Chapter 33
Dakota
Mila skipped over to the table with a plate of fresh syrniki, setting it down then heading back to the fridge to grab sour cream and a blueberry sauce which she’d made earlier.
She plopped herself down at the chair next to me, spooning out a dollop of sour cream onto one of her little pancakes, then drizzling blueberry sauce on top. I chose to pass on the sour cream—Mila was Russian; she put that shit on everything—and dripped a spoonful of blueberry sauce on top.
Work today had been uneventful, as was the norm. I chatted with Eric; I destroyed my body with yet another cherry slush; I fed Bug on my lunch break, giving her lots of little scratches on her furry black head. The normalcy of it almost felt stark in a way, when contrasted with the rest of my life.
Dr. Killshaw’s lab, for example, was work that could never be uneventful.
This weekend, I was planning a full day run with him—meaning twelve or so hours of being locked in a small basement room together.
Mila and I polished off the rest of the syrniki sitting criss-cross on our chairs before Ivan arrived back at the apartment with his girlfriend, Ekaterina.
“Privet, Katya,” Mila called, grinning.
“Kak dela?” Ekaterina came into the kitchen as Ivan hung up their coats. “Chto ty prigotovila?”
“Syrniki. We ate it all, though.”
“Shtoh?” Ivan asked, walking into the kitchen. “And I’m the greedy one?”
Mila rolled her eyes, dumping the plate in the sink then running a stream of water over the ceramic.
I pulled my sweatshirt sleeves over my palms, inspecting my freshly-painted black nails, ignoring the feeling of my phone buzzing in my pocket.
I didn’t have to check the notification to know it was Mason.
I still hadn’t responded to him, but that didn’t seem to be a deterrent.
He wasn’t being pushy, he was just…always there.
I thought back to him crushing my hand, hurting me for real, the way he’d used my pain to get his answer, and the same question came rushing back. Why?
He knew that all I’d wanted to do was help him, to take out whatever was lacerating the inside of his mind, to be there for him in whatever way he needed.
And still, he chose to deflect every ounce of my concern for him, in favor of forcing another pointless answer out of me.
I’d considered blocking his number more than once, but I didn’t want to, even if it was the best choice.
Every second with him ruined me, but I’d rather be ruined than empty.
Mila grabbed my wrist and towed me along behind her into her bedroom, shutting and locking the door behind us, then flopping on her bed. She snatched a leopard-print throw blanket from its place wedged against the wall, and bundled herself up in it.
“Do you think it’s cold in here?” she asked, her face surrounded by faux-fur.
“It’s a little cold, I guess.”
“Vanya keeps the temperature so low. I hate it.”
I joined her on the bed, bundling up under a blanket of my own, phone clutched in my hand like a lifeline, still forcing myself not to respond to him.
You’re in my fucking head and I can’t get you out.
I think if you came and took me right now, I’d do whatever you wanted. Because I don’t want you to hate me.
Though it shouldn’t matter what Mason thought of me, not when he was only capable of breaking things. But the stupid desire was still there, the one that said break me. If you need to break something, let it be me.
Mila lifted up the corner of her blanket, welcoming me in to join her warmth. I snuggled up next to her and shut my eyes, listening to the faint sound of a video playing off Mila’s phone—some role play ASMR; we were getting our brains cleaned. Good. I could use a brain-cleaning.
━━━━━
The Archway Library, while full of a plethora of tables and study spaces, did also have a large reference section.
My boots squeaked softly on the polished concrete floors as I browsed in complete silence, florescent lights humming above my head.
Since arriving here, I hadn’t seen a single other person.
I reached the end of the aisle I was in, then turned the corner down the next one, skimming the little printed numbers on the spines of the books that categorized them.
There were a few specific books I was looking for—things I wanted to use as references without having to pay for them.
All the PDFs I’d been able to find online were behind paywalls, but I knew the university library stocked many engineering handbooks and journals, which I could read for free.
My eyes flicked over the rows and rows of clothbound spines, my fingers lightly feathering over them as I walked. I approached a section full of identically-bound books, all in navy with white lettering printed on the spines. Past student dissertations.
Stomach flipping, I scanned the surnames, warmth pulsing in my face.
H…I…J…K…
Micah Killshaw.
All the books looked so boring, so dull, so similar to each other, the sort of things you’d never actually pick up to read. But seeing his name stamped on the spine…
Kinetics and Mechanisms of Neon Isotope Separation in Low-Temperature Catalytic Systems.
It was an intimidating title, strictly impersonal.
But it was written by him, researched by him, defended by him.
I tried to picture a younger version of him, a student, up late working on his dissertation, maybe looking similar to how he did that one night in Stanton.
Sleeves pushed back, hair mussed, eyes heavy with sleepless nights.
Not yet the well-respected professor he was now.
Something about the mental image of that made butterflies flutter around my stomach.
Before I could think better of it, I snatched the book off the shelf and tucked it under my arm, mostly concealed by the sleeve of my sweater if anyone were to see me. Not that it was a crime to want to read the research done by one of my professors.
Scurrying out of the aisle, I took a steadying breath, looking up and down the main hall at the labeled sections.
I whipped my phone out of my pocket, navigating to the school’s library website to figure out where the hell the books were that I was looking for.
Initially, I’d wanted to try browsing on my own for a while, but that desire had since left me.
I needed to be efficient.
Quickly locating the section I needed to be in, I speed-walked to the aisle, ducking around the corner and surrounding myself with more endless volumes of engineering texts.
It didn’t take me long to find the first textbook, my hand extending to pluck it from the shelf before I figured out the next aisle with my phone.
I added the book to the stack under my arm and continued down the row to my next target. As I reached my arm up to grab it, a large hand intercepted the book, snatching it off the shelf right above me. I jumped, spinning around.
