Page 2 of Deviant Obsession

"Let's start with a discussion," he says, folding his arms across his chest in a way that makes my mouth go dry. "Who can tell me anything at all about the persistence of trauma patterns through generations, as current research understands it?"

The room is deafeningly silent. And I mean, I know the answer. I've read every paper he’s published on the subject…

But my tongue feels like a lump of lead in my mouth.

"No one knows?" Professor Shaw asks, his tone as challenging as it is disappointed. "None of you did any reading this summer? How about you? Two, three, fifth row…gray shirt?"

My head snaps up, fast enough to give me whiplash and send my red hair slapping me across the face. He’s looking straight at me, that sinfully beautiful head cocked a little to the side expectantly.

This can’t be happening right now.

"I can see you’ve brought my book with you. Perhaps you'd like to share your thoughts on the impact of generational trauma on domestic violence patterns?"

I freeze, panic setting in. I can feel every eye in the room like their gaze is physically burning my skin. Nat lands what I’m sure is meant to be an encouraging nudge against my ribs, though it feels more like being prodded to walk the plank.

"I... um..." I stammer, my mind racing.

Come on, Rhea, think. You know this. You've read every word this man has ever written.

I take a deep breath, staring at the seat in front of me as if the answers were written on the peeling veneer, all the while trying to remember how to form sounds with my lips. "Well… Uh, current research suggests that trauma can be passed down both through learned behaviors and, potentially, through epigenetic changes," I finally manage, gaining a little confidence with each word. "Children who grow up in households with domestic violence are statistically more likely to either become abusers themselves or to enter into abusive relationships as adults. This creates a cycle of violence that can persist across generations."

I pause for another breath, my heart hammering against my ribs at an alarming rate as I glance back up at Professor Shaw. His expression is unreadable, but he nods slightly, encouraging me to continue. "However, it's important to note that this isn't a deterministic relationship," I add, praying that he’ll let me off the hook soon. "With proper intervention and support, the cycle can be broken. Understanding the mechanisms of how trauma is transmitted across generations is crucial for developing effective prevention and treatment strategies."

As if he sees the pleading in my eyes, he nods again, a satisfied smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He looks at me a little longer, until I feel like I might actually spontaneouslycombust, but then speaks. "That was an impressively well-rounded answer, Miss…?”

“Foster… uh, Rhea Foster.”

“Miss Foster.” Something flickers in those eyes, and I barely dare to speculate what it could be—something teasingly close to approval, maybe even intrigue. "Well, it seems we have at least one student who's come prepared. Thank you, Rhea."

As he turns back to his presentation, my shoulders instantly slump, like he’d had me held up against a wall with nothing but his gaze. Nat leans over again, bumping her forehead against my shoulder with a barely audible squeal.

"Holy shit," she whispers. "I think you just became teacher's pet on day one."

I shush her, but I can't help the small smile that plays at my lips. My heart is still racing, partly from the adrenaline of speaking in front of the class, but mostly from the way the Professor looked at me. For a moment, it felt like we were the only two people in the room.

Don’t even think it. He’s your professor. And he’d never.

"Now, let's touch on the concept of epigenetic changes," he continues, turning to write on the whiteboard. I find myself completely mesmerized by the way the muscles in his back ripple slightly under his shirt, and I soon have to force myself to look literally anywhere else as I clench my thighs. I glance down at my notebook, realizing with a panicked squeak that I haven’t written a thing. Frantically, I begin scribbling notes, desperate to have some evidence that I did more than come in here and swoon.

“… important to remember that these changes donotoccur in the DNA…”

“Goddamn,” Nat mutters, “I’d let him rearrangemyDNA.”

I shoot her a glare before getting straight back to my notes.

“What?” she chuckles. “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t.”

“Nat, quit it. I’m trying to concentrate.”

Nat snickers. "Yeah, I bet you are. On his ass?—"

I elbow her sharply, mortified that the row behind us can definitely hear her. "Nat!"

"Miss Foster?"

Every curse word in the English language flies through my head, though I never let them past my lips. Professor Shaw is looking expectantly at me again, and my stomach drops through the floor when I realize he’s waiting for a response to something I definitely didn’t hear.

"Y-yes?" I stammer.

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