Chapter 27
Maeve
I’VE NEVER FELT SO COMFORTABLE in a professor’s office before.
But I guess I never fucked a professor before this year either—so there’s a first time for everything.
I sit in the chair on the opposite side of Severin’s big desk, my shoes abandoned, my knees tucked into my chest. Severin keeps eyeing me, a furrow between his dark brows, and finally, I ask, “What?”
He lets out a tight breath. “If someone walks in here and finds you like that . . .” He glances at how I’m sitting in the chair, curled up in it like I’m in a cozy library nook rather than meeting with a professor during office hours.
His gaze flicks to the door, which isn’t locked, then back to me.
One of my brows arches. “They’ll what, Professor?”
I’m wearing my academy-issued skirt, and I’m aware that if I shift my knees just slightly, it allows Severin to see right between my legs.
He clenches his teeth, making the muscles along his jaw clench. “Maeve.” There’s a warning in his tone, all sexy and professory, and his fingers curl tighter around his quill. “I’d rather not lose my job my first semester here.”
He’s got a point.
“Okay, okay.” I shift in the chair—making sure Severin gets a quick look at the lacy black panties I’m wearing today—and put my feet on the floor, then smooth my skirt down and push my hair back over one shoulder. “Better?”
His black eyes narrow a bit. “Mm.”
He’s grumbly today, and it makes me want to pester him. But I understand his concern. I don’t want him to lose his job either.
I refocus on the parchment in front of me. I’ve got the previous draft of my application essay spread out on Severin’s desk, and the fresh parchment for my next draft stares up at me, empty.
“What are you struggling with?” he asks.
I nibble my lip, gaze scanning the clean penmanship swirling across the page. “I’m not sure. Professor Azula said I’m being too impassioned and that the collective is looking for someone who’s . . .” I search my memory, trying to recall the words she used. “Steadfast and controlled.”
Severin makes another one of those thoughtful grumbly sounds, then puts his quill down and holds out a hand. “Let me see it.”
After gathering up the pieces of parchment, I hand them over to him—ensuring my fingers brush his during the exchange. The touch makes his dark gaze flick to mine knowingly, and I just smile.
Parchment in hand, Severin sits back in his chair, gaze focusing on my essay.
While he reads, I pull my boots back on, then push to my feet and walk to the office window.
It’s raining today, a constant downfall that’s made everything gray and wet and foggy.
Rainwater tracks down the windowpanes, and it’s difficult to see anything clearly beyond the glass.
But the steady patter of the rain is calming.
Behind me, a fire crackles in the hearth, keeping the office warm despite the cold air outside.
I move toward it, and I’m standing with my hands out, warming them up, when Severin sets my essay down with a whisper of paper on wood.
I glance over my shoulder at him, and he’s staring at the rain-streaked window, eyes narrowed, fingers tracing his chin thoughtfully.
“Well?” I ask, turning to face him and letting the fire warm the backs of my legs. “What do you think?”
For a long while, he continues to stare at the glass. I don’t push him, instead studying him as he thinks.
He’s usually clean-shaven, but today he’s got a dark shadow, the hints of a beard darkening his jaw. I want to run my fingers over his face, to know what it would feel like against my skin, my lips, but I haven’t done so yet. Maybe I can sneak a moment with him before I leave.
“I disagree with Professor Azula,” he says at long last. His dark eyes finally meet mine.
“I understand why she’s cautioning you not to be too emotional in your writing—it’s true that the Arcanum Collective is interested in scholars who’re focused and have clear ideas they want to explore—but .
. .” He shakes his head, just a single small movement, as if he’s surprised at what he’s going to say.
“But your entire reason for wanting to attend the collective is emotional. Wanting to improve living conditions for nonmagic citizens requires passion. It requires heart.” Slowly, he lowers his fingers from his chin, tapping them on the parchment atop his desk.
“You’ve removed the heart from this essay. It feels thin. Sterile.”
My eyes narrow, and I feel a furrow form in my brow. “I don’t understand. Azula told me that’ll hurt my chances of getting the fellowship. You’re saying the opposite.”
