Chapter 3
R ose
The limousine slows as we approach Wolfswood Institute. My heart races. The building stands ahead, tall and weathered, with mid-October clouds hanging low behind its chimneys.
The building is much larger than I imagined. Dark grey stone covers its walls, and the tall spires rise sharply into the cloudy sky. The windows are narrow and shut tight against the rain. Behind the structure, the gardens stretch so far that they seem to disappear into the horizon.
A clock tower rings loudly, counting time with strict precision. Everything—the gleam of the brass door, the weight of the iron balconies, the careful stonework around the entrance—speaks of wealth. But the place feels heavy, as if it holds dark secrets from both past and present.
I see students walking in small, orderly groups.
Their uniforms are immaculate, and their voices remain low and measured.
It feels as if the building itself expects a certain kind of discipline.
The Wolfswood uniform is understated but clearly expensive: navy blazers with silver crests, crisp white shirts, and charcoal skirts or trousers.
Every detail carries tradition, shaped by centuries of history.
I step out of the limousine, taken aback by the campus’s grandeur. Nothing about this place resembles the life I had in London. This is my new reality—the Devereaux world.
Headmistress Lillian Velmont is waiting for me inside. Her silver hair is pulled tightly back, and her eyes are cold and sharp. She seems strict and unapologetic.
“Miss Devereaux, welcome,” she says with a restrained smile. “Follow me. I will show you to your dorm.”
She leads me through halls of gleaming wood and ancient portraits. The students are pausing to whisper my name. Devereaux—this word is trailing me like a ghost.
My dorm room is stunning—grand in that old-money way, where nothing is flashy but everything costs a fortune.
It’s larger than our entire apartment back in London and dripping with opulence.
I open a drawer and pause, half-certain the knobs are made of gold.
The windows are fogged, and the campus is barely visible—but right now, all my attention is on what’s inside.
“Is this… all for me?” I ask the headmistress.
“Are you expecting someone else?” she answers as if I’m dumb.
“No, I meant…”
“Miss Devereaux, I was told to show you to your bedroom, even though I am the headmistress of the institution. I need to inform you that I do not provide butler services, no matter what your family or Mr. Thorn might think.”
“Who is Mr. Thorn? Is he a part of…”
She rolls her eyes and turns to walk out of my bedroom.
“I have my eye on you, Miss Devereaux.”
Before I can reply, she’s gone. “Great,” I think to myself. I’ve been here for five minutes and I have already upset the headmistress. That’s a wonderful start.
I sit down on the bed to settle my heart rate after that episode, but I notice there is a book there.
The Devereaux Legacy. Its cover is embossed with a family crest. There is no note on it, and I immediately start to wonder—who left this here? It couldn’t have been the headmistress. I trace the title, wondering what secrets it holds. But my mind wanders.
She mentioned the Devereauxs and Mr. Thorn.
Who is Mr. Thorn?
***
I’ve never felt this nervous before. My alarm goes off, but I’m already up. It’s my first class is Business Etiquette, today, and I have absolutely no clue what to expect.
The classroom buzzes with students. They speak in polished accents and stand with confident postures, clearly presenting themselves as heirs to fortunes.
A very tall man stands at the front, effortlessly commanding the class’s attention. He has a lean, muscular frame, and his light olive skin contrasts with his jet-black, slightly tousled hair. A tailored suit matches his dark brown eyes, which seem calm and comforting.
“He’s so handsome, isn’t he?”
“Oh, my God. It’s insane how good-looking he is!!”
“The things I would let him do to me! God, you have no idea, girls!”
I can hear some of the other girls whispering and giggling about this man. I have no idea who he is, but I assume he is the professor teaching this class.
Seconds later, I settle into my seat. But I freeze in the process of taking my books out when I notice that he is staring at me.
And so is everyone else now. He pauses and stares deliberately at me, as if memorizing every detail of my uniform, my carefully pressed blouse, my short, pleated charcoal skirt.
My skin feels warm under his scrutiny. I can feel a flush rising, as my body betrays my composure. He steps closer to the lectern with fluid movements. The professor looks authoritative, but there’s something like a private invitation behind his smile.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. And welcome to Wolfswood Institute! My name is Gabriel Thorn. Professor Gabriel Thorn.”
He speaks these sentences in a gorgeous, low tone of voice, staring at me as he does so. He is addressing me, seemingly unaware that everyone is watching me because of his attention.
The room fades—classmates, desks, all blur as our eyes lock again. His stare lingers on me, and it stirs a heat low in my belly. I shift, and my skirt brushes my skin. I am very much aware of the boundary between us. He is a professor. I am a student.
“Good morning, Professor Thorn,” a girl addresses him, undoubtedly trying to get his attention. I look over and notice that she’s gorgeous. Of course, she is.
She has long, straight, glossy platinum blonde hair, dark brown eyes, and pale skin. Her uniform is the same as ours, except that the Chanel logo is imprinted on practically every seam and button. She’s wearing a pink bow that she has placed on top of her head, giving her the appearance of a pixie.
