Page 6

When their head peeks out the door as if they want to be discreet and verify I’m still here, I decide I should start talking so as not to spook my new teacher when her nosy colleague comes and asks what I’m doing watching her with insistence.

“Is this the French classroom?” I ask even though I know the answer.

She stops what she is doing but doesn’t turn my way.

“Oui. Mais la classe ne commence que dans une heure,” she tells me in a strong voice that is the sign of someone used to teaching to full classes.

Maybe I’m wrong in my assessment that this woman is all softness after all.

Why do I like that idea?

And why all of a sudden do I want to get under her skirt instead of under her skin?

I realize belatedly that I didn’t understand a single word after she said “oui” when she translates—most likely what she just said in French—at my questioning face.

I’m not questioning what the hell she just said, though.

I’m questioning how the fuck my sanity is going to survive in this class knowing the way I react to her scent and her voice.

This is going to be harder than I thought.

And so, because I’m a masochist, I walk in until I’m right under her nose and force her to backtrack until she has nowhere to go.

I’m right in front of her, our bodies almost touching, and all I can think about is the smell of her. This is divine. She smells divine.

For a second she closes her eyes and turns her face away from me, and my fangs shift out.

Submission.

She doesn’t know yet, but this is a sign of submission, and my wolf can see it. It can see it too well, and now it wants my fangs in her neck, marking her as mine for all to see.

This is the first time this shit has happened to me.

This is not normal.

And so I look over her shoulder and pick up some paper and a pencil, and get away from that very tempting throat before I do something stupid.

That’s how I end up sitting in the front row of her classroom with too much time on my hands.

I don’t mind.

She knows I’m here now, and I can look at her glide around the room all I want.

I know she’s looking at me too. She thinks she’s doing it discreetly, but I still can tell.

Or maybe it’s that she isn’t as good at being invisible as she is at being inaudible.

4

Constance

By the time the rest of the class joins us, I’m a mess.

I don’t show it—obviously—but I definitely don’t feel like my usual self.

I’m also curious as to who the male is that messed up my usual routine before class.

This better not be how it’s going to be every day before class, or I don’t think my nerves are going to survive.