2 - Kilian
Kilian
THE HALLWAY OF the school is covered in bright paper cutouts, and by the time I reach the far end, I’ve got the beginnings of a headache.
I’m already late, fifteen minutes past the scheduled time for this meeting, whose purpose sounds like bullshit. A meet and greet. We did this at the start of the year, and I’ve got no patience for something that’s clearly a waste of time.
But this is for Sara, so here I am.
My boots echo in the empty hall as I make my way to the classroom. The door is open, but I stop a few feet from the entrance. There’s a woman inside, and she’s not Sara’s usual teacher. Right. The caller mentioned a new teacher.
The woman’s back is to me, her hand moving across the board, writing something.
She’s in a simple navy dress with little yellow flowers, and I don’t know why, but looking at her, at the curve of her waist, the way the afternoon light catches the honey-blonde strands of hair spilling from the big claw clip at the back of her head, my heart starts to palpitate.
I don’t move because I can’t move. My boots are rooted to the floor. And yet, my body screams to close the distance.
What the hell?
She must feel the weight of my stare because her hand freezes on the board, mid-letter. Her head tilts enough to signal that she knows someone is here.
Then she turns, and our gazes meet. Her eyes widen for a second, a flash of green or maybe hazel, and they hold me in place.
I’ve never been one to believe in cosmic timing or any of that fate bullshit, but the way my heart is palpitating now makes me question that.
I don’t look away.
Neither does she.
My brain, scrambling to catch up to what is happening inside my body, spits out a damning conclusion of why both of us are frozen. Mine. She’s mine.
The second thought, hot on its heels, is a vision of me getting her on that desk, hiking her floral dress up to her waist, pulling her panties down, and burying my face between her thighs until her legs lock around my head and she’s sobbing my name into the ceiling of her own classroom.
I can almost taste her. The thought is so graphic, so unsolicited, and my cock stiffens so fast it borders on painful.
Shit. This can’t be happening.
Not her of all women.
She looks like she just graduated from college, and I’m a thirty-five-year-old broken man. This is no good.
She brushes her face with an absent flick of her hair, her expression smoothing out.
“Mr. Rutherford?”
I force myself back into my own body, jogging my brain loose from whatever is possessing me as I make my legs walk through the door, only to nearly lose my footing when she follows the question with a small, hesitant smile.
She’s a grenade tossed my way, and I’m not ready for her.
“Come in. Please come in.”
Her tone holds, professional even, but I catch the way her spine stiffens as she turns to face me fully. Her gaze drops to the ink on my arms, then snaps back to my face. She’s gauging me, assessing the threat. I can see it in the way her shoulders square.
But her pupils are dilated. She doesn’t know I can see that from here, but I can. Her body is reacting to me the same way mine is reacting to her, and she has no idea how dangerous that information is in my hands.
Still, she’s afraid, which is how it should be. If she’s wary, she’ll keep her distance. That’s better for both of us.
Mine. The word fires again, and I grit my teeth against the thought. This is not happening. Whatever wiring in my brain decides to short-circuit needs to sort itself out immediately.
“I’m Thea Walsh. Sara’s new teacher.” A pause, her cheeks flushing a soft pink. “ Thanks for coming in.”
Thea. The name lands in my chest and stays.
“What about?” I ask, and I make sure I look impatient.
Her brow goes up.
Fuck, even that tiny movement is hypnotic. How is she doing that? I need to get out of this room. She deserves no less than total devotion without the wreckage attached. Her man is not me.
“I’m sorry?”
“This meeting. What’s it for?”
“Oh.” She blinks once, but quickly gestures to one of the low chairs in front of her desk, one of the kid-sized chairs that will fold under my weight.
“Please, sit.”
I don’t point out the obvious. ”I’m fine standing.”
“Oh. Okay.” She sits down herself, only to second-guess the move and stands right back up.
Her hands run down her dress in what’s clearly an attempt to pull herself together rather than fix her outfit.
The motion drags the fabric tighter across her chest for a second, and I look away, fixing my eyes on the flag banner above the board.
I wonder if she even notices that her hands are trembling. I wonder why I can’t stop noticing everything about her while already imagining myself holding those trembling hands, pressing my mouth to the inside of her wrists where the pulse hammers… Shut up!
