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My gaze finally zeroed in on his name.
Caelum Hawthorne.
Somehow, that felt familiar. I wanted to say it out loud, to see how it felt on my tongue, but I didn’t dare utter a single syllable, not when he was still gazing back at me like I was his next meal. Instead, I stayed quiet and let myself study the swirling wood on the top of his desk. That felt safe enough, at least.
“Kaci Iverson,” he began.
His voice, melodic and charismatic, rolled down my spine like a droplet of sweat, cold and icy and hot and sweltering at the same time.
“Am I in trouble?” I asked, using scarcely above a whisper. I sat back, wanting to put as much distance between us as possible.
“No, you’re not in trouble,” he answered smoothly, too smoothly if you ask me. There was a dark glint to his eyes that almost seemed seductive, like it was drawing me in with some weird magnetic pull. His eyes glanced downward.
Shit. I had come to the president’s office for whatever reason, and I still wasn’t wearing a bra. I should have taken the long walk and gone back to my dorm. Sure, I might have panicked on the walk there and back, but at least my nipples wouldn’t be standing at firm attention right now and on full display beneath my skimpy crop top.
What was I thinking?The truth was, I hadn’t been. I’d just been confused and terrified of whatever he wanted, so I came when I was called like a goddamn obedient dog.
Maybe this was all a dream, and I was just high as fuck still. Maybe I had smoked some weird strain that had gotten laced with something more than just the ride on the pineapple express that I had originally thought I was going to take. I wanted to pinch myself to see if this was all real, but that would probably add more to the psycho wagon I was already on.
He was staring at me… No, not me, my nipples. I could feel my cheeks heating, my embarrassment writing itself all over my face. I’d always been told that I wore my emotions on my sleeve. That habit had spurned me time and time again, so I shouldn’t be surprised that it was betraying me now.
His scrutiny didn’t end there. It only intensified.
Ever heard the phrase ‘hungry as the wolf’? Well, that’s what this was. He looked like he was just about to devour me whole.
As if suddenly remembering himself, he started and flicked his eyes back up to mine. He cleared his throat and sat back, appraising me with a cool, steadfast resolve, like he had decided something for me, and I wasn’t going to have a choice about it.
“Kaci,” he began, “Every so often, my institution goes through a rigorous inventory of our students, cataloging each and every one of you based on personality, how you fit in, and both your potential and actual academic performance,” he explained.
I grimaced inwardly at the mention of my academic record. I was called ‘The Politician’, and the whole student body would have been a mess without me. And I was a prettyokaystudent. I knew of plenty worse in my own dorms, but for some reason, when it came out of his mouth, I felt a deep sense of shame at my performance, like I had let him down even though the two of us were perfect strangers to one another.
“You, in particular, stood out to my team,” he continued.
“Me?” I asked, my voice timid and nervous, and I hated myself for it.
“You.” He smiled, but it was so forced I wished he hadn’t. Luckily, he dropped it after a second. “You were singled out for a new program we’re starting at our sister institution, one where we intend to give specialized assistance to those who showcase certain traits.”
“Like a science experiment,” I murmured, and it was too late when I realized that I had spoken out loud.
“A focused study,” he corrected.
I narrowed my eyes, trying to figure out where this was going before it went there.
“At your sister institution,” I echoed.
Newsome University was a sizable private college set on the outskirts of New Orleans. It was small and quaint, a cozy second-home to me since moving away from my parents back in Jackson, Mississippi. On the other hand, our sister college, Crescentvale University, was set in San Francisco, California. It looked nice, it looked cool, it looked hip, but I wasn’t made to live a life in California.
“Yes, Miss Iverson,” he answered.
My mind raced with possibilities. Was he insinuating that I leave Louisiana and move across the country to a new state? No, that couldn’t be right.
“You mean virtually, correct?” I tried.
He shook his head, and my heart fell.
“What kind of program?” I asked.
“You’re on track with our language program, with a minor in political sciences. Is that right,” he said rather matter-of-factly.
