Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
Lena
Ipace outside Professor Komarov’s office. Yesterday’s Independent Study was fine-ish. He interrogated me about my magic, and I had no answers for him. Eventually he gave up and handed me the same text I’d been reading before.
I run into Komarov wherever I go on campus, and every time he has a different girl on his arm and a glare for me.
Like at dinner last week with Shayleen, Shayla, whatever her name was.
He was all over her, his hands in her hair or on her hips or thighs.
Yet he didn’t seem to listen to a word she said.
If he had, he’d have heard that she’s a vegetarian and not have insisted she try the short rib ragu.
Then there was the other thing that happened that night. That has replayed in my mind on loop. Cal’s lust-laden eyes, their stern commands and soft moans. Ariki on his knees, naked. I shiver at the memory and quickly shove it deep down where all the memories I refuse to acknowledge live.
Better get this over with. I knock on Komarov’s office door.
“Come in.” His voice beckons.
How am I never prepared for the chill that his vocal tenor sends through my bones? I step inside, finding a fire burning in the stone fireplace and his chair empty. He is sitting at the chess table under the large windows.
He gestures to the chair on the other side of the board. “Have a seat.” The scent of warm vanilla and smoky oud envelopes me as I sink comfortably into the worn leather.
It appears the professor has given up on his suit jacket for the evening, having tossed it across his desk. The sleeves of his silk shirt are rolled to his elbows, showing off his tattooed and muscular forearms. He looks casually undone as he sips on a glass of amber liquor.
He reaches across the chessboard, handing me a small label-less tin. I eye it in question.
“Calendula salve. Your hands are once again red.” He says it like it’s my fault, like I’m to blame. But he made me a salve…in his free time. He remembered the irritation on my hands—thought about it enough—to make me a treatment. That’s…sweet. Kind. Unexpected.
“Since you can’t manage to keep yourself from contracting an unseemly rash, I figured we’d take a break from you touching antique tomes,” he says, immediately ruining his gesture.
“It is hardly a rash.” I grimace, adjusting my sleeves to cover more of my palms. Who wants to be known as the person with a hand rash? Certainly not me.
“That’s what you’re offended by?” he asks, raising one dark brow in a perfect arch. His eyes glint with quiet amusement. “Do you play?” He catches my eye before lowering his eyes to the chessboard.
“Some,” I say expressionlessly, before placing my white pawn on e4. With a velvety smirk, he mirrors my move with his black piece. A classic King’s Pawn opening.
“Scotch?” he asks, as he stands. “I find chess and a drink go hand in hand.”
“Sure.” I give him a cheeky little salute.
He moves to a bar built into his bookshelf in the corner, turning his back toward me to pour me a drink and refresh his own.
Has his butt always been that nice and I just didn’t notice before now?
You could bounce a quarter off that thing.
I snort out loud at the image I’ve constructed in my mind of him splayed out on his desk, ass up, and me bouncing coins off his body.
He looks over his shoulder at me, a raven curl of hair falling into his eyes. “Something funny, Miss Solis?”
“Nope, just thinking about pocket change.” I giggle and quickly change the subject. “I’m guessing this is a favorite hobby of yours?” I gesture to the chess-themed tchotchkes around the room, before making an early move with my queen, attacking his pawn and threatening mate on f7.
As he walks back to his seat, he chuckles at my aggressive, yet novice-appearing move.
“You could say that.” The rich smoky smell of the scotch wafts from the glass as he hands it to me before developing his knight to defend his pawn.
“Though, it’s difficult to find a decent opponent.
” He shrugs, the collar of his shirt falling open a bit more to reveal a suggestive glimpse of his tattooed collarbone.
What’s wrong with me? Am I lusting after collarbones? I really need to purchase a vibrator. Can I get one express shipped?
I pull myself out of my lust-riddled mind. “Why is that? Are you that good at chess?” My smile takes on a challenging edge while I develop my bishop, targeting f7, again. I have no reservations about losing this game. I want to see him think, understand his play, learn his strategies.
“I suppose I’m quite good. But mind reading helps.” His lips quirk in a self-satisfied smirk. “Unless someone has a specifically exceptional mental shield, I end up playing most of the game mentally before a piece is even moved.”
Mind reading? Fuck, has he seen what I’ve been thinking every day? What I’ve thought around him? About him? Oh my god, how many times have I thought about him naked? Too many! Did he just get a play-by-play of my coin toss fantasy? My stomach starts to feel queasy as the blood rushes from my face.
The stony bastard cracks another smile and shakes his head. “Relax, Solis. I haven’t been reading your mind.”