Dr. Killshaw stood a few steps in front of me, not saying anything, holding the book I needed.
“Dr. Killshaw,” I said, my voice suddenly sounding too loud in the silent library. I flattened my lips, taking a step backwards, my spine bumping on the shelf.
“Researching?”
“I didn’t want to pay for the PDFs.” I kept my voice quiet, nervously glancing to either side, despite knowing we were alone up here. Though I’d thought I was alone earlier—which turned out to be incorrect, since my professor was now in front of me.
How long has he been up here?
“Smart girl,” he mused, sparks of arousal scattering in my belly at his low tone.
He flipped the book over in his palm, reading the title, then flipping open the cover, leafing through a few pages full of dry text. I shifted my weight back and forth between my feet, waiting.
After a minute, I forced some courage into myself. “I need that book,” I said quietly, but still with enough firmness that I sounded serious.
“I wonder what it would look like if you stopped doubting yourself.”
“I—”
“Are you curious about my dissertation?” he questioned, not once looking away from my eyes. I tucked the book tighter under my arm, heat creeping up my neck. I hated all his calculated observations about me, slipped so carelessly into conversation as if they didn’t rip my ribs apart. It rattled me.
“I just saw it. I didn’t—I don’t know.” My voice was little more than a whisper, but it still felt too loud.
Dr. Killshaw’s eyes were low, sweeping downwards to the books tucked in my elbow, then returning to my face.
I swore heat was simmering in his irises, so purely blue-gray, with a dark ring around their outer edges.
He handed over the textbook.
I reached for it, my fingers pressing into the glossy sheen of the hardback—but he didn’t let go.
My gaze flicked upwards.
The way he watched me was making my pulse pound harder and harder with each additional second he didn’t let go of the book. My breathing became shaky and I sank my teeth into my lower lip.
He let go of the book, and I rapidly added it to my stack, holding all three books against my chest now.
“If you wanted to know about my Ph.D. you could’ve asked.”
I twisted my lips to the side, looking away from him. He didn’t move an inch, nor did he speak again, even as I let the air swell with tense silence. My fingers wrapped around the edges of the books, feeling the different textures of the covers.
“I didn’t want to overstep,” I answered finally, braving another look at his face.
He was so intimidatingly gorgeous. The overhead lights caught the planes of his face, painting shadows under his brows, darkening his eyes further.
“Overstep in what way?”
“You—” I cut myself off. “I need to go.”
“No, you don’t. Stay here. I’ll help you with whatever research you were hoping to do with those textbooks.”
My heart squeezed.
“Okay,” I said slowly. “You aren’t always…approachable.”
“We work alone together in my lab for hours at a time. Surely you can ask me a question if you have one.” His gaze sharpened, cutting me open, exposing all my darkest secrets and stupid fears.
“I don’t want to offend you,” I started, already regretting my words once again. “By asking personal questions.”
“That’s hardly personal, Dakota.”
“I know, I just…” My voice trailed away into silence. The aisle felt like it was getting narrower, the books creeping inwards, trapping me here, pushing everything closer.
Dr. Killshaw didn’t move; he didn’t step closer, nor did he move farther away. He remained standing in his place, never taking his eyes off me, continually making me more nervous. My palms started to sweat. I glanced around again, making sure we were alone.
“Why did you say that?” I whispered, barely audible, my eyes falling to his mouth.
“Say what?”
“That you would get me expelled.” I tipped my head back, leaning on the bookshelf, my gaze locking onto my professor’s. Heat flushed my cheeks, my chest.
“I didn’t say that,” he answered coolly.
“Yes, you—”
“I said I could get you expelled. I never said I would do it.”
All my words died on my tongue.
The careful distance between us suddenly felt so purposeful. He wouldn’t take another step closer to me, leaving the respectful space unfilled by his body, and that realization almost made me feel it more. Like the chosen distance was an extension of him, and I felt it pushing into me.
“Do you really think I want to get you expelled?” he probed, his voice low, almost rough.
“I don’t know what I think.”
“Your heart is beating so fast, Masters,” he commented too casually. “It’s loud, too. Maybe too loud for the library.”
I blinked, feeling completely transparent, unable to hide from him. There was no possible way he could actually hear my heartbeat, but the insinuation was enough to make sweat accumulate on my spine. Even with three books covering my chest, he could see right through me.
“I can’t control that,” I breathed out.
To anyone watching, it might look like an innocent conversation between a professor and his student. We weren’t standing scandalously close, weren’t in any sort of compromising position, but that hungry stare felt like a hand between my legs, like two fingers wedged inside of me.
The severity of his total attention made my knees weak.
“It’s even faster now,” he commented. “So quick. Are you afraid?”
“No.” I shook my head, maybe feeling like I was lying.
“No?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then why’s your heart beating so fast?”
Because of you.
All I could think about was him crowding me against this bookshelf, blocking me with his body, shoving his hand down the front of my jeans. My clit surged, aching against the seam of my jeans.
“Careful,” he warned hoarsely.
For a split second, I wondered if he could somehow read my thoughts. The notion of that made my face even redder, but I swallowed down my nerves.
“Careful, why?”
“You don’t think it’s appropriate to be cautious?”
“Not always, no.”
“Of course you don’t.”
“I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean.” At some point, I’d started leaning closer to him, as if I could feel some magnetic pull in his direction. I couldn’t stop thinking about the way his hand would feel closing around my throat—tighter, tighter, until I had nothing left to give him.
“I’ll see you this weekend. Bring the textbooks,” he instructed. “And my dissertation, if you’re still curious.”
“Okay,” I breathed.
He left, and I watched him until he was out of sight.