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“Take your seats!” a feminine voice barks out, redirecting my focus to the front of the classroom. The instructor—a thick woman swathed in a plethora of colorful fabrics from her scarf to her loose, flowing shirt over an equally voluminous skirt—enters the classroom, and the door swings shut with a resounding thud behind her.

She bustles over to the podium and drops her bag. With a few quick clicks, she fires up the computer station at the front of the room and turns toward the whiteboard that stretches across nearly the entire wall behind her desk. “Welcome to Literature 101.”

For the rest of class, I try and fail to pay attention to the woman who introduces herself as Dr. Shante. She’s quick, darting back and forth from one side of the classroom to the other as she writes out various notes. A lineup of books we’re to purchase for the semester. Her bullet-pointed list of her expectations and more.

All I can seem to focus on is the man sitting next to me, close enough for the scents of cigarette smoke and lavender to invade my senses. Peering at him out of the corner of my eye, I watch the way his slender fingers write down each note that Dr. Shante makes. Then my eyes fall on the faded cover of the book next to him.

The Picture of Dorian Gray. The same book he’d been reading the day we’d met. I wonder if it’s an ominous sign that he, too, isn’t what he appears. His handsome face is severe, almost too serious. Yet I can’t help my morbid curiosity. Cameron Goode has the aura of something utterly undefinable. A man out of time. A misplaced soul or something … dangerous.

As soon as that thought has crossed my mind, I rein it back. I am not interested in getting to know anything more about the Sons of Salem, I remind myself.

Then Elodie’s words from earlier pop back into my head in a poorly timed contradiction. You have an opportunity … Maybe it’ll bring you two closer. Spiritually.

Damn it. That’s right. My dad had come to this school, and from the way Elodie had explained things, the Sons of Salem have been around for decades—each generation of the families under constant scrutiny. It really is a wonder none of them have ever moved away. My dad must have noticed it himself. Maybe he was friends with their dads when he was here. Maybe that’s why he was so anti-occult and hated anything to do with witches.

Exactly one hour later, my thoughts have devolved into a spiral of considering questions. I talk myself out of asking Cameron a damn thing and then talk myself right back into it a million times. By the time the bell rings to signal the end of class, I’m a fucking mental mess. Dr. Shante moves away from the podium and waves all of us to the door.

“I’ll see you again on Wednesday, class,” she states. “Remember, my office hours won’t officially start until next week. If you need to see me before then, you can email me and set up an appointment.”

I’ve got my notebook stored away in record time and am up and out of my seat, waiting for Cameron to move and facilitate my escape before I change my mind again. He must know this too, because instead of getting up or putting away his own things, he glances up at me and quirks a brow.

“In a hurry?” he asks.

“I have another class,” I say, looking anywhere but his face. “I want to be on time.”

Instead, he leans back, blocking my way even more effectively. “The next classes don’t start for another fifteen minutes,” he says. “Where are you heading?”

Slowly, I force myself to meet his eyes. Quiet hazel irises fogged over by gray and flecks of bronze and topaz spear into me from behind round glasses with frames so thin that they nearly disappear entirely. I don’t know who decided that glasses meant someone was intelligent, but I have to admit, they do wonders for his looks, highlighting his natural features in such a way that I curse his genetics. It’s not fair for him to be as attractive as he is. I stomp on the heat pooling low in my belly and tighten my fingers on the strap of my bag.

“Is that really any of your business?” I quip back.

Now, both of his brows shoot up as if he’s surprised by my terse tone. Those hazel-brown eyes peer at me curiously. Several beats of silence pass, and I cast a frustrated look at all of the students leaving the room and disappearing into the hallway.

“You dislike me.”

I swing my gaze back to his. “What?” My jaw goes slack at his statement, because it is a statement and not a question. Then I deny it. “No, I don’t.” It’s not dislike, per se, but more discomfort.

“Your body language and tone say otherwise.” Cameron’s words are even. There’s no hint as to whether or not he’s bothered by it, and if he’s not, then why even bring it up in the first place? Before I can ask, though, Cameron pushes back from his seat and packs his belongings with careful and quick movements.

“I’m sorry if I did something to offend you. I assure you it wasn’t on purpose.”

“You didn’t—” I stop myself and shake my head. How am I supposed to respond to someone that’s so … candid?

“Would you let me walk you to your next class?” Of all the questions I thought he’d ask me, that would have been at the bottom of my list. I eye him suspiciously. Without Ezra standing nearby to overshadow him, Cameron appears broader than before. I find myself watching the flex of muscle in his arms and shoulders as he lifts his bag.

“Why?” I finally blurt out.

Cameron tilts his head to the side, a shadow falling over one half of his face. He’s attractive in the masculine style, but also in the androgynous sense. He’s so fucking pretty with smooth skin that girls would die for, long, dark lashes, and an appealing bone structure. “Because I don’t want you to dislike me.”

Stunned into silence, I don’t have a response for that as he finally moves out into the aisle and down toward the front of the classroom. I follow him not necessarily because I plan on letting him walk me to my next class but because I have to get there either way.

Out in the hall, I cast him a sidelong glance, but he doesn’t say anything more as we walk. Side by side out of the building and down a stone corridor that leads around the back of the building and into another courtyard, neither of us say a word. Every so often, though, his shoulder brushes mine, and the heat of him feels like a brand on my soul. My breath catches, and I hold it for several moments, just long enough for spots to dance in front of my eyes before releasing it.

Minutes later, and thankfully not late, we stop in front of an open doorway that leads into another classroom—this one set up in a flat space with several desks instead of long tables. He offers me a smile.

“Good luck,” he murmurs. “Have a good day of classes, Haven.” Then he turns and walks away, and I’m left staring after him, a mixture of confusion and dazed warmth spreading throughout my chest.

I glance to the door plaque and then into the classroom, frowning when I spy the words Botany 101 scribbled on the board. The bell chimes a second later. I jump at the noise that marks the end of the in-between period and rush inside to find a seat.