25. Chapter 25
Chapter 25
Anastasia
T wo months later
Settling into my seat, I brace myself for yet another one of Mr. Zimmerman’s horrendous attempts at deep-diving into Shakespeare.
Old, frazzled, and painfully unsuited to be a long-term sub, he was the school’s last resort after Noah’s sudden sabbatical two months ago.
Two months.
Two months of silence. Two months of Noah doing god knows what and fucking god knows who.
I fucking hate him.
The very thought of his existence makes my blood boil.
The day he ended things, I questioned everything. I broke down in my dorm room, sobbing into Elijah and Megan’s arms until I had nothing left to give.
The things he said. The things he did.
I was nothing to him.
I see that now. I see what I really meant to Noah Ackerman.
Nothing more than his plaything.
Walker lingered after it all went to hell, spewing apologies like they meant anything, thinking his weak little "I’m sorry" could somehow erase the absolute piece of shit he really is.
I played nice.
Some pathetic part of me wondered if being civil with Walker would somehow make Noah call me.
Weeks bled into months.
And his silence? It persisted.
By the fourth week, it was solidified. Noah meant every word he said.
He is a user. A manipulator.
That’s all he’s ever been.
Walker, on the other hand, has no shame, openly cozying up to Cole and Erica like nothing ever happened, laughing with them, eating with them, posting with them on his socials as if he hadn’t played a role in ruining me.
Still, I play the game. I give him the occasional smile in classes like this one.
When Noah left, people were confused.
But Walker? He looked thrilled.
Trying to figure out why isn’t my problem anymore.
So I drowned myself in pints of Ben & Jerry’s, listened to Norah Jones on repeat for weeks, and finally started to feel something close to normal.
Tapping my pencil against my desk, I skim through the incoherent mess Mr. Zimmerman scrawled across the board yesterday.
God, they really do just give teaching degrees to anyone, don’t they?
"Hey."
That grating voice.
Peering up, I find Walker standing over me, flashing that same easy, infuriating grin, eyeing the seat next to me like he expects an invitation.
Please, for the love of god, go away.
“Hey.” I force a smile.
He doesn’t move.
“Still trying to rationalize Zimmerman’s notes?” he jokes.
Cute. You think we’re close enough for casual conversation.
“As best I can,” I sigh, feigning amusement. “Honestly, I think he should just admit he has no clue what’s going on and spare us the wasted paper.”
Walker chuckles, tucking his hands into his pockets.
“Well, nothing can be worse than Mr. Ackerman,” he grins.
There it is.
That subtle jab. His way of testing me. Prodding at Noah’s absence, waiting to see how I react.
I give him a slow, syrupy smile.
And when I speak, my voice is pure venom.
“Absolutely.”
His grin twitches, just slightly.
“It’s actually good I caught you,” he says, placing his hands on my desk like he owns my time. “There was something I wanted to talk to you about-”
"Sit your asses down."
The voice booms through the classroom.
And my heart stops.
Every muscle in my body locks as the room falls silent.
Every single face turns toward the front.
My breath hitches.
My chest tightens.
Because standing there is the last person anyone expected to see.
Noah fucking Ackerman.
The man standing before me is a ghost of the professor I knew two months ago.
His hair, slightly longer, curls more prominent than before, unruly in a way that makes my fingers ache to tangle through them.
God, I miss running my hands through those locks.
The scruff on his jaw is new, his stubble forming the shadow of a beard—something he never let grow in before. The dark circles beneath his eyes are deep, carved into his skin like battle scars. His knuckles, bruised and beaten, tell a story I’m not sure I want to know.
He looks like a man who’s been through hell.
And yet, his gaze is locked only on me.
I can’t breathe.
Walker shifts beside me, ever the opportunist.
“Mr. Zimmerman-” Walker starts, his voice edged with amusement.
"I said sit the fuck down."
The command cuts through the room like a blade, sharp, brutal.
Noah’s voice is deeper, rougher than I remember.
"In the back."
Walker blinks, momentarily stunned.
“Mr. Zimmerman is gone,” Noah adds, his tone leaving no room for debate.
