Chapter 8
At forty years old, you’d think I’d have learned not to get drunk the night before I have to teach an early morning lecture. My head throbs with a fuzzy quality that makes it difficult to think, and my coffee from earlier is trying its best to make an unwanted appearance.
Phoenix was still crashed on the couch when I left, an unsightly drool spot on the fabric below his face.
He’ll probably be gone by the time I get back.
That’s how it usually is. He blows into town on a wild wave and leaves a path of destruction in his wake.
Sometimes the destruction is a messy house, or a broken heart. This time it’s me.
“Professor Anderson.” A gangly young man approaches me at the podium. “I had a new idea for my dissertation. What do you think—”
“Schedule an appointment during my office hours.” I’m normally not so abrupt with students, but at the moment, I’m too exhausted to care.
After turning away from him, I squeeze my eyes open and shut multiple times to combat the dryness, then pretend to be busy digging in my bag for something, so no one else will approach me.
I just have to get through this class. It’s the only lecture style class I teach.
Doctoral students spend most of their time working on their thesis with the support of their advisor.
Me. But this class is mandated for all doctoral students in the anthropology department.
And this semester, I’m teaching it. Though I couldn’t tell you why.
Not true.
The reason comes waltzing into class exactly five minutes before the bell with the most captivating man I’ve ever seen on her heels.
His shocking blue hair is the first thing that snares my attention.
It isn’t the kind of stringy blue someone who fancies themselves edgy would sport.
No, this almost seems… natural? As impossible as it may be.
It takes great effort to hold back a growl when I see the edge of a bond mark healing on his neck.
Most of it’s hidden beneath a Woodhurst shirt that's seen better days. He also has what look like leggings on? I’m all for people wearing what they want, but these don’t even look like his own clothes, which baffles me.
In fact, I am almost positive I’ve seen Madison wearing that shirt to class.
Has it actually been his she’s been wearing this whole time?
Rather than take her normal seat at the front of the class, she marches straight toward me. They both do.
“Dr. Anderson,” she says to get my attention, though she already has every bit of it. “Would it be alright if my… um… if Caspian sat in on class today?”
It’s not uncommon for people to sit in on my lectures as long as they ask, and she knows that, so I have no reason to deny her request. Still, my mind runs through a thousand excuses I could give for saying no.
Even though she didn’t introduce him as such, it’s obvious this is her new mate. Why is she hesitant to tell me?
My nostrils flare, trying to scent him. But he must be following the university rules about scent blockers, though I don’t think he’s a student here.
Of course, I don’t know everyone enrolled, but the wide-eyed wonder as he takes in the room makes me think he isn’t used to this. Maybe he’s a foreign exchange student?
Normally, I’d strike up a conversation, ask him about himself for a moment before class began. But every cell in my body is aching from my overindulgence. The alpha in me wants to rip Madison away from this boy and show her who she really belongs to.
Before I can act like an even bigger ass than I did last night, I pinch the bridge of my nose and wave them off. “Fine. Just don’t be disruptive.”
The pair moves to the back of the classroom, which is unusual for Madison.
She must be doing it for her new mate’s benefit.
I swear to god, if they start flirting or touching in class I will absolutely lose it.
I fist, then flex, my hands over and over to dissipate some of the tension. It doesn’t work.
It’s time for class to start, so I shove my undesirable feelings down deep and face the students.
I can barely focus on the lecture. I trip on the power cord to the projector, misquote the MLA guide, and nearly bark at a student when they don’t know all the details about one of their sources.
It’s entirely unlike me, but I can’t snap out of it.
All my attention keeps drifting back to Madison and Caspian.
Caspian.
He’s leaning forward, lips parted, eyes wide, like what I’m saying is the most fascinating thing he’s ever heard. It’s not. It’s a lecture on proper citation required for everyone getting a doctorate in the humanities departments.
But Caspian is hanging on every word, and it makes me want to preen with pride at the same time as it makes me want to smack him upside the head.
How is this wide-eyed, innocent kid with Madison?
“We’re ending class early.” I turn off the projector, unable to take it anymore.
As I pack up my few things, I can sense every move Madison makes.
She doesn’t stick around to socialize. She stands, takes Caspian's hand, and heads straight toward the door. A friend of hers calls out to stop her, but Madison just waves back and keeps going. Caspian copies the movement with a stunning smile. The smile isn’t what captures my attention, though.
It’s the symbol on his palm. Where have I seen that before?
The familiarity is like an itch at the back of my mind that won’t go away. It lingers long after class is over.