But despite myverystrong desire to do just that, I don’t. Kissing her is one thing; to drink from her is something else entirely. Something I absolutely willnotbe doing.
So I lick the venom from my fangs and force myself to step back. My cock is still straining against my slacks, and I most certainly can’t walk into my next lecture like this.
“If you have further questions,” I say, voice rough, throat burning with the taste of my venom, “you know where to find me.”
Maeve’s purple eyes narrow just a bit, as if she’s studying me. Then she brushes her palms over her short pleated skirt, walks to the door, and turns the lock. “Good day, Severin.”
A ripple of desire goes through me at her use of my name. Even that feels forbidden. “Good day, Maeve.”
Her smile is a bright lantern burning through a dark night. And then she opens the door, letting in the cool air from the corridor, and is gone.
I immediately look down at myself, at the bulge in my slacks, and notice the wet spot she left on the fabric. There’s no way I’m going to be able to hide that.
Fuck.
Now I’m going to have to get back to my staff apartment and change my clothes before my next lecture.
I sigh heavily.
This witch is going to ruin me.
Chapter 15
Maeve
“ELEMENTAL CONTROL IS NOT MEASURED by the output of your magic, nor the sheer amount of power you can summon,” Professor Azula says from where she stands in the center of the elemental magic practice room. “It isprecisionthat defines mastery.”
She begins to walk slowly around the room, her hands clasped behind her back, bright red hair pulled up into a sleek, tight bun atop her head. “If you cannot precisely control your magic, you will become victim to its whims.”
As she passes by me, her crimson eyes meet mine, and she gives me an almost imperceptible nod.
At my sides, my hands tingle.
My first- and second-year elemental magic classes were larger, with many more students. But now that I’m a fourth-year, I’m in advanced classes, focused on our natural magical affinities. This class only has six students, including Lyra, who stands across the room from me, arms crossed and one hip popped as her eyes track Professor Azula’s movement.
“Today, youwill demonstrate control, not raw strength. Your task is simple: Use your elemental magic to cut along the line etched into your slate. This cut should be no wider than a hairline. No fractures.
“Each of you will perform individually. I will observe and note any mistakes. Begin only when you are fully composed.” She turns to a warlock with a water affinity. “Mr. Larke. When you’re ready.”
Percy looks visibly nervous—throat bobbing, fingers clenching and unclenching at his sides. From here, I can’t see what the line in his slate looks like, but mine curves along the stone, never moving in one straight line. It makes sense that the other students are nervous—and Professor Azula’s hawkish gaze certainly doesn’t help—but I’m not concerned. I’ve spent my life learning how to control my storm magic, learning how to guide the current of energy that tingles through my veins lest it explode in violent and disastrous ways.
Holding out his hands, Percy calls on his water magic, gathering moisture from the air before condensing it into one thin thread. He uses this thread to carve into the slate, sweat gathering on his furrowed brow as he works. Just when I think he must almost be done, a large chunk fractures and falls from his slate, crashing to the floor and making the other students jump. The remaining chunk of slate has a jagged edge rather than a clean cut. Percy’s shoulders slump in defeat.
Professor Azula purses her lips, eyes narrowing. Then she moves on. “Miss Wilder.”
My chest squeezes.
Lyra has workedsohard to learn how to control her fire magic. Two years ago, she was on the verge of being expelledafter one too many close calls with her flames. She’s come so far since then, and in my heart, Iknowshe can do this.
It doesn’t make me any less nervous though.
Lyra’s eyes narrow, and she draws a deep breath. Then she lifts a hand, conjuring a flame into her palm.
“Fire should not leave scorch marks,” Professor Azula says. “Keep it contained.”
Lyra nods once, face focused. And then she begins, tracing her line through the slate with controlled threads of fire.
I bite my bottom lip, heart thudding hard as I watch her.