Walker isn’t the only one caught off guard. The entire room is frozen, eyes darting between them like they’re watching a lit fuse burn down to its final seconds.
“No.”
The word escapes before I can stop it.
Every muscle in Noah’s body tenses.
“He can sit wherever the hell he wants,” I say, my voice even, but sharp enough to cut.
Noah’s eyes narrow, his jaw flexing as he bites the inside of his cheek.
His stare is lethal.
"What the hell did you just say to me, Ms. Burns-”
“I said shut the fuck up,” I snap, feeling the weight of my classmates’ attention shift onto me.
There’s a beat of silence.
A slow, dangerous exhale.
Low murmurs spread through the room like wildfire.
I let my gaze flick to his pathetic attempt at a professional uniform, the rumpled shirt, the loose tie, the open collar. He looks more like a fighter than a professor.
“Maybe learn how to wear a tie before you come in here barking orders,” I taunt, eyes trailing over his disheveled state.
His eye twitches.
A tell.
His hands curl into tight fists at his sides.
"You’re right, Ana," Walker grins, throwing his bag onto the desk beside mine like he owns the place. "Mr. Ackerman seems to have forgotten how things work around here."
Noah’s gaze drops slightly, and for a second, I see it.
Something shifts in his posture, just enough to tell me Walker’s words hit deeper than they should have.
“My apologies,” Noah says smoothly, his lips curling into something that isn’t quite a smile. “It’s been a while since I’ve been in a teaching setting.”
Wait... what?
Did Noah just fucking apologize?
To Walker of all people?
He moves toward his desk, adjusting his uniform with an air of forced composure, his fingers brushing against the wrinkled shirt like he’s suddenly aware of how out of place he looks.
His eyes scan the disaster Mr. Zimmerman left on the board, lips pressing into a thin line.
“As you all know, I took a leave of absence to focus on… family affairs.”
Family?
Noah talks to his family?
The idea shouldn’t feel like a knife twisting in my gut, but it does.
“But things have been handled,” he continues, his voice steady, his posture rigid. “My little brother has decided to spend some quality time with me, and as a result, I’m able to step back into my role here.”
His brother?
He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t offer a single clue about what that means.
His gaze flicks back to me, sharp and unreadable, jaw clenching slightly.
“Family Night is coming up,” he announces, his words measured. “Administration has asked me to remind you all to invite your parents to campus on Friday.”
But he’s not addressing the class.
Not really.
He’s looking at me.
His stare cuts straight through me, into the places I’ve tried to bury since the moment he walked out of my life.
"Is that understood?"
I swallow.
The weight of his attention is suffocating.
Before I can even think of how to respond, Walker lets out a lazy chuckle.
“You seem to have left out the part where my family is funding the event,” he announces, reclining slightly in his seat.
And there it is, his blatant arrogance.
“So stay nice to me,” Walker grins, “and I won’t have any of your parents thrown out.”
The room shifts.
Some students chuckle under their breath. Others just sit in awkward silence, waiting for a reaction.
Noah’s expression hardens, his jaw tightening just enough for me to notice.
"Yes," he hisses, the words barely passing his lips. "That as well."
But something about it feels... off.
His voice is too low, too strained.
God, it’s like he’s Walker’s fucking dog.
And I don’t know what bothers me more.
The fact that he’s letting Walker speak to him like that.
Or the fact that, after two months of silence, of abandonment, of pain... he still looks at me like I’m the only thing in the room.
“Ana,” Noah hisses, his voice low and dangerous, stopping me just as I reach the door. “Can I speak to you for a moment?”
No.
Fuck no.
I know what happens when Noah and I “speak alone.”
It’s never just talking.
“Sure,” I murmur, but before he can take another step, I grab Walker’s arm, anchoring myself to something.
“But I have plans with Walker,” I add, my voice smooth, calculated. “So make it quick.”
Walker doesn’t argue.
In fact, he looks fucking thrilled to be dragged into whatever this is.
Noah’s jaw tightens.
“My conversation is not for Walker,” he warns.
