Page 33 of Tempest

Ardyn

What can you do to tame a beast?

You soften under him. Make him believe you’re not a threat. Coax and cajole and…

Turn into a wanton mess because you desire him just as badly as the hardness poking into your belly tells you he does, too.

The walk to my next class does funny things to my insides … and outside. Tempest ignited something in me previously forgotten. I’ve been so immersed in planning and proving that my nervous breakdown wasn’t a result of mental fragility that I’d let my stupid childhood crush on Tempest slip into oblivion.

The rush of it coming back coupled with the rise in pleasure he induced—I’m shocked I make it to my seat without bringing myself to orgasm simply by walking from point A to point B.

Pulling out my books helps. Throwing myself into the routine of setting up for medieval history and architecture centers my mind, and slowly, painfully, the memory of Tempest’s hands on me dissipates, though the heat he left behind will linger for hours.

The lecture goes by without issue. I take an insane amount of notes, focused solely on the syllabus and not the tickling at the back of my brain. It feels like eyes are on me, a certain, burning stare that can come from only one man.

Except he’s not here.

I turn around anyway, convinced he’s standing in one of the dark corners, arms crossed as he watches me endlessly.

Of course, I’m greeted by an empty wall. Tempest’s classes are all at the STEM buildings. Along with his professor, whose name is so familiar…

I squeeze my eyes closed.

Too much trauma, my therapist said, can lead to fantasies where you are in control instead of becoming the victim.

I’d responded, But I wasn’t holding the gun. I wasn’t the man on his knees—the victim. If I made this up to feel in control, why am I on the outside looking in?

Did you get away?

I … yes. If you consider waking up in a car wreck an escape.

The therapist nodded. Then indeed, you were in control in a way you weren’t when you were kidnapped. You couldn’t get away from those men, but you escaped from this one.

At that moment, I knew what I’d experienced wasn’t true. I accepted that my nightmares containing Mila’s screams in my ears, her pleas to live, weren’t real, even though when I regained consciousness in the car, all was silent and Mila was already dead.

Somebody murdered my friend and covered it up.

And my friend was wearing the same jacket I’d worn when I saw one man kill another in cold blood.

I’d been so sure until everyone convinced me I wasn’t.

Like now. A random professor shouldn’t bring up these feelings of wrongness, like if I only thought hard enough, clarity would surface.

Chills race down my arms as I pack up my bag and head down the hall to my last class of the day. The arched windows showcase greying skies and the mountain trees straining against a strong wind. A storm is brewing, and it’s not all inside my head this time.

The occult studies room impressively clings to the eighteenth century like the rest of campus, with its domed stone ceiling and four small archways into darkened library alcoves with books stacked sideways and vertically on their wooden shelves. A long, mahogany table sits in the center with room for twelve creaky wooden chairs. An unlit hearth frames one table head, its mouth black with ash. One small window allows pallid light to shine on the table’s surface, old lamps rimming the room doing the rest.

The table is almost full when I arrive. I spot Clover immediately, sitting dead center and patting the vacant seat beside her once she notices me.

Clover doesn’t waste time with a greeting. “I’m so glad you got in! Professor Morgan’s classes are impossible to snag. He won’t even allow students to audit.”

I offer a small shrug as I scoot in next to her. “Lucky, I guess.”

To be honest, I don’t know how I got a spot. Someone must’ve dropped out, and I thought nothing of it.

Clover’s voice lowers as the other students quiet down. “He’s tough but fair. No course syllabus. He prefers to keep us on our toes, and I’m praying this year he lets us do a topic on the Anderton family. Is it wrong I also want to fuck him?”

I choke on my own spit.

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