The scroll falls to the stone floor beneath our feet, and Maeve shakes out her hand. I look down at mine, wondering if storm witches are always so electrically charged or if it’s justthisone in particular.
“Sorry,” she says. There’s a hint of frustration in her voice. “My magic has been... unpredictable lately.”
She bends to retrieve the parchment, and I take a moment to grit my teeth and clench my fingers into a fist, fighting back the urge I have to touch her, to sink my fangs into her smooth throat and—
“Professor? Are you all right?” She tips her head as she straightens, and her long purple hair slips over her shoulder with the movement, the glossy strands catching the morning light streaming through the classroom windows.
And Ialmostreach out to see if her hair is as silky as it looks. I have to force my hands to remain at my sides.
“I’m fine.” This time, I’m careful not to brush her fingers when I take the offered scroll. “Good day, Miss Vandermere.”
Her plum lips press into a tight line, and what looks like a spark of determination or irritation flashes through her violet eyes.
Then she turns, her hair swaying behind her as she goes, and she leaves me holding my breath, my body going rigidas her scent swirls through the warm air. I feel my control wanting to slip, feel my predatory desire to chase after her, to pin her to the door and tip her chin back so I can drag my tongue across her throat. I grit my teeth against it, making my jaw ache.
When the door closes behind her, I immediately gasp and reach for my new flask, then lift it to my lips, downing half of it in one go. The last three weeks, I’ve consumed much more blood than I typically do, trying to keep myself satiated.
But the blood tastes like water compared to Maeve’s scent, and it takes everything in me not to imagine howherblood would feel going down my throat.
Because I know without any shred of doubt that it would be rapturous.
It would be my undoing.
Chapter 9
Maeve
“HEY!” I CALL OUT WHEN I get back to the dorm room after my last class of the day. I expect one of the girls to respond, but no one does. Yuki, Alina’s arctic fox spirit companion, is napping on the couch, and I give him a scratch behind the ear before climbing the stairs into the loft, but I find the room empty.
Isis is still twined around my neck, hiding beneath my hair, and she starts a leisurely trail down my left arm. I approach my bed and hold my arm out so she can slither off my hand and wrap around one of my bedposts.
“You seem bothered,” she hisses, tipping her glossy black head at me. “What’s upsetting you?”
I let out a big sigh and collapse onto my soft mattress. “I don’t know.”
Isis hisses again. “Don’t lie to yourself—or to me.”
She knows me too well.
“The fellowship. My application essay. My energy sphere.”
I’ve been practicing and practicing, but since the first day of the semester, I haven’t been able to hold the sphere together for any longer than a second or two.
“Maybe I’m missing something.” I roll onto my side and prop my head on one hand. “This has to work. I just need to figure it out.”
Isis twines up onto one of the horizontal bed rails and looks down at me from above. “And what of your professor?”
I narrow my eyes at her. “What do you mean?”
From down here, I can see Isis’s shiny red underside, and I can understand why many people are scared of her. But I never have been.
“You forget,” she hisses, “that I can feel your pulse when I’m around your throat. And when you’re in Professor D’Arques’s class, your heart races.”
Fuck.
My mind searches for an explanation of some sort, but I come up empty-handed.
Because Isis is right.
