But I guess I never fucked a professor before this year either—so there’s a first time for everything.
I sit in the chair on the opposite side of Severin’s big desk, my shoes abandoned, my knees tucked into my chest. Severin keeps eyeing me, a furrow between his dark brows, and finally, I ask, “What?”
He lets out a tight breath. “If someone walks in here and finds you like that...” He glances at how I’m sitting in the chair, curled up in it like I’m in a cozy library nook rather than meeting with a professor during office hours. His gaze flicks to the door, which isn’t locked, then back to me.
One of my brows arches. “They’ll what, Professor?”
I’m wearing my academy-issued skirt, and I’m aware that if I shift my knees just slightly, it allows Severin to see right between my legs.
He clenches his teeth, making the muscles along his jaw clench. “Maeve.” There’s a warning in his tone, all sexy andprofessory, and his fingers curl tighter around his quill. “I’d rather not lose my job my first semester here.”
He’s got a point.
“Okay, okay.” I shift in the chair—making sure Severin gets a quick look at the lacy black panties I’m wearing today—and put my feet on the floor, then smooth my skirt down and push my hair back over one shoulder. “Better?”
His black eyes narrow a bit. “Mm.”
He’s grumbly today, and it makes me want to pester him. But I understand his concern. I don’t want him to lose his job either.
I refocus on the parchment in front of me. I’ve got the previous draft of my application essay spread out on Severin’s desk, and the fresh parchment for my next draft stares up at me, empty.
“What are you struggling with?” he asks.
I nibble my lip, gaze scanning the clean penmanship swirling across the page. “I’m not sure. Professor Azula said I’m being tooimpassionedand that the collective is looking for someone who’s...” I search my memory, trying to recall the words she used. “Steadfast and controlled.”
Severin makes another one of those thoughtful grumbly sounds, then puts his quill down and holds out a hand. “Let me see it.”
After gathering up the pieces of parchment, I hand them over to him—ensuring my fingers brush his during the exchange. The touch makes his dark gaze flick to mine knowingly, and I just smile.
Parchment in hand, Severin sits back in his chair, gaze focusing on my essay. While he reads, I pull my boots back on, then push to my feet and walk to the office window. It’s rainingtoday, a constant downfall that’s made everything gray and wet and foggy. Rainwater tracks down the windowpanes, and it’s difficult to see anything clearly beyond the glass. But the steady patter of the rain is calming.
Behind me, a fire crackles in the hearth, keeping the office warm despite the cold air outside. I move toward it, and I’m standing with my hands out, warming them up, when Severin sets my essay down with a whisper of paper on wood. I glance over my shoulder at him, and he’s staring at the rain-streaked window, eyes narrowed, fingers tracing his chin thoughtfully.
“Well?” I ask, turning to face him and letting the fire warm the backs of my legs. “What do you think?”
For a long while, he continues to stare at the glass. I don’t push him, instead studying him as he thinks.
He’s usually clean-shaven, but today he’s got a dark shadow, the hints of a beard darkening his jaw. I want to run my fingers over his face, to know what it would feel like against my skin, my lips, but I haven’t done so yet. Maybe I can sneak a moment with him before I leave.
“I disagree with Professor Azula,” he says at long last. His dark eyes finally meet mine. “I understand why she’s cautioning you not to be too emotional in your writing—it’s true that the Arcanum Collective is interested in scholars who’re focused and have clear ideas they want to explore—but...” He shakes his head, just a single small movement, as if he’s surprised at what he’s going to say. “But your entire reason for wanting to attend the collectiveisemotional. Wanting to improve living conditions for nonmagic citizens requires passion. It requires heart.” Slowly, he lowers his fingers from his chin, tapping them on the parchment atop his desk. “You’ve removed the heart from this essay. It feels thin. Sterile.”
My eyes narrow, and I feel a furrow form in my brow. “I don’t understand. Azula told me that’ll hurt my chances of getting the fellowship. You’re saying the opposite.”
“Azula teaches containment,” he says. “When you deal in volatile elements, control keeps you alive.” Once again, his gaze shifts to the window, and far off, I feel a rumble of thunder. My skin prickles with an electric current.
The way he looks off into space, his face tight, makes me take a small step toward his desk.
“It sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”
Immediately, his eyes meet mine.
I expect him to shut down, to remind me of the wall he still has built up. It’s like there are tiny windows in the wall, and every so often he’ll let me glance through, but it’s very clearly still there.
But he surprises me.
“Yes. Control has been my only refuge. So I know better than most how powerful it is. But...” He reaches for my essay, lifting the paper from the desk. “The Arcanum Collective don’t accept students or fund research because they think it’s safe. They fund it because itmatters.”
I don’t know what to say. Behind me, the fire pops, accompanying the patter of rain on the window.
