9. Chapter 9
Chapter 9
Anastasia
I t’s been two days since my encounter with Noah in his classroom.
Two days since Walker’s little fiasco.
Two days of Elijah and Megan’s relentless questioning.
The morning after my drunken mess of a night, Megan waltzed into our room, radiating happiness, as if the world hadn’t just shifted under my feet. I guess her night with Elijah evolved into something more. Something involving a girl from the swim team, if the smug grin on her face was anything to go by.
Meanwhile, I’ve spent every moment since trying to navigate the minefield of their curiosity, dodging their questions about my night with Walker. They don’t know the full truth.
Hell, I barely know how to process it myself.
Lying about the bruises was easy enough. Blaming them on Walker’s rough grip made sense. It was plausible, believable. But looking Megan dead in the eyes and executing that lie without flinching? That was damn near impossible.
Because every time I try, I can still feel Noah’s touch like a ghost on my skin. And that’s a truth I can’t afford to admit.
Not to them, and definitely not to myself.
On top of everything else, my mom has been blowing up my phone with texts about my dad. Update after update about his latest surgery, his test results, the doctors’ reassurances that feel emptier every time. She tries to stay optimistic, her words laced with forced hope, but I can hear the exhaustion between the lines. Every picture she sends me shows the truth she won’t say out loud. The chemo is stripping him down to nothing, piece by piece. It’s like every round is taking more of his soul, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
The only good news I can give her, the only thing keeping her from completely unraveling, is that I’m making something of myself here. That I’m staying on track. That I’m okay.
I can’t ruin this for them. I can’t let Cole, Walker, or Noah derail me from this dumbass degree. I need to be careful. I need to think about my dad.
Before my thoughts can spiral any further, a cheerful voice cuts through the quiet.
"Oh, am I late?"
I blink, lifting my head from my desk to see Mrs. Briar standing in the doorway, her expression warm but slightly confused.
"No, I just came in early. Needed a quiet place to think."
She glances at her watch, brows raising. "Thirty minutes early?" She lets out a soft laugh, her voice light. "I must be one hell of a teacher for you to want that much extra time in my classroom."
A small smile tugs at her lips, and, despite everything, I find myself appreciating her presence. Mrs. Briar looks like she stepped straight out of a magazine, her flowy dress moving effortlessly as she walks, white heels clicking softly against the floor. She wears elegance like second nature. Around her neck, a delicate cross dangles, catching the light, and on her finger, a wedding ring most women would kill for glints with quiet opulence.
The Briars are well-known in Spokehaven, a family practically synonymous with charity and community outreach. From everything I’ve heard, their work with the youth is unmatched, their kindness not just a facade but a genuine extension of who they are. And judging by the framed pictures on her desk, her husband is just as put-together, handsome in a way that almost doesn’t seem fair, and their kids? They look like they were plucked straight from a Gerber baby ad, all bright smiles and perfect little curls.
Everything about her radiates warmth, perfection. A stark contrast to the chaos currently unraveling in my own life.
At one point, a rumor spread like wildfire that Mrs. Briar’s husband used to be the priest at her church. It was the kind of gossip that had people whispering in hallways, exchanging knowing glances. But the moment she walked into work with a hickey on her neck and robe burns on her wrists, the rumor vanished just as quickly as it had started.
No priest would tear into a woman like that.
"Just a lot on my mind," I say again, exhaling a sigh.
Mrs. Briar nods slowly, studying me with a look that’s equal parts curiosity and concern. With the effortless grace she always carries, she moves to sit on the edge of her desk, her hands resting lightly on her lap.
"Well, I’m not a teacher for another thirty minutes if you need someone to talk to," she offers with a soft smile.
I let out a short laugh, shaking my head.
"I appreciate it, Mrs. Briar, but the last thing I need is to slip up and say the wrong thing and have you report me."
"Thirty minutes, Ana," she whispers, leaning forward just slightly. "I’m all ears. Plus, it’s only you and me in here."
I hesitate, weighing my options, before letting out a heavy sigh.
"Have you ever been with someone you knew you shouldn’t have?"
The moment the question leaves my lips, she bursts into laughter, smacking her leg with a grin. But my amusement fades when I catch sight of the scars. Deep, white lines running up and down her skin where her dress has ridden up from her movement.
