodded, even though something in me tightened. I shouldn’t have stepped inside. The room smelled like lavender tea and faded paper.

It was built to feel safe, gentle colors, warm light, little comforts stacked neatly in corners. But I didn’t belong in places designed for people who needed protecting.

She folded her hands over her desk, settling in like she had rehearsed this already. “You’ve seemed… distracted lately.”

My throat locked up. I glanced down, fixed my stare on the floor instead of her face.

“I just wanted to check in,” she continued. “There’ve been… concerns.” Her voice softened like that might make it easier to hear. “From the staff. From campus security.”

Every muscle in my back tensed. I felt my shoulders lift, stiff with recognition before she even finished.

“They’ve noticed someone coming in and out of your dorm,” she said. “Late at night. Regularly.”

I didn’t respond, I couldn’t. My mouth had gone dry, my brain split somewhere between panic and silence.

Then her voice dropped lower, too careful now. “Leia, is everything okay with your stepbrother?”

The word landed like a slap. Stepbrother. She said it like it held weight. Like it should make sense of everything, the hours, the silence, the bruises.

But not in the way she meant.

I gave her what I was trained to give. A small, measured smile. A blink that said nothing was wrong.

“He’s just… a bit overprotective,” I said, keeping my tone even. “Overbearing, maybe. But it’s nothing.”

She didn’t look convinced. Her gaze lingered too long on my face, then dropped to the edge of my hoodie.

She was noticing the wrong things, but all the right signs.

The faint bruises, the tired eyes, the way I flinched without realizing it. I could feel her holding back more questions, but she didn’t ask them. I left before she could try again.

The walk back to my dorm felt like walking underwater. I kept my head down, counting cracks in the pavement until I reached my door.

As soon as it clicked shut behind me, I dropped. I didn’t cry because I was scared. I didn’t fall apart because I felt exposed, I grieved.

Grieved for the version of me that never got to exist outside his shadow. For the silence I kept swallowing just to avoid being noticed. For how much of myself I’d shaved down to stay manageable.

I didn’t want to be rescued. I didn’t want soft concern or safe rooms.

I wanted to be ruined again, thoroughly, visibly, permanently. I wanted to be claimed so deeply no one could question who I belonged to.

And Ezra came, like he’d heard that need the way others hear footsteps. He didn’t knock or ask. He entered like the room was his to return to.

I didn’t try to hide the mess on my face or the tremble in my hands. He saw the hoodie. He knew what was underneath it. Then his palm met my cheek, clean, deliberate, the sound sharp in the quiet. Not punishment, just a reminder.

My breath stuttered. His hand lingered for a second, then dropped. He knelt in front of me, his eyes still unreadable, steady. His fingers brushed along my jaw, gentle where they hadn’t been seconds before.

His voice was cold but controlled. “Never lie about who you belong to.”

My chin trembled. I nodded once, not trusting my voice. He stood, offered me his hand. I took it without hesitation.

The black box theater was empty, silent. One spotlight burned over center stage. He walked me to it. The camera was already there, set up, recording.

He stepped back into the shadows, leaving me in the light.

“Take it off,” he said. I obeyed. Hoodie, jeans, underwear, gone. I stood bare under the beam. The collar on my throat stayed. Steel cold, tight, visible.

“Show me,” he said.

I looked toward the camera. “What do you want me to say?”

“Say what’s true.”

I swallowed hard. “I’m his,” I said. “I was always his.”

I sank to my knees, let my hands trace over my thighs, over the place that still ached from him. I felt the words settle in my bones.

“Louder,” he said.

“I want to be seen,” I said. “I want them to watch me be yours.”

There was no shame. Only heat, and need. He stepped forward, grabbed my hair, turned my face toward the mirrored wall.

“Eyes open,” he said. “You watch everything.”

He bent me forward without hesitation, one hand pressing firmly between my shoulder blades until my chest met the wall.

My panties slid down, pooling at my ankles. The cold air hit first, sharp against my skin, making me shiver. Then came the heat of him, the blunt weight of his cock nudging against me.

And when he pushed inside, there was no warning, no buildup, just one hard, ruthless thrust that forced a gasp from my throat.

He didn’t ease up. His grip stayed tight, his pace punishing, steady and deep. I braced myself, palms flat against the wall, legs shaking from the force.

My body took every movement, stretched around him, soaked and aching, the friction feeding something raw inside me.

In the mirror, I saw the truth of it. The way my face twisted around every sound I made. My cheeks were red, my lips parted, and my eyes, glassy, wide, locked onto the image of myself being fucked open without pause. I watched every second of my undoing, unable to look away.

“You feel that?” he growled. “That’s mine.”

“Yours,” I gasped. “I’m yours.”

Tears streamed freely down my face, warm and unchecked. My legs trembled beneath me, barely holding steady.

He didn’t slow. Not when I whimpered or when I gasped. He kept going, driving into me with the same unrelenting rhythm, like my cries weren’t a warning but a command to continue.

Ezra fucked me past the edge, past every barrier, until my moans unraveled into broken sobs. And even then, I didn’t close my eyes. I kept them open.

I watched everything, I obeyed like I was made to.

When I came, it was total. My body locked up, spine arched, breath caught mid-scream as everything inside me shattered. I felt it rip through me, wild and helpless, no part of me untouched.

The mirror caught the moment, and so did the camera. The image of my release, eyes glassy, mouth open, skin flushed, burned into the room.

He still didn’t stop, he didn’t pull out. He stayed inside me, grounding me, holding me still while my body shook around him.

Later, when I collapsed against him, he didn’t say a word.

He walked to the camera, reviewed the footage, and deleted everything, except the one clip where I was on my knees, crying, whispering, “Please… please don’t stop.”

He played it back once. For me, not for him. Then he turned, met my eyes, and said, “Now, they’ll always know.”

And somehow, that was the only kind of safety I had ever understood.