Chapter 39
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Lena
The cold night air seizes in my lungs as I crash through the doors of Amani Hall into the front courtyard.
I need to go. I need to get out of here.
I hate this fucking place! Michi teamed up with Katri to fuck me over.
He never liked me. He was using me to fucking embarrass me. Svoloch’! Piece of shit.
Gripping the hem of my dress, I run toward Havard Hall, with my restless tears blurring my eyes.
I’m packing a bag and getting the fuck out of here!
Ugly brackish tears roll down my cheeks, irritating my skin and painting an estuary of hurt onto my flesh.
Did Teariki have something to do with this?
Did he help plan this? It was his ceremony, his charity, after all.
How could he say those words to me, confirming them with his lips and hands pressed into my being, only to do this to me?
“Miss Solis.” A voice booms from behind me. Oh what the fuck now? Can’t they all just leave me alone?
I whip around. “What?” I scream at Professor Komarov.
“What could you possibly want from me? You come to laugh at the charity case? Or are you here to chastise me again for being stupid, or not memorizing the fucking handbook, or embarrassing you and the other royal asses?” My face is red from humiliation and the cold air on my wet cheeks.
“No, Miss Solis, I’m not.” He holds his hands up in front of himself, like he’s approaching a wild animal.
Maybe that’s exactly what I am? That’s how I feel!
Wild, out of control—like I have no center of gravity anymore.
It used to be Dmitri, and then it was my Rules, and now I just don’t know.
I’m free falling through this fucked up magical world.
I want to cleave this realm and all the people in it from my mind. “I’m here to help you.”
“I don’t believe you. I don’t believe any of you.” I glare at him with all the angry darkness I feel coiled inside my solar plexus. I whisper, “Sometimes, I feel like ripping this world apart.”
“Me too.” He meets my eyes. I see the same fury that’s inside me blazing in him.
The air turns heavy, like it always does with Komarov.
It cloaks us both in its predacious weight, but it’s a soothing presence.
Like a weighted blanket or a hug. My creature stirs, comforted but curious.
Komarov cocks his head in awareness—two predators meeting.
This time when the air shifts, it’s more inquisitive, almost… playful.
“You asked me if I’d help you learn, answer your questions. I can.” He takes a measured step toward me. “I will.”
“What can you do to help this?” I gesture around at the dark campus, laughing mirthlessly at the absurdity at how off track my life has gotten in the last couple of months.
“Let me try.” Komarov holds out a hand to me. I stare at it, unmoving. “Vladlena, please,” he beseeches. “Let me help, úmnitsa.”
I don’t know what possesses me, but something in my gut, or my chest, or some other not entirely corporeal place urges me to take his hand.
So I do.
I follow him to his office through the empty campus, hand in his hand, in near silence, with the exception of my sniffling. If I don’t sniffle, snot will fall from my nostrils, and I’ve already been embarrassed enough for one day.
Oh my god. I promised Callum I wouldn’t embarrass them.
If Ariki was involved, does that mean Cal was too?
No, they wouldn’t. A wave of nausea rolls through my body—I’m adrift in a storm-tossed sea.
Could that be why Callum was acting weird before the ceremony tonight?
They knew something was going to happen?
My sea-salt tears pick up again as we enter Komarov’s office.
“Here, sit.” He pulls out the chair in front of his desk and grabs me a box of tissues from a bookshelf. After settling in his chair, he spins around, pulling something out of a cabinet behind him. “This calls for vodka, yes?”
I nod, and he sets a frosted bottle of vodka and two glasses on the desk. A quiet half laugh escapes my lips. Of course he has a wine fridge behind his desk.
He hands me a shot before raising his in the air. “Vashe puteshestviye.” To your journey. We touch glasses. I take the shot, hoping its burn will warm the icy ocean in my diaphragm.
“Obnovit.” Refresh. I set my glass down. He pours us another round. I toast this time, “Budem.” We exist. Not the pretty Russian toasts I imagine either of us are accustomed to. But this isn’t a pretty moment. “Spasibo.” Thank you.
