Page 5 of Virgin Sacrifice

I had been trying to tip-toe up the stairs when a deep, arrogant male voice suddenly cut through the haze of my embarrassment and frustration.

“The class begins sharply at two o’clock, for future reference,” the professor called out, apparently stopping his entire lecture to shame me.

“My apologies, Professor, it won’t happen again,” I rushed out as quietly as I dared, still edging my way up the stairs.

I finally made it to the row and started to awkwardly make my way past the seated students. Some of them looked at me with pity, some with scorn, but most of them remained entirely apathetic to the situation, lost entirely in the screens of their laptops.

The professor spoke again.

“To be clear, this class is ECON200 Macro Economics, not ECON100. You are at least barging in late to the correct classroom, I hope.”

“Yes, sir, I am here for ECON200. Again, my apologies,” I replied hastily, finally arriving at an empty seat. My skin felt aflame, and I avoided looking back to the professor, instead sweeping my skirt under my legs to duck down into my seat, praying that he would back off and return to lecturing.

For several heated moments, the hall sat in silence while I kept my head down and focused on the task of retrieving my notebook from my bag.

My shame was quickly being paced by my growing irritation. Yes, it was poor form to arrive late on the first day of classes, but he was choosing to make a spectacle about it. I couldn’t be the first student to ever show up late.

“Right, well, for those of you just tuning in, my name is Dr. Locke Blackwell, and I am your macroeconomics professor for this semester. I am also the Coty Research Chair for Neuroeconomics here at the Vanderhurst School of Economics . . .”

A sigh escaped me, and I pulled out a mechanical pencil and notebook and began to get organized. Relief swept through me that I was finally out of the spotlight, and as Professor Blackwell continued speaking about his background, I took a moment to tune him out and collect myself.

Taking ten slow intentional breaths, I allowed myself to enjoy the fresh scent of my brand-new notebook and the satisfying scratch of my pencil against the crisp white paper. . . it was one of those small pleasures in life that no one could take away from me.

When I felt settled again, I forced myself to look up and assess the man who had so desperately needed to exert his authority over me.

Dr. Locke Blackwell was both nothing and everything like I expected.

Like the twins I had spotted earlier that day, the quality and cut of his clothes spoke volumes about him, or rather the sheer wealth that must have gone into clothing him. He wore a sharp black three-piece suit over a perfectly pressed dove-gray shirt, both of which had tailoring that would make a seamstress weep.

Blackwell was young, younger than I would have imagined, but not so much so that it diminished his authority. Standing about six feet tall, he wore his pitch-black hair trimmed closely, ever so slightly longer on top. His jaw, covered in a neat, even beard, looked sharp enough to cut diamonds, but it was his eyes that he deployed as a weapon. Brilliant emerald-green irises burned with a ferocity that belied the easy arrogance with which he carried himself, a jarring dichotomy that set off alarm bells ringing in my head as I found his eyes trained on me.

Against my instinct for self-preservation, the urge to hold his stare fluttered to life in my chest, and for a moment, I met his gaze.

Locke Blackwell was a traditionally beautiful man in every sense of the word. Pity, it did nothing to hide the ugliness inside him.

The corner of his mouth twitched in warning, and I forced my attention back down to my notes, glancing up only occasionally to focus on the slides projected at the front of the class.

I had demons enough in my past, I didn’t need to play games with one now. Not even one as beautiful as Locke Blackwell.

Chapter three

Luz

The rest of the class passed without incident, and another student might have been convinced that perhaps they had been hasty in their initial assessment of Professor Blackwell.

Outside of his reaction to my belated entrance, the man came across as both affable and knowledgeable. He delivered his lecture with easy charm, engaged students readily, and solicited more than a couple of laughs from the class. Despite my immediate dislike of Blackwell, he was a great professor, and the ninety-minute lecture passed more quickly than I wanted to admit. Before I knew it, he was wrapping up his lecture with a reminder to attend our weekly tutorial sessions and reach out to our TAs if we had any other questions.

“Oh, and late girl, remain after class to speak with me, please,” Blackwell called out in a tone that made the “please” he tacked on all but redundant.

So, I found myself standing awkwardly in front of the large lectern, waiting for the rest of the class to see themselves out of the cavernous hall. Most hurried out, glancing back at me with a mix of pity and curiosity. But a handful lingered, some sneering down at me with unbridled animosity.

There was always someone ready to hate you simply for having the audacity to exist.

Waiting for the rest of the class to exit, Dr. Blackwell studiously worked away on his laptop, not even offering me so much as an acknowledging glance as I stood there. Gritting my teeth, I began to wonder how much longer I was going to have to endure the silent treatment.

By the time the last students had shuffled out of the room, my heart was pounding so loudly I could hear it echoing in my head.

“Name?” he barked suddenly, catching me off guard and making me flinch.

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