Deviant Obsession

Chapter 1

Rhea

“Nat, seriously! Can you move your butt, please? We cannot be late to this class!”

“Say ‘ ass’ and maybe I’ll find the will to walk faster.”

“You’re the worst,” I mutter, though I know full well she can hear the smirk in my voice as she trails behind me. We hurry across campus, a thin sheen of sweat starting to dampen my forehead beneath the sun.

"Sorry, I totally get why you’re in a hurry to be in the same room as the famous Lloyd Shaw," Nat says, picking up the pace so that she can bump her shoulder into mine. "Have you seen his score on RateMyProfessor ? Girls are so damn thirsty out here." My best friend lets out a giggle, wiggling her eyebrows at me.

I groan, feeling heat creep up my neck that has nothing to do with the Southern California weather. "Oh jeez, don't start. I spent my summer reading his research start to finish, not ogling his headshot. It’s not like that for me."

Nat throws her head back with a full-on cackle this time as she links her arm through mine. "Of course you have, you adorable little nerd. And while I’m thrilled that you get to take a class with your Psych hero, I'm just here for the eye candy. It is like that for me."

"Nat!" I hiss, glancing around frantically to make sure no one heard. "He's our professor!"

"Doesn't mean I can't appreciate the view," she winks.

“Carry on like this and I’m gonna act like I don’t know you when we get in there,” I grumble, returning her playful shove from before. “You’re going to embarrass me. I can feel it coming.”

Gasping dramatically enough to be mistaken for a theater major, Nat, also known as Natalie, places her other hand flat against her chest. “Would I ever humiliate my best friend in front of her all-time favorite, academic dream candy man crush?”

“Yes,” I deadpan as I pull open the door to lecture hall. “Maybe not intentionally, but it’s definitely in your wheelhouse.” We both try and fail to stifle a fit of giggles, walking into the lecture hall where, mercifully, no professor is currently waiting.

I head straight for seats in the middle, halfway up the tiered levels—a perfect view without looking too overzealous near the front. I take my seat, my heart pulsing in my ears. It’s just a psych class. He’s no different than any other professor on this campus.

“You okay there, Rhea?” Nat snorts, waving her hand in front of my face and drawing me from my inner pep talk. “You’re staring at the door like a million dollars is about to burst through it.”

I open my mouth to tell her to give it a rest, but the words die on my lips as the door swings open and the one and only Professor Shaw walks in. The room falls silent, and I swear everyone can hear my own heartbeat.

"Holy shit," Nat whispers, leaning close. "He's even hotter in person."

I can only nod, not trusting myself to form a coherent sentence. Are my palms sweating? I wipe them surreptitiously on my jeans.

Professor Shaw clears his throat, bright hazel eyes scanning the room as the last waves of chatter in the room fade away. "Good morning, everyone. I'm Professor Shaw, and this is Psychology 401: Generational Trauma and Epigenetics."

His voice is so deep and smooth, I can almost feel it stroking down my spine as I unconsciously lean forward in my seat. There’s a very real danger I may start drooling any minute—me and maybe twenty other girls in this room—which only worsens when the Professor shrugs out of his blazer and tosses it onto the chair behind the desk up front. The moment he begins rolling up his shirt sleeves, exposing the sun-kissed skin of his lean forearms, I think my brain shuts down completely.

"Before we dive in, I'd like to go over the syllabus and my expectations for this course," he continues, leaning over the desk to pull up a PowerPoint presentation on the projector screen. When he looks up again, he raises his hand to rake back a stray lock of chestnut hair that’s fallen onto his forehead.

Holy hell, it should be illegal to be so effortlessly sexy.

This man belongs in a Hugo Boss campaign—crisp white shirt with the top two buttons undone, no tie, the subtle flex of a rock-solid bicep beneath the thin fabric.

As he talks, I find myself hanging on every word. It's not just his looks that get me, it’s the passion in his voice as he discusses the course material. This isn't just a job for him; it's a calling. If anyone has ever fallen asleep in one of his classes, I’d have to wonder if they’d recently undergone a lobotomy.

Nat leans over, muttering to me behind her hand, "I think I'm in love. Do you think he'd notice if I just stared at him for the entire semester?"

I giggle, trying to muffle the sound with my own hand. "Stop it, he might actually hear us.”

But it's too late. Professor Shaw pauses his speech, one eyebrow raised in what could either be vague amusement or reproach. I feel my face heat up and duck my head, pretending to be very interested in my blank notebook page.

