The skin along the nape of my neck prickled with heat, convinced of his stare. I knew he was watching. I could feel the cold, suffocating weight of his attention pressing against my shoulders like an iron vice.
Steeling my nerves, I forced my chin up, prepared to meet that icy gray glare head-on.
He wasn't looking at me.
Alex stood casually behind the dark mahogany lectern, his silver fountain pen moving in fluid, uninterrupted strokes across an open ledger. His head remained bowed, thick dark hair falling slightly across his brow, completely absorbed in his notes. The students in the front row were frantically scribbling down the reading list he had written on the chalkboard, and he seemed entirely indifferent to the room around him.
A wave of dizzying relief washed over me, closely followed by a humiliating stab of embarrassment.
Am I losing my mind?
I stared down at my blank notebook, pressing my trembling palms flat against the wooden desk. I was inventing phantoms out of thin air, magnifying every shadow, turning an ordinary academic into a villain of some private nightmare. He was just a professor who happened to possess a photographic memory for class rosters. It was his job to know who sat in his lecture hall.
Calm down, Luna. There is nothing to be afraid of. You're fine.
Yet the cold rationalization did little to settle the gnawing doubt in my gut. How had he matched my face to my name before I had even uttered a single syllable? A roster gave a list of names; it did not come with portraits attached.
At one o'clock, the campus bells tolled through the leaden sky, their solemn chimes reverberating through the floorboards.
"That will be all," Alex stated, his baritone slicing cleanly through the muffled room. "Have the first three chapters of the Poetics annotated by Thursday morning."
A collective rustle of coats, zipped bags, and hurried chatter broke the tension. I shoved my notebooks into my satchel with reckless speed, my heart whispering a silent prayer of gratitude. The ordeal was over. I had survived the hour without breaking, and now I could vanish into the crowded hallways of St. Jude's before he looked up again.
As I hurried past the towering lancet doors, reality struck me like an icy gust of wind.
The Dean's office.
In the panic of the morning's collisions and the sheer terror of the seminar, my afternoon appointment had slipped completely from my mind. The administrative secretary had made it abundantly clear during check-in: Dean Sterling expected every newly matriculated graduate scholar in his study precisely fifteen minutes after the midday bell.
I turned down the east wing, my boots clicking rapidly against the flagged stone corridor. The administrative hall of St. Jude's was hushed, lined with heavy oil portraits of past chancellors peering down with severe, disapproving eyes. By the time I reached the towering mahogany door labeled Office of the Dean, my breath was shallow and my knuckles were damp.
I raised my hand, tapping lightly against the carved timber. "May I come in, sir?"
"Enter," a warm, reedy voice called from within.
I pushed the heavy door inward, stepped over the threshold, and felt the blood drain straight from my face.
No. God, please, no.
Standing by the broad lancet window, an unlit briar pipe resting between long, pale fingers, was Alexander Vance.
He was speaking in hushed, measured tones to Dean Sterling, an elderly man with a crown of white hair who sat behind an imposing desk stacked with leather bound ledgers. The scent of sweet tobacco and cedar hung heavy in the warm, wood-paneled room.
The breath trapped itself in my lungs. My mind scrambled into immediate, frantic terror. Did he report me? Is he here about the collision on the marble steps? Did I ruin some priceless manuscript when I knocked into him?
Dean Sterling looked up over the rims of his half-moon spectacles, his weathered face breaking into a cordial, grandfatherly smile.
"Ah, Luna! Come in, my dear, come in. Sit down. We've been expecting you," the Dean said, gesturing toward the high backed leather chair opposite his desk. "You are our second distinguished scholarship recipient this year, and we want to ensure you have every resource necessary to excel within our faculty."
I swallowed the tight lump in my throat, forcing my feet forward, though every instinct screamed at me to bolt out the door. I kept my eyes strictly averted from the window, but I could feel Alex turning around, his tall silhouette blocking the pale afternoon light.
"Thank you, sir," I stammered, my voice trembling slightly as I sat on the very edge of the leather cushion, clutching my satchel against my knees like a barricade. "I'm grateful. But... I was told this was an urgent administrative matter?"
"Indeed it is," Dean Sterling sighed, folding his liver-spotted hands atop a manila folder. "As part of your academic scholarship, the university is contracted to provide your residential accommodations. However, due to the unexpected flooding in the north quadrangle over the summer, the graduate dormitory is entirely oversubscribed. We simply have no unoccupied quarters on campus."
I frowned, a sliver of confusion breaking through my anxiety. "Then... am I to look for a private boarding house in town?"
"Under normal circumstances, perhaps," the Dean replied, leaning back in his swivel chair. "However, given the late hour of the term and the rigorous nature of your coursework, that seemed an unfair burden to place upon our newest scholar. Fortunately, a solution presented itself."
The Dean offered a small, grateful nod toward the tall man standing by the hearth.
"I have spoken at length with Professor Vance," Dean Sterling continued smoothly. "He has graciously agreed to serve as your primary academic mentor for the term. Moreover, given the considerable size of his private residence on St. Claire Terrace, he has offered to accommodate you for the next few months until a university suite becomes available."
The room tilted. The air vanished from my lungs in an instant, leaving a hollow, sickening vacuum behind my ribs.
Living with him?
My gaze snapped helplessly toward the window.
Alex stood motionless, one hand buried deep in the pocket of his tailored trousers. His pale gray eyes bore down on me, unblinking, dark with an amusement so subtle and lethal it made the hair on my arms stand on end. The corner of his mouth curved upward into that same slow, predatory smirk that had shattered my composure that morning.
He had not stumbled into the Dean's office by chance. He had orchestrated this.
"I I couldn't possibly impose," I choked out, the words tumbling through my dry lips in desperate protest. "I'm sure I can find a small room near the station, sir, really"
"Nonsense, Miss Jones," Alex murmured, his deep baritone cutting through my panic with quiet, unyielding authority. "St. Claire Terrace is quiet. Conducive to serious study. And as your mentor, I intend to keep a very close eye on your progress."
The floor felt as though it had given way entirely. The fresh start, the clean slate, the sanctuary I had crossed the country to find it was gone. I wasn't just enrolled in his class.
I was walking directly into his home.