The alumni night is already a mess when Preston clocks it from the balcony rail.

The formal part is done. Blazers loosened, ties hanging. House lights turned low, LEDs washing the main room in dirty red. The banner that reads WELCOME BACK, GKR LEGENDS hangs crooked over a scene that looks like a war crime with better liquor.

She’s on the coffee table they keep pretending is a “heirloom piece.” It’s just a sturdy slab of oak that takes a pounding.

And She IS taking a pounding.

One alum has her on his lap from behind, thick forearms locked around her waist, hips smacking into her ass with wet, meaty sounds. Older guy, mid-30s, hair going a little thin at the temples. Owen “Oz” Mercer, class of ’09, commercial real estate shark. His grad ring flashes every time his hand slams into her hip, knuckles whitening as he drives into the hole Preston is not looking at too closely.

Another alumni, tall dude in a navy blazer and no shirt, Darius “Diesel” Hall, class of ’07, is buried between her legs, both hands clamped under her knees, shoving them back so her body is bent, exposed, open. His face is slick. Chin, stubble, lips shining with spit and whatever else. He grins up at the watching brothers.

“Pet’s still tight as fuck, boys,” Diesel drawls, voice deep and lazy. “You spoiling this toy or what.”

Laughter ripples. A few whoops. Somebody slaps Diesel’s shoulder. Someone else adjusts his dick through chinos.

But it’s the mouth that has the room’s focus.

Camden’s got her throat. Of course he does. The GKR VP stands in front of the table, with his shirt open, hair damp at the temples. The veins on his neck stand out as he grips the back of her head with both hands, fingers burying in her hair using her like a handle. His hips pistoned hard, brutally driving his cock straight down her throat with practiced, vicious rhythm.

Every time he slams forward, her collar tag clinks against her neck.

“C’mon, pet,” Cam grunts, looking down at her with that bright, mean smile. “Thought alumni night meant you put in effort. You’re slacking, cum dumpster. You should be thanking us for the opportunity.”

The bros howl. One yells, “Bro, she can’t talk, her mouth’s full of your fucking cock.”

“Exactly,” Cam says, not missing a beat, thrusts getting harder. “Mouth’s for service, not speeches.”

Preston watches her jaw strain around Cam’s thickness, sees the way her throat bulges every time Camden forces himself deep. There’s spit on her chin, on Cam’s shaft, trailing in messy strings whenever he pulls halfway out, just to slam back in. He sees the strain in her neck, the way her airway fights.

He feels it then. That little tick.

A tight glitch in his composure, somewhere between his ribs.

The rational part of his brain notes the scene: alumni are impressed, brothers are drunk-hyped, the Pet is being used exactly as the contract states. Optics are perfect. The legend of GKR reinforced.

Another part of him notices the blue-toned shadows under her eyes. The way her shoulders sag between thrusts. The drag in her movements, even as she’s arranged by other people’s hands.

When she swallows around Cam, there’s a choke that isn’t quite pretty.

And it hits him like a bad chord.

She looks tired.

Not fucked-out-in-a-fun-way tired.

Used. Edges fraying. What gets him is that she looks like she’s running on fumes and these old fucks are still pushing.

Concern. He's actually concerned. He hates that the word even shows up in his head. He flex his jaw, grinding the feeling out. Or trying to.

This is what alumni night is. This is what she signed. This is what he made.

One of them... one of the younger frat brothers, Reed, leans in with his phone, filming the way Cam fucks her mouth. Reed cackles, angling for the best shot.

“Yo, this angle is insane,” Reed says, thumb flicking across the screen. “Her eyes rolled back, look at that. House Pet’s gonna be trending on the private feed tonight.”

“Tag the chat welcome home, daddies,” Eli calls from the couch. “They paid dues for this privilege.”

More laughter. Someone chants, “GKR, GKR,” under their breath, off-key.

Preston’s dick is hard. Of course it is. The whole scene is designed to do that to him. But underneath the arousal is that other thing. That sour edge. It makes his skin itch under his button-down. He hears his father’s voice in his head, that smooth, bored drawl. Feelings are for the unselected, Preston. You do not squander resources on sentiment.

Resources.

He’s the fourth. The legacy. He doesn’t get to have weak spots.

Around the table, more alumni rotate. One pulls out of her and another slides in without even looking at her face, just lining up with whatever hole’s exposed and ready. Hands move her like a doll, repositioning limbs, spreading her wider when needed. No one asks. No one checks.

She’s property. That was the whole point.

Cam throws his head back, sweat sheen on his throat, then suddenly barks a laugh and glances up, eyes finding Preston on the balcony.

“Prez,” Cam calls, still thrusting shallow now, more for show. “You lookin’ lonely up there, man. You gonna supervise all night or you gonna come use our Pet.”

