Page 73 of Volik

I dressed… conservatively. Jeans. My boots. And a thick brown turtleneck sweater. Covering as much of my skin as possible. As if that will remove the temptation to bare my neck to Volik should he show up again.

But my best intentions have backfired. Because now I’m hot.

With the hand not holding my coffee, I shove my sleeve up to my elbow. The knitted material bunches, then immediately slides back down.

My nostrils flare in frustration.

It’s like Volik’s warmth has soaked into my bones and is heating me from the inside out.

I lift my chin, trying to get some air to flow down the high neckline.

It doesn’t work.

Taking a slow breath, I keep my steps relaxed.

Just get to my room.

I can strip down to my tank top and cool off before class starts.

Assuming I’m still teaching today.

It’s Wednesday, so it’s my Investigative Journalism day. I have the same class again Friday. And both days I teach the same curriculum at ten and at one.

Hopefully, the students are chill like the ones I had yesterday in my Tuesday/Thursday Ethics in Journalism classes.

Thinking about it, I bet I’ll recognize a lot of the students today from yesterday. Most of the kids in my classes are journalism majors who are required to take both courses.

Nothing says ethics like almost fucking a stranger in your classroom.

I take the final turn and slow.

Parked on the lawn in front of the Bates Hall is a pickup truck with Stalden University painted down the side.

Is this security?

Am I going to be escorted off the property?

My steps slow even more.

Can I be arrested for what we did?

I’m about to stop when I notice the man standing at the front door. Or rather, fixing the front door.

His body blocks my view of what he’s doing, but if I had to guess, I’d say he’s in the process of replacing the glass pane in the door.

One of many things Volik broke with his power.

Yes, Volik. This is his fault. He can take the blame.

Squaring my shoulders, pretending I’m not about to throw up from nerves, I keep walking.

“Morning!” I try for cheerful, but it comes out squeaky, causing the man to startle and drop his screwdriver. “Oh my gods, I’m so sorry!” I rush forward and bend down to pick up his screwdriver. But I forgot to close the lid on my travel tumbler, so hot coffee pours out onto the downed tool.

“Shit.” I straighten. “I am so sorry.”

The man chuckles. “No worries, miss.”

He looks to be in his thirties. Has a mustache. And he’s wearing a zip-up jacket, sporting the school logo with the word Maintenance embroidered below it.