Page 6 of Virgin Sacrifice

“Luz,” I exhaled shakily, barely able to hear my voice over the thrumming in my chest.

Swallowing, I cleared my throat and tried again.

“Luz Torres, sir,” I said, this time with more confidence.

Blackwell still didn’t look up from his laptop, the clattering of his keys never ceasing.

Forcing a calming breath down my throat, I took the opportunity to better inspect this increasingly awful man.

His jet-black hair was thick and artfully undone in such a way as to look as though he had just run his hands through it, even though I knew it hadn’t moved all lecture. There was a traditional sort of beauty to his face, the kind artists sculpted and teenage girls wept over. Up close, I could see that the deep green silk of his tie was actually a shade darker than that of his eyes, and the contrast between the two only made the latter shine that much more brilliantly.

“Yes, here you are.” He paused, squinting at the screen before him. “The system says you are a freshman. What are you doing in my class?” His eyes snapped up to inspect me, and displeasure shifted across his features almost instantly.

“I was in the International Baccalaureate program in high school, sir. I completed IB Economics in high school, and Hollow Oak recognized it as a credit for ECON100.”

His expression remained less than impressed. “I see,” he said as he began to stand from his seat behind the lectern.

This close, the man towered over me, and I reassessed his height as closer to six foot three.

“I think it’s a mistake to allow a freshman such as yourself to opt out of ECON100 and enroll in my class,” he began. “Overeager students like you show up every semester. You think that because you were the smart kid in high school, you are ready to be here.” He placed two large palms on the table separating us as he leaned toward me. “You’re not.” His voice was steady even as his words cracked like a whip. “Pampered princesses like you, who have been told how brilliant they are their whole lives, are barely prepared to live independently as adults, never mind pass a rigorous second-year course.”

If I had felt overwhelmed with embarrassment and frustration before, it was nothing compared to what I felt now. Hot angry tears welled in my eyes, and my throat was choked up with shame. Still, Locke Blackwell wasn’t done with me yet.

“I have no patience for handholding in my class, Miss Torres. I would strongly encourage you to talk to your registrar about dropping this class and enrolling in ECON100.”

My vision was blurry with the tears I was holding back, and my jaw shook as I waited until it was clear he was finished speaking.

“Are you requiring me to drop out of ECON200, sir?” I asked, ignoring the tremble in my voice.

Blackwell arched one perfect eyebrow back at me. “I’ve given you my best advice, and that’s what you choose to ask me, Miss Torres?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied with my lips quivering, my body betraying me even as mentally I stood strong.

Because even though I was physically racked with anxiety, I refused to grovel before this man. Locke Blackwell wanted me to cry, to beg to be allowed to stay in his precious class. To apologize endlessly for my perceived failures, for having the audacity to believe in myself and show up here, in his space.

I refused to give someone like him satisfaction.

I had no intention of being rude or confrontational. I couldn’t afford to give him a reason to kick me out of his class. But I also wasn’t going to beg, or plead, or cry for him. I had earned my right to be here the same as any other student.

“No, Miss Torres, I cannot require you to drop out of my class, should you choose to ignore the advice I have given you in good faith,” he replied tersely. “I can, however, have you removed from my class for any number of reasons should I see fit.”

I said nothing.

I met all the prerequisites for the course, and we both knew that being late for one class was hardly grounds for my removal. However, that didn’t mean he couldn’t go above my head and make life very difficult for me if I didn’t drop out of his class.

His jaw tightened ever so slightly, and the animosity in his eyes burned even brighter when it became clear I wasn’t going to take the bait.

“Childish, really,” he murmured, staring past me for a moment before returning his gaze to me once more. “How old are you even?” he snarled, out of nowhere, with such force that I found myself flinching at the tone and taking a cautious step back. I was suddenly incredibly aware of the lectern between us and grateful for the barrier it provided.

My eyes flickered toward the doors, mentally calculating how long it would take to dash for one of the doors and if Blackwell would catch me first.

His eyes followed mine to the doors, and his demeanor suddenly changed as though a switch had been flipped when he saw how close I was to being spooked.

The good professor stepped back and cleared his throat as he smoothed out his tie, although he never took his eyes off of me.

“I can assure you, Professor, that I am old enough to be here,” I finally replied, keeping my chin held high. “And if that’s all, I really need to get to my next class . . . sir.”

It was a lie. I was done with class for the day, but I wanted to get out of there.

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