She’s staring up at me from her knees, mouth full, one hand squeezing my balls.
Control is a—
With a guttural moan, I cum, dumping my load with that image of Maeve playing out behind my eyelids. And with every muscle contraction and rope of release, I expect that image of her to dissolve like sugar in tea, like smoke in the sky.
But it doesn’t. It stays right there, burned into my mind, refusing to budge.
And now I’m left in the dark, trousers around my ankles, hand covered in cum, with that witch’s purple eyes gleaming like embers in my mind.
My breathing is loud in the silence. My throat is dry and raspy, begging for blood.
And the worst part is, I don’t feel any better.
I just feel like seeing her again.
Chapter 8
Severin
IT’S BEEN THREE WEEKS AT the academy. Three weeks since I first met Maeve Vandermere and lost control to the thought of her.
And now I’m standing at the front of the classroom, forcing my body not to react to her as she stares down at me from the elevated seating, challenging me yet again, this time regarding blood magic.
“It sounds like the witch’s mistake wasn’t using her blood,” Maeve says. “It was casting her spell without focused intent.”
“With ordinary magic, this may be true,” I say, keeping my attention fixed anywhere but on the thrum of Maeve’s pulse in her smooth pale neck, which I can see clearly despite the space between us in the lecture hall. “With blood magic, the stakes are much higher.” I pull my gaze away from Maeve, letting it track across the other fourth-years in the room. “Blood magic doesn’t weaken when you lose focus or have diluted intentions; it commits.”
“To what?” another witch in the class asks.
“To the lifeblood closest to the spell. Blood calls to blood; it’s drawn back to itself.”
“So, the problem is proximity,” Maeve says, drawing my gaze back to her again. “If the witch had been more controlled, she wouldn’t have caused the accidental bond.”
I give a subtle shake of my head. “Incorrect, Miss Vandermere. Had she demonstrated more control, the bond would have been guided, chosen. Not avoided.”
There’s a slight feathering along her jaw, and she narrows her violet eyes at me. I can hear another argument already poised on her tongue, but before she can get it out, the deep chime of the academy’s clock signals the end of the class period.
As my students launch into movement, packing away their books and quills, I say, “Your essays on failed containment spells are due next class period. They’re to be on my desk before the lecture begins.”
Some students look worried at the reminder; it’s always easy to tell who’s prepared and who isn’t.
I step behind my lectern and turn the page in my journal to glance over my notes for my next class of the day. But my fingers fall still on the parchment when her smell wraps around me.
I’ve spent three weeks trying to control my reaction to her smell, and it’s been about as easy as grasping the wind.
“Professor,” she says, her voice lined with that gritty edge I’ve started to hear in my dreams.
I don’t look up. “Yes, Miss Vandermere?”
“My essay.”
There’s a rustle of paper, and I finally flick my gaze up to find her standing there, offering me a scroll.
“You’ve completed the assignment already?”
Her lips are painted a dark plum today, and they beckon me to stare as they pull up on one side. “Yes, sir.”
A burst of heat goes through me, and my gaze meets hers. She offers the scroll again, holding it out to me, and I finally accept it. Her fingers brush mine, and immediately, a static discharge sparks at the contact, making us both draw back suddenly.
