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I am not my father.
That’s why I’m allowing Phoenix to sashay to the door instead of disposing of her for putting the mission at risk.
I lean against the desk with my hands braced on its leather surface, my gaze on her swinging hips. She wears a pewter skater-style dress that skims her delectable, round ass and ends at mid-thigh. It’s patterned with pink and turquoise flowers.
She looks too innocent for someone who just blackmailed me to be her… fuck toy? Sugar daddy? Dom?
Heat rushes to my groin, and my jaw tightens.
Why the fuck is the traitor in my pants swelling at extortion?
Phoenix pulls down the door handle and glances over her shoulder at me with a triumphant smirk.
“See you on Saturday,” she whispers. “Marius.”
My nostrils flare. Crius would tell me to kill her. Now, before word spreads that the new professor is fraternizing with students. Now, before the dean revokes my access to Marina University. Now, before Odin and the rest of the Bestlasson family realize that a spy is about to rob them of an heir.
But Crius Vanir holds no sway over my actions. I curl my fists and I watch Phoenix disappear into the hallway.
The door swings shut behind her and closes with a click that breaks me out of my Phoenix-induced stupor.
There are five days between now and Saturday. Five days for Phoenix to spread the word to the other students that she plans to fuck a professor.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. How the fuck do I silence her before then?
“You’re thinking about this all wrong,” I mutter under my breath. “What does she want?”
Dinner.
Playroom.
Sex on Saturday.
Further sex on demand.
Financial support.
And she’s prepared to hold her silence as long as I satisfy her demands.
In short, Phoenix wants a sugar daddy.
The corners of my lips twitch, and tremors of mirth hit my gut before erupting into a deep belly laugh that has me clutching my middle. Was I seriously contemplating ending a sexy piece of ass for trying to coerce me into giving her something I want?
A knock sounds from outside.
It opens and Dr. Xander pokes his head through the doorway. “Professor Segul?” he says, his voice hopeful. “Do you have time for a chat?”
My amusement deflates like a flat tire. “No.”
The man’s face falls, and his head retreats like a tortoise withdrawing into his shell. ”Another time, perhaps?”
“Wait.”
He stops.
“How do I look up details on a student?”
Dr. Xander—who would be delighted if I would call him Carl—jogs into the room and logs me onto Marina University’s staff intranet, where I can view records on anything imaginable, including security footage from cameras in the hallways, grounds, and lecture theaters.