Fuck… are those-
"Boy, have I," she chuckles, shaking her head. "And I married him."
"Wait," I scoff, blinking in disbelief. "Those rumors about your husband being your church’s priest-"
"All true," she interrupts, her grin widening. "And man, were my parents pissed. God bless my brother for keeping my secret as long as he did."
"Were you not scared of the consequences?" I ask, my voice quieter now.
She tilts her head slightly, as if remembering something distant, something heavy.
"Honey, I dealt with the consequences. We all did. I got lucky with how things panned out and bless Zoey for marrying my brother’s sporadic ass and giving him someone else to worry about." She exhales a soft laugh before meeting my gaze again, her expression shifting into something more serious.
"But if you’re asking if I felt like it was worth it…." Her smile turns knowing, almost wistful. "Yes."
"Even if you knew it was wrong?" I interrupt, my voice quieter than before.
Mrs. Briar’s expression shifts slightly, her eyes narrowing as she crosses her arms over her chest. She studies me carefully before tilting her head, her voice light but probing.
"Well, I’ve seen the priest at the Catholic church here," she muses. "I’d say he’s a tad too old for you if you’re choosing to follow down my path," she jokes, a teasing smile on her lips.
I don’t laugh. I don’t even crack a smile.
The silence stretches between us until she exhales, her expression turning more serious. "How wrong are we talking?" she finally asks, her tone quieter now, more thoughtful.
"Never mind," I sigh, shaking my head. "The fact that I don’t want to elaborate should say enough."
Setting my head back down on my desk, I hear her shift, the soft sound of her heels clicking against the floor as she slides off her desk.
"Well, when you feel like opening up, you can always show up thirty minutes early," she offers.
"Thank you," I murmur, my voice laced with full honesty. "I just-"
"Am I interrupting?"
That voice.
My breath catches, and I lift my head, my gaze locking onto Noah’s the second I see him lingering in the doorway.
Mrs. Briar waves him in without hesitation.
"Not at all, Noah, just having some girl talk."
The heat rushes to my cheeks so fast it makes me dizzy. All I can visualize is the way he looked at me in that classroom.
The way his fingers worked inside me, the way my body responded to him, to his control.
A slow, forbidden pulse of pleasure stirs deep in my core, and I clench my jaw, willing the sensation away.
God damn it.
Noah moves toward Mrs. Briar, his posture relaxed, his expression unreadable. But he doesn’t look at me. Not even a glance.
Interesting.
So he can function through the workday just fine, pretending like nothing happened. Pretending like he didn’t have three of his fingers buried inside me before forcing me to lick my cum from them.
"I was just stopping by to run a lesson plan by you," he says, his voice smooth, casual, untouched by what lingers between us.
His grin is easy, effortless.
So void of the power he had over me in that classroom.
Draped in his usual long brown coat, a light brown shirt, and fitted black pants, Noah looks effortlessly put together, stunning, as always. But I know better now. I know what’s hidden beneath those layers, beneath the carefully curated professionalism. I know the strength of his hands, the way his fingers feel buried deep inside me, the way his voice drops when he’s in control.
The thought alone sends a slow stir of nerves through my stomach, an uneasy heat curling in my core. The idea of feeling something more than his fingers within me lingers in my mind.
I swallow, my throat still raw, my voice still recovering from Walker’s brutal treatment.
"I think I’d better go," I rasp, the words barely leaving my lips.
Mrs. Briar watches me with quiet curiosity, but she doesn’t press.
"Sorry for bothering you," I add, forcing a small nod before moving past the pair.
But the second I step forward, I freeze.
A firm hand wraps around my wrist, halting my escape.
Noah.
The warmth of his skin against mine sends a jolt through me, a direct contradiction to the sharp nerves that creep in. Slowly, I turn my gaze upward, meeting his eyes. And just like that, all the tension from Friday night comes crawling back, tightening around my lungs like a vice.
Where the hell is a bottle of wine when you need it?
"Are you alright, Ms. Burns?" His voice is steady, laced with a sincerity that makes my stomach turn. The way he says it, so calm, so composed, makes me want to scream.
Tugging my wrist free from his grasp, I narrow my eyes, a sharp edge slicing through my tone.
"Fine," I hiss. "Just trying not to make any more mistakes."
