Page 7 of Damaged Protector

“Yes, thank you. I just needed to calm down.”

The young woman nodded and closed the stall door, locking herself inside. Probably to avoid the crazy bee lady who was buzzing in the library restroom.

Intent on speaking with the dean, I exited the library, realizing once outside that I was still wearing only my leotard and tights. September was cool in Pennsylvania, and I quickened my steps against the chill, arriving at the large, white-brick home in minutes.

The lights were still on, thank goodness, and I tapped the brass knocker against the front door. I heard footsteps and almost collapsed in relief when Katrina Kotov answered the door. She was a tall, slender woman with platinum-blonde hair and a stunningly delicate face.

“Katrina, hi. I apologize for the late hour, but I need to speak with the dean.”

She didn’t greet me with a hug like she usually did, instead stepping back without a word to let me in. Her ice-blue eyes raked up and down my scantily clad form, making me feel self-conscious about my attire.

“Sorry, I just came from the studio.”

“Hmm,” she hummed, pursing her lips as her eyes darted toward a closed mahogany door.

What the hell is up with her tonight? She’s usually so warm.

“Has he already gone to bed?” I asked, and Katrina blew out a sigh.

“No, he’s in his study.” Her bare feet padded softly across the cream and gold marble, and I followed a few steps behind her. After knocking twice, she cracked the door, stuck her head inside, and announced, “Mallori is here.”

I couldn’t quite hear his response, but Katrina stepped back and gestured for me to enter. Dean Kotov was sitting behind his massive desk, his hair slightly disheveled like he’d run his hands through it a few times. I’d always thought he had the most gorgeous hair, a bright golden color with threads of silver throughout.

His cobalt-blue eyes met mine but didn’t hold the fondness I usually found there. Probably because a student had invaded his house so late in the evening. As always, I felt the need to apologize for causing even the slightest inconvenience.

“I’m so sorry to bother you, sir, but it was important that I speak with you tonight.” I shivered in the cool air of his study. And maybe from the cool look on his face.

He’ll warm up once I tell him what happened to me. The man had been a surrogate parental figure for me since I’d arrived… too old to be my father but too young to be my grandfather. He was like a father/grandfather hybrid, and he would be able to tell me how to proceed from here.

“Good evening, Mallori.”

Rubbing my hands up and down the gooseflesh covering my bare arms, I apologized once again. “I’m sorry about my clothing. My jacket and warm-up pants are in my bag, which I left in the ballet studio.”

Without a word—only an upward notch of his blond eyebrows—he rose from behind his desk and lifted something from the floor.

My pink and black backpack.

With my eyebrows scrunched together, I shook my head. “How… how did…”

A layer of ice formed around my heart when I became aware of someone else in the room. My gaze shifted to the left to find the last man I ever wanted to see again.

Bernard Moreau.

He was sitting on a large leather couch with an ice pack in one of his grubby hands. And a smirk on his lips. I was pleased to see dried blood beneath his nostrils and on his shirt. The asshole.

In two quick steps, I was in front of Dean Kotov’s desk, taking my bag and immediately pulling out my black jacket with the white stripes down the sleeves. I felt the pressing need to cover myself; I didn’t want that man looking at me.

“Bernard told me about the altercation in the studio,” Dean Kotov said, his eyebrows still residing somewhere near his hairline. “I’m so upset, Mallori.”

Stuffing my arms in the sleeves, I zipped my jacket and avoided eye contact with my attacker. “I am too, sir. We need to call the campus police immediately.”

The dean crossed his arms over his slightly pudgy belly as he thinned his lips. “Are you sure you want to do that? Bernard was just telling me he’s willing to handle this quietly and not press charges against you for assaulting him.”

“Assaulting him?” I practically screeched. “He assaulted me!”

“Professor Moreau’s bloody nose tells a different story.”

“I-I was defending myself.”

---