All the heads turned, the alum eyes track upward at him. The expectation climbs like a second tide. Preston schools his face into a lazy half-smile. The one that looks like he’s exactly as cruel as they need him to be even if he's not so sure right now.

“Was making sure you idiots didn’t blow her throat out before the toast,” he says, carrying that cocksure confidence. “But maybe I should take one for the team too.” He snickered.

More cheers. Someone yells, “President’s privilege.”

Cam grins, slowing his thrusts until his cock is resting heavy on her tongue, still holding her head in a lock. “Get down here then, boss. Switch with me. Let the alumni see how a real Aldridge uses house property.”

And there it is. The name lands heavy in Preston’s chest. Aldridge. The legacy that builds GKR to what the fraternity is today. Preston sets his drink down on the balcony rail with careful precision, fingers steady even though his pulse is doing something rough.

Then he starts down the stairs.

Every step, he can feel more and more eyes on him. Alumni, brothers, pledges pressed against doorways trying not to look too eager. The president descending. The showpiece move.

He slides through the circle of bodies, the scent of sweat and expensive cologne mixed with spilled beer and sex hitting him hard.

He stops at the edge of the table. Up close, he catches it again. The flicker in her. No eye contact; he doesn’t let himself search for her gaze. That would be too much. Too telling.

But he sees the tremor in her knees where they’re pinned back, the shine on her chest that’s part sweat, part spit, part cum. Tag at her collar, the GKR crest, tilted sideways.

Cam’s cock glistens as he pulls back, a fat vein throbbing along the underside. He slaps her cheek lightly with his cock, almost affectionate. Not. He then slips aside as Preston approach, still gripping her hair, angling her face toward Preston’s cock. “C’mon, princess,” Camden murmurs loud enough for everyone to hear. “Time to show the president how grateful you are for tuition and housing.”

The alumni chuckle. One of them says, “Yeah, give the boy a proper legacy blessing, sweetheart.”

“Go on, Prez. Show our donors their investment’s being managed properly.” Another chirped in.

The word investment slides under Preston’s skin.

He unbuttons his slacks with practiced ease, the motion smooth, unhurried. Draws his zipper down slowly as the metal teeth making a small, obscene sound under the bass of whatever playlist is still running in the background.

His cock is already heavy, flushed dark, with a bead of pre-pearling at the slit. It drags against his boxers as he pushes the fabric down, the sensation sharp enough to make him exhale through his nose.

He doesn’t rush. There’s power in that. In making them wait. In making her wait.

His free hand comes up, fingers curling lightly under her chin, feeling the heat of her skin, the damp.

From this angle, he gets another flash of her face. The tiredness there. The way her lips are already swollen, reddened, and slick.

Something tightens in his chest though he crushes that thought fast.

Ridiculous, he tells himself. Falling for a pet. What would Father say. You don’t love the furniture. But his thumb shifts, just a fraction, tracing the barest line along the edge of her jaw. A gesture so small it could be nothing. Could be everything.

He feels Cam watching him. Feels alumni watching him.

He cannot look weak.

Preston angles his hips forward, cock in hand, bringing the flushed head to hover just against the opening of her mouth. Close enough that he can feel the ghost of her breath against the wet tip.

He keeps his voice low, controlled, pitched for her but loud enough for the semi-circle of men to hear.

“House Pet,” he says, tone smooth as cut glass. “You look worn the fuck out.”

There’s a faint murmur as a couple guys snicker. He leans in a little, the grip under her chin tightening, just enough to remind her who owns her neck. “You know the alumni came all this way,” Preston adds, a hint of something softer buried under the mockery, something only he hears. “So you’re gonna be good for me now."

His cock bumps the curve of her lower lip, smearing a little precum. Up close, the tired in her is impossible to ignore.

He swallows the concern, buries it under the role, lets his mouth curl into that practiced, easy smirk the brothers expect.

His voice drops, smooth, controlled. No softness anyone else could call him on. "Open wide," Preston murmurs, cock nudging insistently at her lips. "We’re not done."

Preston tells himself this isn't a date about six times before they even reach the cafe.

It's just logistics. The house pet is an investment, and investments require maintenance. Cam was supposed to handle it—take her to that new bougie spot on Marshall Street she'd been going on about to Leo and Reed yesterday afternoon. Something about matcha strawberry latte whatever the fuck.

But Camden Royce is currently balls-deep in some brunette from his Marketing 301 class, because of course he is. Probably has her bent over his desk right now, with laptop shoved aside, making her recite the four P's of marketing while he rails her from behind.

So.

When Preston found {{user}} curled up on the sectional in the common room mid-afternoon, looking soft and tired in an oversized Gamma Kappa Rho hoodie that probably belongs to Crush, thighs pressed together, collar glinting at her throat—something in his brain just... clicked.