“Azula teaches containment,” he says. “When you deal in volatile elements, control keeps you alive.” Once again, his gaze shifts to the window, and far off, I feel a rumble of thunder. My skin prickles with an electric current.
The way he looks off into space, his face tight, makes me take a small step toward his desk.
“It sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”
Immediately, his eyes meet mine.
I expect him to shut down, to remind me of the wall he still has built up. It’s like there are tiny windows in the wall, and every so often he’ll let me glance through, but it’s very clearly still there.
But he surprises me.
“Yes. Control has been my only refuge. So I know better than most how powerful it is. But . . .” He reaches for my essay, lifting the paper from the desk. “The Arcanum Collective don’t accept students or fund research because they think it’s safe. They fund it because it matters.”
I don’t know what to say. Behind me, the fire pops, accompanying the patter of rain on the window.
Severin looks down at my essay, tracing a line with his finger.
“Here, you describe your energy theory beautifully. But”—his eyes meet mine—“you sound like every other top student in this academy. Nowhere in this essay do you sound like the tenacious storm witch who openly challenged and argued with me on the first day of class.”
My chest and throat get tight.
We’re discussing an application essay, that’s all. So why do his words make me feel like he sees me?
“The woman who challenged me in class was invested, impassioned. This woman?” He gestures to the essay. “I don’t know this woman. I’m not sure you do either.”
I flex my fingers into fists at my sides. “Azula said that emotional language weakens credibility.”
Severin lifts one shoulder in a small shrug. “She’s not wrong. It can do that, especially in an academic framework.”
I feel like we’re running in circles.
“But you still think she’s wrong?”
There’s another roll of thunder, closer this time. My magic reacts to it, like a bird longing to go and fly with its flock—like calling to like.
Severin leans forward, his forearms pressing against the desk.
“Maeve, your project is about bringing accessible energy to people who have none. To villages that struggle to keep themselves warm through the winter. To families that cannot afford magic.” He lowers his voice. “That is not a sterile goal.”
I swallow hard, staring at him across the firelit office.
“What if they read it and think I’m naive?”
He doesn’t hesitate before answering. “Then they are not the right scholars to steward your work.”
A startled laugh slips out of me. “You’re suggesting I risk my fellowship on principle?”
This time, Severin does hesitate, like he’s puzzling through his response. Then, finally, he says, “I’m suggesting that if you gut the reason you care”—he taps the essay, punctuating his words—“you may win Azula’s approval but lose the why behind the work you actually want to do.”
Now it’s my turn to hesitate, to ponder over his words, turning them this way and that in my mind.
I didn’t expect this from Severin. In the time I’ve known him, he’s always championed control, resistance, and resilience. Now he’s asking me to bring my emotions out, to lean into them instead of away from them.
What’s changed? I wonder, searching his dark eyes as he holds my gaze. My storm magic stirs again, but rather than tugging toward the storm intensifying outside, it feels like it’s tugging me toward him.
And I know that I trust him on this.
With a sharp nod, I cross the office and reclaim my seat in front of his desk. “Okay. What would you change?”
Severin slides the essay back to me. “Keep your structure, but stop trying to write what you think they want to hear. Write why this matters to you. Why it matters to the people you want to help.”
I lift my quill and dip it into my inkwell, then flick a glance at Severin. “That sounds impassioned,” I say, a slightly playful lilt to my voice.
Finally, for the first time since I stepped into his office, he offers me a small smile. “Passion isn’t always something to be feared.”
We hold each other’s gazes, and a tingle dances up and down my spine. For a moment, I consider leaping over the desk and finally discovering what that shadow of a beard might feel like on my face. But I temper myself and refocus on my empty parchment.
Then I start to write, leaning in to my heart instead of away from it.
A handful of minutes pass. Severin says nothing, just watches me as the quill scratches across the page and the fire and rain fill the office with comforting autumn sounds.
Without looking up, I ask quietly, “Do you really think I can do it? Get the fellowship?”
“Yes.”
There’s no hint of hesitation in his tone.
And now I find myself smiling.
I write a sentence, dip my quill back into my inkwell, and then write another sentence. Slowly, word by careful word, the essay starts to feel like mine again. And I start to believe that despite his walls and his distance, Severin sees me more clearly than I ever realized.