I don’t give him a chance to respond. I leave it at that, my footsteps quick as I push through the door and head straight for his classroom.
Because despite what I just said….
I already know I’m about to make another mistake.
Taking a seat, I immediately regret it. The thought of sitting in this classroom for the next forty-five minutes is unbearable.
I had chosen something more appropriate for the cold weather. A black skirt, black stockings, and an oversized, soft gray sweater. It was meant to be practical, comfortable. But now, sitting here, I’m painfully aware of how the outfit clings in all the wrong places, the way my skirt rides just enough to draw attention to the curve of my ass. It’s the last thing I need right now.
"Hey."
The voice makes me tense.
Looking over, I see Walker lingering near my desk, his bag slung over one shoulder, his expression hesitant, almost uncertain, as if debating whether he should even sit down.
"Hey," I sigh, not bothering to mask the exhaustion in my voice. Then, without thinking, I add, "Didn’t hear from you this weekend." The sharp edge in my tone makes it clear that I noticed his silence.
He finally sits, dragging his desk closer to mine, the screech of metal against tile filling the small space between us.
"I was wrong to blow up like I did," Walker mumbles, his voice low. "I was even more wrong to handle you like I did-"
"So we can agree that face-fucking me out of jealousy was less than desirable?" I cut in, my words dripping with disdain.
He takes a shallow breath, rubbing the back of his neck. The regret is there, but so is something else.
Something unreadable.
"Let me make it up to you," he says after a moment. "Let me take you out on an actual date. Maybe then you’ll see how sorry I really am."
Glancing at Noah’s desk, a sharp wave of regret settles deep in my gut.
I am no saint either.
What moral ground do I even have to stand on?
"You can pick the place," Walker continues, his voice softer now, almost hopeful. "Or tell me your favorite kind of food-"
I don’t let him finish.
Leaning in, I press my lips against his, cutting off his words, silencing the attempts to overcompensate for his actions. There’s no hesitation, no second-guessing. I kiss him with force, with purpose, pressing until his hesitation melts away and his hand comes up to cup the side of my face.
He takes control instantly, guiding me upward, pulling me to my feet as he deepens the kiss. His tongue slides over my bottom lip, testing, teasing, before I part my lips and let him in.
My fingers tighten around his shirt, holding him against me as he slowly backs me into my desk. His hands are everywhere, exploring, claiming, sliding over my thighs, testing the boundaries I haven’t yet set.
And I let him.
Because for a moment, it’s easy. A distraction.
All men are like Walker. Taking. Using. Maybe I can use him too. Maybe I can make him feel the same pain he gave me-
"Last time I checked, my classroom isn’t a porno set."
The voice is sharp, cutting through the haze of lust like a blade.
I freeze.
Walker instantly steps back, putting space between us. My breath is uneven as I tug down my skirt, my hands slightly trembling as I turn to face the doorway.
Noah stands there, his figure tense, his brooding gaze locked onto us with something unmistakably dark.
"Mr. Ackerman-"
"Sit your ass down," he hisses, his voice low, controlled, but laced with something dangerous. He points toward the back of the classroom, his gaze narrowing in on Walker.
"Away from Ms. Burns."
Grabbing his bag, Walker looks embarrassed, his jaw tight as he avoids both mine and Noah’s eyes.
"Next time you two want to jump each other’s bones, make sure I can’t see it," Noah snaps, his voice razor-sharp, cutting through the remaining air between us.
Then, his gaze shifts, locking onto me.
His jaw tenses, his expression unreadable, but his words carry a weight that settles deep in my chest.
"I would hate for you to feel the consequences of pissing me off."
He’s not talking to Walker anymore.
This is for me.
It’s clear now, Noah’s possessiveness last night wasn’t just an in-the-moment reaction. This isn’t fleeting anger. This is something deeper, something controlled. He’s pissed. And he isn’t letting it go.
I swallow, forcing myself to move, to sit, as the other students begin to funnel into the classroom. Conversations hum around me, the mundane noise of morning chatter and shuffled papers filling the air, but I don’t hear any of it.
My focus is locked on the chalkboard, but my mind refuses to stay still. It runs rampant, spiraling with a fear I can control.
Fear of Noah seeing me with Walker. Fear of what he might do. Fear of how much I want to find out.
Or maybe…
Maybe him seeing Walker and me was exactly what I wanted.