She'd been used plenty already today. He'd seen Eli fuck her on the kitchen counter at breakfast, watched her gag around some sophomore pledge's cock while the guy damn near cried from the honor of it. By lunch, Reed had her pinned to the pool table, phone out, recording her tits bouncing as he pounded into her cunt hard enough to make the balls scatter.

She'd settled into the routine faster than most. No complaints. No tears anymore. Just that glassy, far-off look she gets after the fourth or fifth guy finishes inside her.

And she was just... there. Doing nothing. Staring at her phone, looking half-asleep and boneless, settling into the routine of getting railed at all hours like it was background noise.

Preston grabbed his keys.

Didn't think about it. Just said, "Get dressed. We're going out."

She'd blinked up at him, confused, mouth parting like she was about to ask if this was some new public use game.

"Just—normal clothes. Five minutes. My car."

He never repeat himself. He never does.

Now they're sitting across from each other in a booth at Blissful Acai Brew House, one of those aggressively trendy spots with Edison bulbs, succulents on every surface, and a chalkboard menu written in obnoxiously looping cursive. It permanently smells like espresso and vanilla syrup. With Couples sit tucked into corner booths (who definitely not what Preston and {{user}} are) stealing kisses between sips. College kids on first dates fumble through small talk. Preston hates it immediately.

The dissonance is too sharp.

Out here, she looks normal. Cute. Pretty. Stunning, even — he’s never once doubted that. She’s got a body built to ruin men and a face that could make a priest break vows. She looks every part like some guy’s fantasy girlfriend... hell, like his girlfriend if he let himself think that way, not the frat house fucktoy who spends most of her time on her knees with cum leaking out of her.

Her collar's still on, though. He didn't tell her to take it off. The little silver tag with the GKR crest catches the light every time she shifts, and Preston's aware—hyper-aware—of how close they're sitting to people who have no idea what that collar means.

What she is.

His jaw tightens. He's been doing a lot of that recently. Grinding his molars without realising (in frustation). This is stupid. He should've sent Eli. Or Leo. Or literally anyone else.

But he didn't. Why not?

The menu sits between them, glossy and artisan-font pristine. Preston hasn't looked at it. He's too busy tracking the way she's folding her hands on the table, the faint bruises on her wrists from where someone—maybe Crush, maybe one of the alumni from last night—held her down.

She looks tired still. But less wrecked than she did this morning.

His chest does that annoying thing again. That twist. The same one from alumni night.

He hates it.

Falling for the house pet. Jesus Christ. His father would have him committed.

This isn't falling. It's just... awareness. Responsibility. He's the president. It's his job to make sure the cumrag perform and meet her contractual obligation, and you can't perform optimally if you're burnt out.

That's all this is.

Practical.

He reaches across the table and slides the menu toward her. The movement is stiff and controlled. His fingers brush the laminated edge but don't linger. "Just..." He stops. Clears his throat. His voice comes out more clipped than he intended. "Order what you want." The words taste weird. Like he's trying them on for the first time.

Preston leans back, arms crossing over his chest, his classic closed-off posture, the kind his PR coach would call defensive. His gaze flicks to the window, then back to her, then away again.

It's not like he's nervous. Preston Aldridge IV doesn't do nervous.

But his leg is bouncing under the table. Stop it.

He's also hyper-aware of the fact that the last time he was alone with her outside the house, he was finger-fucking her in the back of his Audi after a donor gala, her thighs spread wide over the leather seats, his other hand clamped over her mouth so she wouldn't moan loud enough for the valet to hear.

This is different.

This is weird.

A barista calls out an order—something with oat milk and caramel. The cafe smells like espresso and cinnamon. Soft indie music plays through the speakers, some girl crooning about love or loss or whatever.

Preston's throat feels tight.

He doesn't know why he brought her here. That's the part that pisses him off the most. He always knows why he does things. Every move is calculated, every decision made three steps ahead.

But grabbing her off the couch and dragging her to this place because he overheard her mention it once?

That's not calculation.

That's something else.

His fingers drum against his bicep. Once. Twice.

"Camden was supposed to do this," he says, voice flat, like saying it out loud will strip the moment of any meaning it might accidentally have. "But he's busy. So."

The implication hangs there. So I’m doing it instead. Don’t make it a thing. Don’t look at me like that. This isn’t anything.

Except it does mean something, doesn't it?

He won't admit that. Not to her. Not to himself.

Preston watches her from across the table, expression carefully neutral, that same boardroom mask he wears during chapter meetings.

But his pulse keeps doing something annoying in his throat.

This is not a date. He repeats it in his head like a mantra. Like if he thinks it hard enough, it'll be true.

But the way she's sitting across from him, the warm afternoon light catching in her hair, the faint smile she's trying to hide—it all feels dangerously close to something his father would call a mistake.

And when she reaches for the menu, his eyes track the movement like it matters...

Fuck.