“It’s standard practice, with me being new,” she says, her tongue darting briefly to her bottom lip. Five more minutes in this room and I’ll have that tongue between my lips. “I only want to make sure everything’s going well. That if anything is affecting her, we could address it early.”
“She’s fine at home,” I say. “Is that all?”
“Well... sometimes children have trouble expressing themselves.” Her eyes flick to mine, then away, then back again. “It’s my job to make sure they have the support they need. Both here and... in all areas.”
What the hell is she talking about? Is she standing there, telling me to my face that I’m a bad guardian? Because that’s the message loud and clear.
“You think Sara has a problem?” I keep my voice level, but I’m already stepping closer without deciding to, shrinking the space between us to about five feet. You’ve been her teacher for what... twelve hours? And you’ve already got that assessment.”
Her face flushes deeper, a warm color that spreads quickly. “Mr. Rutherford, I’m only trying to—”
“Careful.” I cut her off, and she draws in a quick breath. “You start looking for problems, you’ll find them. Whether they’re real or not.”
“I’m not looking for problems,” she says, her voice losing its rehearsed tone, gaining an edge she’s clearly pulling together on the spot. “I’m simply doing my job.”
I study her face.
She believes this, whatever story she’s spinning in her head. Possibly about me. About me being a horrible person. I am a horrible person, but not to Sara.
A part of me wants to walk out and let her have her theories. That’s what I should do. That should have been the smart move. But what I do is take another step, closing the gap instead.
“No. That’s not what this is. Isn’t it?”
Her hands move then, folding across her chest in a defensive cross that she tries to pass off as casual.
“I’m sorry?”
“This isn’t a meet and greet, Miss Walsh.” One more step, and now I’m right in front of her, close enough that she has to tilt her head back to keep eye contact. “You called me here because you have a theory.”
She swallows, the movement visible in her throat. I know she’s buying time. “I don’t...” She pauses and tries again. “I don’t know what you’re saying.”
I place my hands on the desk, one on either side of her hips. Not touching her. Just caging the space. She goes rigid, but she doesn’t push me away.
“Don’t you?” I let the question sit for a beat, watching the way her breath quickens.
“Step back, Mr. Rutherford. This is completely inappropriate.”
“Let me help then. You called me here because you think something’s off with Sara.
And I’m part of it. Am I close?” The silence in the room is deafening.
“The quiet in here,” I say, my voice dropping lower as I lean in, my mouth passing her ear, close enough that she can feel the warmth of my breath on the side of her neck, and I feel the shiver that rolls through her body.
“Have you ever found yourself alone with someone you shouldn’t be?
Sound doesn’t carry far. No one would even know to listen. ”
She’s perfectly still, but her hands shake where they’re pressed against her chest. She’s taking quick, tiny breaths, and that damn apple shampoo is flooding my senses, making it hard to think straight.
I could turn my mouth a quarter inch and press it to the skin below her ear. I could taste her racing pulse. My body is screaming at me to do it, my mouth’s already open, already close enough that I can feel the heat of her skin on my lips—
I pull back. It takes everything.
Every discipline the military beat into me, every memory of why I can’t have this, to straighten my spine and drop my hands from the desk.
“There’s your evidence, Miss Walsh.” I clip the words down to bone, cutting off everything soft that wants to crawl out after them. “Write it down.”
She holds herself upright, even though her legs look unsteady, and lifts her chin higher. “Are you married, Mr. Rutherford?”
The question caught me mid-turn, and I face her again, my eyebrow lifting before I can stop it.
“No,” I say, keeping it matter-of-fact.
Her face burns brighter, but she presses on. “Girlfriend, then...?”
Stubborn.
“No girlfriend.” I can see the wheels turning in her head. “You think you can figure me out by asking a few questions? Checking a few boxes on your little list?”
“I’m just trying to understand the home environment.” She still looks rattled. “As her teacher, it’s my responsibility to—”
“Stay away from my family, Miss Walsh,” I say, my voice flat. “And stay away from me.”
I turn and walk out, flexing my hands, knuckles popping, as I release a slow breath. She’s scared now. That’s the point. That’s the whole point, and I’d do well to remember that. It’s the only way to keep her safe.