“Well,” Walker grins, leaning into the tension like it’s a goddamn sport, “it is now. So go ahead.”
Noah flicks his gaze between us, waiting for me to say something, to dismiss Walker, to give in.
I don’t.
“What?” I challenge, tilting my head. “If you don’t have anything useful to say, then next time, just email my student email instead of bothering me.”
Walker laughs, slow and smug. “You heard the woman.” He gestures toward the door. “Run along, Ackerman.”
Noah exhales sharply, a humorless smile curling at his lips.
Then, he scoffs, lazily looking at the floor.
“Right.” His voice drops, mocking, laced with something venomous. “I’ve been around such lovely people lately, I almost forgot how fucking arrogant you are-”
Then it happens.
Without hesitation, without warning, Noah lunges.
Walker doesn’t even see it coming.
In a single movement, Noah grabs him, slamming him against the wall so hard the air rushes from his lungs.
The room spins.
My heart stops.
And then...
The glint of a blade.
Noah presses a knife to Walker’s throat, his grip unyielding, his expression feral.
The rage in his eyes is terrifying.
“Do you want to keep pissing me off?” he snarls, his voice unrecognizable. “You know where I was those two months. And you know damn well I can be long gone before you even open your fucking mouth about this.”
Walker stiffens, his chest rising and falling in short, uneven breaths.
“Noah-” I choke, but catch myself. “Mr. Ackerman. What the fuck-”
Walker’s voice is strained, barely a breath.
“You deranged fucking lunatic-”
“No.” Noah’s grip tightens, his knuckles white around the knife. “I did what you wanted.” His voice is sharp as steel, dark as a fucking grave. “Now get the fuck out of my classroom before I make you carry your spleen in your hands as you go.”
Then, just as suddenly, he lets go.
Walker stumbles forward, his eyes wild, his entire body trembling.
“I-I’ll tell your brother-”
“Go ahead,” Noah barks, his voice booming, commanding, unhinged. “Do it. And then get the fuck out.”
Walker doesn’t hesitate.
He scurries away, shoving past me, barely holding himself together as I reach for him.
“Walker-”
He spins, face twisted with fear and disgust.
“He’s a fucking psycho, Ana,” Walker snaps, voice shaking. “You should be thanking me for getting him out of your life for two months.”
Then he’s gone.
The door slams shut behind him, leaving behind nothing but silence.
I don’t move.
I don’t breathe.
Did he...
Did he just say he got Noah out of my life?
My pulse pounds in my ears.
My eyes snap to Noah, still standing at his desk, rage radiating off of him in waves.
"Fucking brat," he mutters, gripping the handle of his knife.
Then, with zero hesitation, he jabs the tip of the blade into the wooden desk.
The sound makes me flinch.
I snap out of my daze, my blood still ice cold.
“What the fuck did he mean?” I hiss, my voice shaking with the need for clarity.
Noah doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, he leans back slightly, eyes dark, dangerous as he laughs.
A low, bitter laugh that sends shivers down my spine.
“Oh, so now you speak?”
His words are dripping with something.
Mockery. Amusement. Pain.
And then, suddenly, another realization hits me.
He’s fucking drunk.
“You’re fucking drunk,” I hiss, taking a step back, pulse pounding. “Threatening students-”
“Students?” Noah laughs, the sound dark, sharp. He takes a slow step toward me, his fingers curling around the handle of his knife, yanking it free from the desk with a sickening scrape.
His movements are reckless.
But his eyes, his eyes are sharp as fucking glass.
“Walker is a pawn,” he sneers, closing the space between us like a predator stalking its prey.
Too close.
Too damn close.
“Just like me,” he murmurs, voice dripping with something dangerous.
Then, slowly, he turns the knife in his grip and presses the tip against his own chest.
What the fuck is he doing?
“Caught in family affairs,” he mutters, tapping the blade against his sternum like he’s taunting himself.
I swallow, my entire body on edge.
“Your brother-”
“God, look at you,” he growls, cutting me off.
His gaze rakes over me, devouring me whole, filled with something wild, something raw.
Don’t, Ana.