He gives me a curt dip of his chin and slides me a bag of poppyseed sushki.
“Oh my god, I haven’t had these since I was a kid. Where did you find the poppyseed?” I dump a handful of the ring-shaped crackers into my open palm. Are they a great snack? No. Is it better than drinking vodka on an empty stomach? Absolutely.
He chuckles. “I know a guy.”
“Mysterious.” I give him a deadpan stare with a tilt of my head before wiping the tears from my face. “I want to go back to Portland,” I whisper, counting the crackers in my hand.
“That’s a terrible idea.” Komarov stares at me.
I nibble my lower lip. “I know. But I can’t catch a break here. I’m fucking up in every class. I’m constantly humiliated, everyone hates me.”
“Everyone does not hate you.” His expression is fierce, and I give him a “are you kidding me” look. “What about that quiet girl, Miss Bonnaire? And the fire fae with a massive crush on me?” Komarov gives me a cheeky grin. Is he trying to be playful?
“Aki?” I point a sushki ring at him. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”
“Hey, he’s the one with the loud mind.” He raises his hands in front of his chest. He’s right, though. I have made friends here. For the first time in my life.
But then, there’s the bigger problem. “How come I can’t control my magic and I can’t fly? I’m not even sure what I am.”
“I think maybe I can help with that.” He looks at me with a nervous frown, but the grave set of his lips doesn’t prevent my hope from rising.
That might make it worth it to stay, at least a little longer.
“We can continue to use Independent Study to work on your magic. I’m no Convalescere, but I’m a decent teacher,” he says.
“I’ve spent some time contemplating since our game.
I believe we could uncover your mother’s insignis.
It’s unorthodox and absolutely up to you if you want to proceed. ”
“Yes, I do. I need to know.” Anxiety forces me to straighten in my seat.
“Let me explain what it entails before you decide.” He gives me a grim expression. “Some magicae can sense others’ insignia, either from scent like many shifters, or from reading auras. Some vampires are quite adept at it through taste.”
“You want to drink my blood?”
“Want has nothing to do with this.” He gazes at me intently.
“How much”—I swallow the lump forming in my throat—“blood?”
“A pinprick.” His stare is penetrating. “I’ll poke your finger. I can’t guarantee that I’ll know for sure. But any data at this point could help.”
I bite my lip. “What else would you learn from tasting my blood?”
“Umnitsa, you’re learning quickly.” His perfect mouth twists into a knowing smile.
“With a mental shield like yours, likely nothing. I’ll be relying on taste alone.
There’s a chance that I’d be able to pick the lock on your mental door if I were to feed from you for an extended period of time.
But with a single drop of blood, that won’t happen. ”
“Okay. Let’s do it.” I nod nervously.
He hesitates at something but then appears to make up his mind, grabbing a small thin dagger from his desk. Or a really fancy letter opener?
“Wait, you’re not gonna, like, freak out and go all…” I make claws with my hands and pull my lips back over my teeth and growl.
He gives me a sardonic look. “I have been feeding for fifty years. I haven’t lost control once.”
“Damn, okay, grandpa. Want a butterscotch candy?” Honestly, he looks great for his age, not a day over thirty.
“Seems like you don’t really want my help.” He smirks with a raised eyebrow. “Ready?”
I nod. He cups my wrist in one of his tattooed hands, pricking my finger. His dilated eyes focus solely on the tiny bead of blood as he slowly brings my finger to his mouth. His nostrils flare as he studies the red swelling liquid with rapt attention.
He slips my finger into his mouth, a soft growl emanating from his chest. My pulse skyrockets—this is doing things to me that it absolutely should not be.
Especially since I just learned he’s old as hell.
He sucks on my finger, pulling more blood from the small cut and drawing a nearly imperceptible moan from my lips.
His eyes jolt up to meet mine. My body mirrors the heat burning in his gaze.
I don’t know when I moved closer, but I’m leaning across his desk. The pull to be nearer to him is incessant. All I feel is him. I need more contact now.
