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The most dangerous kind.
I can practically hear Mack screeching in my ear to call 911. “I’m calling the cops!”
I scramble back, legs smacking against my desk in my hurry to lunge for my phone on the couch. I dial 9-1 and race to the window to make sure he’s still there, to give them the most accurate description I can get of a man hidden entirely in shadow.
But he’s gone.
CHAPTER SIX
SAINT
I don’t lether escape after class this time. Once the clock ticks down to the final five minutes, my bag is already packed. As soon as Professor Molester dismisses us, I’m at her side, leaning against the podium with my arms folded, but she doesn’t recognize my posture. If only I’d worn my mask.
“I’d like to get your opinion,” I tell her before the professor can corner her.
Briar’s blue eyes are wide for a second, darting between me and the professor seated a few feet from us, monitoring our exchange. He’d probably love to watch me fuck her too.
“Uh, sure. What can I help you with?”
“It’s about a book.”
I pretend to dig in my bag until Professor Molester sighs and rocks his ancient body out of his chair with a huff. “See you next week, Briar.” He squeezes her shoulder as he brushes past her because he can’t not touch her, and I’m tempted to knock him out right here.
But I clench my jaw and nearly snap my phone in half instead. When I kill him, there can’t be any witnesses to an argument between us. No clues, no connection, no trail to follow.
As I type in the passcode on my phone, I give Briar a full view of the screen.
She lets out a short, surprised laugh. When I lift a brow, she asks, “Sorry, is your passcode 0229?”
“It is.”
“That’s my birthday,” she explains. “Funny coincidence.”
I shake my phone. “Then it’ll be easy for me to remember. I’ll be sure to get you something nice.”
She smirks like she thinks I’m joking. “You could track down S.T. Nicholson for me and get him to sign my book.”
“Done.”
Her head tilts like she doesn’t get my sense of humor, but what she truly doesn’t get is that none of this is a joke to me. “So what did you want my opinion on?”
I click on the review and hand her my phone. Surprise flickers across her features like she didn’t expect me to hand it over to her so willingly, but she drops her gaze to the screen and reads, muttering some of the words under her breath while injecting her own curses, brows creasing adorably.
When she reaches the end, she rolls her eyes. “Half of this review is factually inaccurate and the other half is like he’s willfully misinterpreting the author’s intent.”
I can’t help it—a wide smile blooms across my lips. “Really?”
“He acts like an author can’t possibly have a vivid imagination. That he must be some deranged serial killer or a necrophiliac or something to be able to write about those things. You and I both know that’s not true.”
A thrum of panic zings through me before I remember she knows me as Saint de Haas, the MFA student, not S.T.Nicholson, the multi-published bestselling author. “Right. Some believe writers can write only based on their own experiences.”
“Exactly. And what kind of person complains about the sex scenes in anerotichorror novel? Hello, it’s in the genre. ‘Gratuitous’? ‘Too detailed’? How can a sex scene in erotica be too detailed? This guy is projecting because he hasn’t been laid in five years, that’s for sure.”
I grin, leaning on my elbows to get closer to her. To admire the soft edges of her jaw and cheekbones, the gentle slope of her nose and pout to her lips. “And you’re so certain the reviewer is a man?”
“Positive.”
“How so?”