Why can’t I look like that? Old-money, American, blonde, tall… Instead, it’s just me.
“Professor Thorn, my name is Cassandra Vane, as I’m sure you already know. I graduated magna cum laude from Harvard and I’m interested in you… Umm… In your class,” she flirts with him openly. “My application essay was…”
“Miss Vane, why are you telling me all this? I didn’t ask,” Professor Thorn replies coldly.
Her nostrils flare, and she tosses her blonde hair over her shoulder, clearly hurt.
“I meant that…”
“Enough. Please do not speak unless I call on you. This is not a barn dance, Miss Vape. We do not speak when the mood strikes us like gossiping grandmothers.”
“It’s Vane and…” but she swallows the rest of the words under his scrutiny.
He begins the lecture, though his attention drifts back to me again and again.
The Cassandra girl turns around and looks at me with hatred. I try to ignore her.
Gabriel—Professor Thorn—tells us about dining protocols and boardroom decorum. His voice is smooth, and it draws me in. I catch myself staring, captivated by his presence. He glances my way, and a faint smile appears on his lips as if he senses my fascination.
The hour passes too quickly. I took chaotic notes that look so silly now. When the class is over, a student brings me a note:
Report to Professor Thorn’s office immediately.
Oh, no. What did I do wrong? My heart is racing, and my nerves are tingling with anticipation.
I grab my things and walk through Wolfswood’s labyrinthine halls until I reach his office. I’m still holding the note in my hand when I knock on his door.
“Come in, Miss Devereaux,” Professor Thorn calls.
I step inside, and there he is, sitting behind a polished desk. He rises. His height is imposing yet reassuring. Or eyes lock, and the air turns electric with the immediate attraction. My knees weaken—he’s even more handsome up close. His features are chiseled, and his smile is disarming.
“Rose, please sit,” he says, gesturing to a chair.
I do as he asks me, smooth my skirt, and feel my nerves buzzing. He’s closely watching me.
“Your academic record is impressive,” he tells me. “Your essays for Wolfswood showed remarkable insight. As a result, I have decided to handle your private training to ensure you master the Devereaux legacy.”
“Oh, thank you, Professor. But… what does that imply?”
My first words to him have been—Thank you, Professor. I make a mental note.
“It means that I want to tutor you, Rose. In private. I want to teach you myself. To give you lessons.”
He leans back in his chair and allows his eyes to glide over my whole body as he speaks. He has no shame, and I fear how much I love it. He makes me feel seen and wanted. Openly.
“I’m honored, Professor Thorn. I’m ready to learn.”
“Good gi… I meant to say ‘Good.’ We’ll begin soon. You have potential, Rose, and I’ll guide you carefully.”
“I’m looking forward to the lessons, Professor.”
He stops and stares at my mouth as if he’s playing out something dirty in his head. The idea makes me squirm.
But then there is a pause, a long pause during which neither of us speaks.
“Umm… if there isn’t anything else, I think I’ll go. I have another class and…” I tell him, getting up from the chair.
“Please sit back down. As a student, you may leave when I dismiss you.”
I obey, and he smiles.
“Yes, sir. You are the professor, after all.”
“You learn so quickly, Rose. Fantastic. Now you may leave.”
***
That night, alone in my dorm, I open The Devereaux Legacy. Its pages are thick with the dynasty’s history, shipping empires, real estate, scandals of love and betrayal.
A folded note that had been hidden in the spine slips free. It’s written in elegant handwriting:
You were born for power, little flower.
My thighs tighten, and a flush is spreading all over my body. These words are so provocative and intimate. Who wrote this? Professor Thorn’s face flashes in my mind. I wonder if it was him, and my heart pounds.
I lie down on my bed, and the note’s words are echoing in my head.
My mind starts drifting into a half-dream state.
I imagine Gabriel standing before me, his suit is gone, his chest bare, and his eyes are looking at me with a piercing intensity.
“Please me, Rose,” he says in a low, authoritative voice, and I kneel. My pussy is wet, aching for him.
His cock, hard and thick, presses against my lips, and I take him in, sucking eagerly, and swirling around it with my tongue. He praises me—“Perfect, little flower”—and fucks my mouth slowly, deliberately, gripping my hair gently with his hands.
My pussy throbs and I feel the desperate need to give myself a little relief. Still clutching his note, I take off my underwear and spread my legs wide. I drag his handwritten note down to my pussy, I spread its lips with my fingers and begin to rub the note against it.
It feels like fire, pleasuring myself with the only thing I have from him.
I imagine his cock inside my mouth, filling me with deep thrusts.
Continuing to rub the note against my clit, I imagine him giving me pleasure, dominating me.
He cums—and my mouth fills with his hot release.
I swallow, lost in his power and attraction to me.
My body trembles. This fantasy is so vivid, but it’s only a fantasy.
The note is soaked through now with my juices, and the words have become barely visible.
I stop before they get completely erased, and the pleasure slowly fades.
Frustrated, I turn on my side to go to sleep, but all I can think about is him.
Professor Thorn. Teach me, Professor. Show me what pleasure truly is…