Page 51 of Switching Graves

I wasn’t gossiping. I was studying, just like you want me to. Like I’m forced to spend every waking moment because youdorun your class in a way that makes it impossible to succeed.

And guess what . . . Everyone else agrees.

None of that matters, though. He’s the head of his own department. He doesn’t care what one student has to say about his teaching style when it has obviously gotten him to where he is now. No one else would ever dare to agree with me out loud. Some people must actually enjoy his challenge.

Probably the brainless masochists who follow him around with hearts in their eyes.

Instead of speaking my mind, I drop my chin and mumble a submissive, “Yes, sir,” into my chest.

He falls silent. Tense, frustrated energy pulsates off his body, and I have the fleeting thought that maybe Idohave a little Valeria blood in my veins, because why else would I feel his emotions so intensely?

When I lift my head, I find his gaze blazing and the muscle in his jaw ticking, as if my response has somehow irritated him.

A war wages behind his eyes, which are darting around my face in a frenzy, brows pulled together in a curious scowl. Being trapped beneath his undivided attention like this is the closest thing to torture I can imagine. My mind tells me to flee, muscles spasming with the instinctual need to move out of his space. I’m like an animal trapped in a corner with their predator, though I can’t figure out what exactly it is about him that makes me feel so threatened.

All he’s doing is staring at me.

Finally, once finds whatever he’s looking for, I sag with relief as he opens his mouth to speak.

“That’s not what you really want to say to me, is it?” he dares to question, and I swear he leans forward, so close I can feel his breath against my cheek.

My knees lock up.

“You want to tell me to fuck off, don’t you? You’ve been in my class for less than six weeks, and I’ve made every moment of that a living hell for you, haven’t I?”

“N-no. Absolutely not,” I stutter, leaning away.

But he continues his pursuit. My back hits the bookshelf behind me after only two steps, and I’m trapped with nowhere else to go. His forearm appears beside my head, gripping the bookshelf behind me to block my only way out. The manila folder falls to the ground as he flexes his other hand into a fist.

My heart beats wildly in my chest, every receptor in my brain going off in a panic.

“Of course I have,” he insists, his voice gravelly and strained.

From this close, I can see the tattoos climbing up his chest, telling their own twisted story and confirming the tales about him to be true. Something happened to this man. Something traumatic and life-altering. Perhaps he is the sociopath I jokingly accused him of being. Maybe he really does get off on people’s fear and suffering.

If that’s true, he should be thoroughly pleased with me right now.

“You’re just like the rest of them, aren’t you, Miss Ellery?”

He says my name with a hint of mockery—of doubt. With a silent question attached to it.If that’s your real name,his tone seems to add. And something inside me is screaming to get away from this man. He knows my secret, and he isn’t trustworthy enough to keep it safe.

“Like who?”

“Your peers. Thelegacies.” Twirling his free hand in the air dramatically, he rolls his eyes at the term. “They all come here thinking their Ivy League education will be served to them on a silver platter just because Grandpa threw a bunch of money at the dean and was born to the right people. You didn’t even have to apply. They practically begged you to come, didn’t they? And you were angry the moment you realized I won’t be one of the faculty here who practically does the coursework for you. That’s why you’re in my office every other week, complaining about your grades.”

Shaking my head in denial, I flare my nostrils. Then, I dare to challenge, “Aren’t you one of them, too? A legacy who cashed in your spot just like the rest of us?”

Instead of waiting for an answer, I focus on steadying my erratic breaths as adrenaline courses through my entire body. My head screams for me to leave. I’m in a challenging position and I’ve just riled up my predator even further. Instead, my muscles stay locked in their spot.

Dr. Whitlock tips his chin up and releases a breathy chuckle. He knows he has to be quiet or risk being caught, but he can’t seem to help himself.

“You know nothing about me,” he assures, and the muscles on his arm shift beneath his skin as he moves a little closer.

“I could say the same about you,” I boldly argue, refusing to acknowledge how uncomfortable he’s making me. I won’t give him any more satisfaction than I already have.

His smile fades, though the ghost of it still remains as he rolls his lips between his teeth, debating his next words. He levels his gaze with mine, taking great care in ensuring I’m listening when he lowers his voice and says, “Trust me, Little Nightmare. I know more about you than anyone else on this campus.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” I sneer, but his attention has shifted away from me when someone breezes past us in the aisle without glancing our way, as if they can’t even see us standing here. One second, he’s in my face and the next, he’s ten feet away, straightening his collar. The guy walks to the other end, bends down to grab a book on the bottom shelf, then breezes past us again.

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