"Now," he presses on, his voice carrying a hint of sharpness beneath the silk, "I understand this material can be challenging, even disturbing at times, but I expect full engagement from all of you. This isn't a course you can coast through."

He surveys the room again while leaning back against his desk, and I force myself to look up. For a moment, barely a heartbeat, our gazes lock. I regret raising my eyes at all. It’s like being seen by him is to know without a doubt that I’ll never have him. I would have been happier going all my life looking at him on a screen and letting him stay a fantasy.

In this room, he’s all too real. And completely untouchable.

"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 spontaneously combust, 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 do not occur in the DNA…”

“Goddamn,” Nat mutters, “I’d let him rearrange my DNA.”

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.

"I was asking if you could expand on your earlier point about intervention strategies," he says, his voice neutral but his stare maddeningly intense. "Given your apparent familiarity with the subject."

I swallow hard. "Oh…uh, of course… Effective intervention strategies often involve a multi-faceted approach. This can include individual therapy for both the abuser and the victim, family counseling, and community support programs." The words tumble from my lips in a stilted stream that takes on a life of its own. I don’t know how much he wants from me, but I could recite the whole textbook if he asked me to. And if he doesn’t stop me, I just might.

"Additionally," I continue, "education plays a crucial role. By teaching children about healthy relationships and coping mechanisms from an early age, we can potentially break the cycle before it begins."

"That’ll do, Miss Foster, thank you,” he finally cuts me off. “I'm impressed by your grasp of the material. Carry on much longer and you’ll put me out of a job."

Pride swells in my chest, mingling with the butterflies already fluttering there. I duck my head, trying to hide my pleased grin. As he goes on with the lecture, Professor Shaw incorporates some of my points into his discussion. Each time he says my name, I feel a little thrill run through me. I could listen to it slip from his lips a thousand times over and it would never be enough.

The rest of the hour passes in what feels like mere minutes. Professor Shaw wraps up with a brief overview of what we'll be covering in the next class.

"And don't forget," he says, seemingly pinning everyone in the room with that penetrating gaze one by one, "your first paper is due in two weeks. You’re all seniors, there’s no easing into it this year. I expect thorough research and original insights. Class dismissed."

There's a flurry of movement as students begin packing up their things. I linger, taking my time to pack my bag, stealing glances at Professor Shaw as he gathers his own materials.

"Take your time, Rhea," Nat teases. "Our next class is across campus."

I nod reluctantly, shouldering my backpack. As we make our way to the door, I can't resist one last look back. To my surprise, the professor is looking right at me. Our eyes lock and I feel that same jolt of electricity I felt earlier, searing my skin like an invisible brand. He smirks, like he knows exactly the effect he’s having on my already-frayed nerves.

Then Nat is pulling me through the door, and the moment is broken.

"Girl, the way he looked at you!" My best friend exclaims as soon as we're halfway across the quad. "I swear I saw actual sparks fly."

“It wasn’t like that at all,” I snort, not daring to let myself believe that she’s onto something. “He was just asking me questions because literally nobody else spoke the entire class."

She rolls her eyes. "Sure, keep telling yourself that. I saw you blushing bright pink every time he so much as glanced in your direction."

"I was not!" I protest, but it sounds weak even to my own ears.

"Uh-huh," Nat smirks, clearly unconvinced. "And I'm the Queen of England. Face it, babe, you've got it bad for Professor Hottie."

I groan, swiping my hand down my face as if I can wipe away the burning heat. "Is it that obvious?"

Nat laughs, linking her arm through mine again as we walk. "Only to anyone with eyes. But don't worry, your secret's safe with me...and every other girl in that room who’s crushing just as hard."

“Great,” I mutter before chewing on my bottom lip. “If he keeps singling me out, they’re all gonna hate me in no time.”

“Ah, who gives a fuck? Do you care more about being friends with everyone or getting up close and personal with the professor of your dreams?” She wiggles her eyebrows at me with all the subtlety of a circus mime.

“I hate you,” I giggle. “I mean, I love you. So much. But also, I hate you.”

“Don’t I know it, sweet cheeks.” She pulls me in to plant a sloppy kiss on my forehead, just as we reach the building for our next class.

Thankfully, this one is taught by a woman in her late seventies. There’s no chance in hell of any distracting eye-candy in here, but I still can’t shake Dr. Shaw, my mind swirling with so many thoughts…

And none that I can say out loud.