We move together like ocean waves crashing into each other, fierce and unforgiving.
His other hand clamps around my elbow as I reach for him—my finger still between his lips.
He stands and pulls me up onto the desk, wrapping an arm around my waist. I kneel on his desk, pressing my chest to the hard wall of his body.
My finger falls from his mouth, replaced by my lips.
This is nothing like the slow languid kissing I’m used to.
This is a primal demand. Our mouths, tongues, bodies crash together in a feverish dance of all-consuming need.
We are constructive wave interference—formidable and unrelenting in our lascivious collision.
I trail my hands over his biceps and around his neck.
I moan into his mouth as his fingers skate down my waist, over my hips to grab the back of my thighs. We move as one as I wrap my thighs around his waist. He lifts me and turns, crushing my back into the bookshelf behind his desk—grounding me within our ocean of need.
I roll my hips, grinding into him. “More,” I whimper against his lips. He explores my neck and collarbone with his tongue. “More.” I tilt my neck to give him better access.
“Fuck,” he groans into my skin where my shoulder meets the curve of my neck.
I feel the seductive scrape of his fangs.
White-hot delicious pain shoots through my body as his canines pierce my flesh, followed by a luxurious flood of liquid heat.
Desire courses through my veins, turning my blood to molten lava.
Each draw from his mouth pushes me closer and closer to the edge.
My hands explore his chest, his neck, the tangle in his curls.
He breaks his hold on my neck to run his tongue between my breasts. His fingers tease the curve of my ass as I grind into him. I want to taste him, bite him, drink him in, devour everything he is. When his lips meet mine again, I moan into his mouth. I want to consume, wreck, shatter.
“Fuck, you taste like heaven,” he growls, shifting his body so that his hard length pushes against my core. I arch into him. I’m enthralled by his need, his pleasure, his desire. It wraps around me like warm ribbons.
I can see each ribbon in my mind’s eye, an incorporeal version of his want for me.
Like living golden harp strings connecting us.
I crack the door in my mind. My own need reaching out, seeking to connect with him.
I run an imaginary hand over his golden threads, exploring, listening to the soft plucking sound they make, feeling the vibrations in the center of my own body.
He moans into my mouth as I gently thrum the strings of his pleasure.
I reach for his belt, undoing the buckle, and trail my fingers over his pants, down his length. God, he’s so hard.
“Fuck, I am. I don’t know if I have ever been this hard,” he whispers into my mouth.
More. I want to bathe in his pleasure. Drown us both in it. Can he feel how wet I am?
“Yes, so wet for me.” He slides his fingers over the seam of my panties. He’s taken my blood inside his body. Now I need him deep inside mine. Fill me. Fuck me.
“So needy. That’s what you want? For me to fuck you, fill you with my cock?”
Wait, what? Shit. He’s in my head. I slam the door in my mind closed.
“Govno!” Shit! His head rears back, continuing to curse in Russian, setting me on the ground and palming his forehead.
“Fuck, that hurt.” With our bodies pressed together, we both still.
The only movement is the rise and fall of our chests from our ragged heavy breaths. What are we doing? Holy fuck.
“What was that?” I whisper, afraid to make too much noise. His pupils are blown wide, not a trace of his irises visible. Where once a man stood, now stands a predator. Yet, I don’t think he is the lone apex hunter in the room.
“You need to go,” he spits out through gritted teeth.
“What? I-I don’t understand,” I stutter. My body is at war with logic. It’s taking every ounce of control not to push him on the desk and climb right into his lap.
His eyes close, nostrils flaring. “Now! You need to leave!” he yells. “Get out!”
I tense, ready to bolt.
“Don’t run. Slowly. Go slowly.” His stern voice resonates with quiet warning, and his eyes are squeezed tight.
My hummingbird heart beats with furious speed.
I extract myself from between him and the bookshelf and move to the door at a painfully slow pace.
Once I’m in the hall, I slam the door and sprint all the way to Havard Hall.
Fuck, I almost fucked my professor.