Don’t.
But it’s too late.
He sees me.
Sees everything I’m trying to hide.
Then, suddenly, he rips the knife away from his chest.
And I see it.
The haze of alcohol clouding his vision, dulling his movements just enough to make him unsteady.
His body wavers as he drops to his knees.
His hands find my thighs, his grip firm, desperate. His face is right there, mouth level with my stomach, breath warm against my skin.
His touch.
Fuck.
His touch feels so good.
The knife clatters to the floor, but I don’t dare move.
Can’t breathe.
Can’t think.
"Noah-"
“No,” he snaps, his voice sharp, wrecked. “Shut the fuck up.”
He’s wasted.
Completely, utterly wasted.
I reach for him, trying to push him away, trying to snap him out of whatever spiral he’s in.
“Noah, I’m not doing this with you-”
His lips latch onto my skin.
Gasping, my body locks up as he shamelessly kisses the soft skin above my waistline, his mouth hot and needy against my stomach.
His tongue flicks, drags, tastes—taking his time, savoring every inch of me like I’m something he’s been starving for.
I can feel him unraveling against me.
Can feel myself unraveling right with him.
The fire I tried so desperately to kill, it roars back to life, flooding through me in a violent surge, soaking through my underwear in a matter of seconds.
Fuck, I can’t-
“Noah,” I whisper, hands shaking.
His grip on me tightens.
"Fucking Anastasia Burns," he breathes against my skin, his lips curving in something dark, something broken. “Fuck,” he murmurs, pressing one more kiss, teeth grazing just barely. "Nothing beats reality."
My entire body shudders.
I’m seconds away from letting this consume me.
Seconds away from making a mistake I’ll never come back from.
So I do the one thing I know will make him stop.
His scars.
“Noah-” I hiss, grabbing the back of his neck.
He goes rigid.
His breath hitches.
His body locks.
My fingers press into raised ridges of skin.
Not the faint injuries I once grazed over, the ones I traced in the dark like a secret.
These are new.
Fresh.
Painful.
His entire body shakes.
And for the first time since he walked back into my life, Noah Ackerman looks afraid.
He doesn’t react the way he did last time.
No anger. No violent outburst.
Instead, his eyes are glazed over, not with alcohol, but with something far worse.
Pain.
Raw, undiluted pain.
Slowly, his fingers curl around my wrist, prying my hand away from his neck with careful precision, like he’s afraid of breaking whatever fragile moment exists between us.
And in that moment, it’s as if every last drop of alcohol vanishes from his system.
His body stills as his breath shudders and his lips tremble.
Then, softly, so softly I barely feel it, he presses a gentle kiss against the skin of my hand.
The touch is light. Reverent.
Like a prayer.
“For two months,” he whispers, voice unsteady, thick with something dangerous.
I don’t move.
I don’t breathe.
“I threw myself into the pits of hell,” he stammers, his breath warm against my skin, his grip trembling. “And all I could think about was this.”
He gasps, his lips parting like he’s struggling to speak.
“Touching you.”
His fingers trace over my palm, as if memorizing the feeling.
“Seeing you.”
His voice breaks on the last syllable.
It wrecks me.
“Noah,” I force out, throat aching.
“What happened?”
His lips press into a tight line.
His eyes flicker, something unreadable moving through them... something fractured.
Then, finally, a whisper.
“I can’t tell you.”
The words land like a gunshot.
I inhale sharply, willing my voice to stay even.
“And all the shit you said to me before you left?”
Silence.
Thick.
Suffocating.
Taking a step back, my gaze drops to the knife on the ground, the cold steel glinting between us like a final warning.
I exhale, swallowing the lump in my throat, forcing the words out before my resolve crumbles.
“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice raw.
His head snaps up.
I hold his gaze, unblinking.
“Thank you for showing me you have a soul... sadly, I think it’s too late.”
His expression cracks.
Just slightly.
Just enough for me to know that somewhere deep down, he knows it too.
I don’t wait for him to speak.
Turning to walk away, it takes every ounce of strength I have to hold back the tears until I’m out of his classroom.