Page 48 of The Blood we Crave: Part Two

“I would’ve done it for any of my students who showed your promise, Miss Abbott.”

I peer at the picture of Voltaire on the wall, figuring since I’m in here, I might as well do some digging while I’m at it. A tiny piece of me still hopes he’s innocent, not for any other reason than I believe he’s a good person.

“Why Voltaire?” I ask, trying to gracefully shift the topic. “Seems like a lot for a kid to digest.”

He looks at the painting with me before replying, “I grew up very poor. My mother was a seamstress, and my father worked multiple factory jobs while I was growing up. But he was incredibly intelligent. He didn’t have the chance to attend college, but I suspect he would’ve thrived in an environment like this one. He’d believed knowledge was the only wealth a man needed. Told me all the time as a kid that we may be poor in materialism, but we will never be poor in wisdom.”

I never knew he didn’t come from a world of wealth. I’d always thought his money was how he and Stephen became friends. But it makes more sense that he grew up that way. I think it’s what makes him so relatable to students. He just seems like a regular guy.

“Hence, philosophy for bedtime stories,” I note, smiling a bit.

“And chemistry for breakfast, physics for lunch,” he banters back, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“What about your mother? Was she just as enthusiastic about school as your father?”

Something unreadable passes over his face, cold and stagnant, as if a gust of wind had just breezed past.

Sore subject, I’m assuming.

“She died when I was five.” He tugs at the tie wrapped around his neck. “Why the sudden interest in my private life?”

Sadness washes over me.

“We haven’t talked since before Christmas break. I missed you, I guess,” I say sympathetically, even though what I want to say isI’m trying to dig up your past to see if you connect to this rotten present. “I’m sorry about your mom.”

“Don’t be. It was a long time ago.”

“They’d be proud of you, I think. I mean, look at you now. College professor.” I shrug, hoping that takes away some of the pain of remembrance. “Did you expect your friendship with Stephen to lead you here? Into the lives of the wealthy and entitled?”

“No, but I’m thankful for it. Stephen and I had similar yet very different upbringings. Our fathers were very hard on us. Which meant as men, we both wanted nothing more than to exceed every expectation they had.”

“Daddy issues for bonding, how lovely,” I tease. “So is academics how you and Stephen connected? Don’t tell me you were both nerds.”

“God no.” He laughs, the light returning to his face, smiling as if recalling fond memories from college. “Stephen was awful in school, certified jock even in grad school. I was looking for an apartment on campus, and he needed a roommate. We knew little about each other, but a few months of living together tells you a lot about a person.”

“Tell me about it,” I mutter, thinking about how obsessively organized my coffee mug cabinet is now. I miss the clutter, but Thatcher needs to have everything straight. “Why do I get the feeling we would have been fast friends in college?”

Conner pushes himself off the desk, taking slow steps towards me, one hand in his pocket while the other rubs his five-o’clock shadow.

“Lyra,” he murmurs. “We would’ve been much more than just that.”

I feel my eyebrows pull together, my feet pulling me backwards from him, only for him to continue pressing forward. I can smell his teakwood cologne in thick waves. Too close—he’s way too close.

“What—”

His teeth graze his lower lip, the back of his hand stroking my cheek, making me flinch. “You would have been my everything. I would have lived and died for you.”

My heart echoes in my ears, thudding harder and harder by the second.I place my hands out onto his chest, pushing him away to create some space. But he’s much stronger than I am.

“Conner, stop.” The shake in my voice is evidence enough that I’m afraid. “Seriously.”

He is no longer the man I admired, the teacher I looked up to. In thirty seconds, he’s changed to a man I fear. Someone I want to get far away from.

“I could be so good for you, Lyra.”

Then his mouth takes mine.

Forcefully, without my consent or desire.

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