I let out a breath and my shoulders fall. Thank fuck for that.
“You have a very strong mental shield,” he muses while he makes his move.
“I do?” I retreat from his attack.
“Yes, I feel like I’m actually playing chess.
” He tilts his lips in a small smile. “Usually, I’m so focused on someone’s mind, this game”—he gestures to the board with a piece in his skillful fingers—“is secondary.” Komarov reading minds actually makes a lot of sense.
It’s one of the many possible vampire talents.
And I always wondered how he knew every student’s name on the first day of class and how, even with his back turned, he’s able to know who has their hand raised.
“Where did you learn to guard your mind like this?”
We play silently for a few moves as I think about how to answer his question. Do I want to answer his question? I don’t exactly trust him, but maybe we can come to a truce, even if it’s an uneasy one. He doesn’t push me to keep talking nor does he fill the silence with unnecessary chatter.
Finally, I whisper, “I’m not sure.” I capture one of his pawns. “Check.”
“But you’re aware you have a strong mental shield?” he presses, as he places a piece, threatening my queen.
Giving him a small smile, I threaten his queen in return. “Check, again.” We stare at the board in silence for a moment. Until I say softly, “I believe so, anyway. I can feel it, in my mind. It’s kind of like a garage door. I can keep it down or throw it up.”
He develops his bishop, pinning my queen. “How did you come to realize what it was?”
I can’t help but be distracted by his throat as it constricts when he swallows.
His skin looks so smooth. My fingers itch to drag down the column of his neck, but that would be absurd.
Right? However, it would still be less absurd than running my tongue down it.
What were we talking about? Right, my mind’s garage door. Thank god he can’t read my thoughts.
I bite my lip, thinking about how to answer, while retreating my queen to avoid the pin.
“It’s not something I remember learning.
It’s always been that way. I use it to shut out fear, or worries.
Even as a kid, if I was sad or scared, I’d just shut the garage door.
When I needed to be vulnerable or share my emotions, if I felt safe, I’d open the door.
I assumed everybody was like that. When Professor Luna had me volunteer in her class and she told me to let her in my mind, I instinctively knew she wanted me to open the door.
That was the first time I’ve heard the term ‘mental shield.’”
He considers me seriously, the dark brown of his irises shining in the firelight. He attacks my queen with his bishop and then runs his thumb across his lower lip in thought. It’s deliciously distracting.
Keep talking, Lena. Focus on the game, keep your mind off the indecent things you want to do to your professor. “I’m not sure why I’m telling you this,” I state frankly, moving my queen, attacking his bishop. “You haven’t exactly been open with me.”
He gives me a stern look. “Oh come now, úmnitsa, you can do better than that.”
I raise an eyebrow at him—I’m not sure if he thinks I can do better with my choice of words or my chess moves. My mind won’t allow me to process his meaning; I’m too distracted by his use of the Russian pet name. Clever girl, he called me.
My breath shudders as I watch his deft fingers gently brush his knight before he uses it to attack my queen. The chess pieces are weighty. They seem to hold implications about the nature of our relationship and the direction of this conversation.
I glare at him and take my turn. He won’t take me without a fight. “Fine, you haven’t been very kind to me. In fact, you’ve been objectively quite rude. Somewhere between an asshat and an asshole.”
He cracks another smile, and it’s beautiful.
Some people smile and it’s all sunshine and daisies.
Not Nikolai Komarov. When he smiles, it’s stunningly predatory, dangerous yet still charming.
The kind of tempting smile that pulls you in.
Even though you’re aware it’s a trap, you can’t help but fall into it.
“So why are you telling me?” He makes his move. I lost. I see it clearly. As planned.
“I suppose, I hope that maybe you’ll help me understand it all.
” I capture his rook with my queen in a one-handed move that he eyes with rapt attention.
“It’s no secret my start here hasn’t been smooth.
There’s so much I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter how much I read or study, there are more unwritten rules than those scribed in books.
” It’s an optimistic appeal to his inclinations as a teacher.
He rocks his head from side to side, his brows furrowing. “It sounds like it’s a defense mechanism,” he opines. “Maybe in response to trauma? I’m glad you’re opening up to me.”
I bite my lip and give him a small nod. I know we were just talking about my garage door mind and its potential relationship to my broken past, but the words “opening up to me” falling from his mouth are doing things to my body that I learned in middle school health class are completely natural and normal.
He meets my eyes and, without looking at the board, captures my queen. Show-off. A smug smile spreads smoothly across his lush lips. “Checkmate.”
A shiver slinks down my spine. I get the sense that he is confident he won more than just this game.