His to Teach (Forever His #12)

Chapter 1

one

. . .

Gordon

I don't tolerate lateness. I don't tolerate excuses.

I don't tolerate mediocrity. These are the pillars of my classroom, and they've served me well for fifteen years.

The university administration calls my methods harsh.

My colleagues call them effective. My students call me many things behind my back, but to my face, it's always "Professor Davis" with a rigid spine and averted eyes.

Fear breeds respect, and respect breeds excellence.

It's a simple equation, one I've perfected to mathematical precision in my tenure here.

Today is the first day of the fall semester.

My Advanced Literary Analysis seminar is typically reserved for upperclassmen who've proven themselves worthy of my time.

I stand at the lectern, watching them file in like sheep to slaughter.

They've heard the rumors. My class has the highest drop rate in the English department. Those who survive leave transformed.

"Syllabus on the front table. Be seated by 2:00 sharp or find another class." My voice cuts through their murmured conversations.

Most students grab the papers with trembling fingers, avoiding eye contact. Predictable. I check my watch—one minute until I begin. The seats fill methodically, everyone leaving the front row empty. Also predictable.

Then she walks in.

She's tiny—can't be more than 5'1"—with honey-blonde hair cascading down her back in loose waves.

A simple white sundress hugs modest curves, paired with a pale blue cardigan despite the September heat.

But it's her eyes that stop me. Wide, emerald green, filled with a curiosity that borders on defiance.

She clutches her notebook like armor as she scans the room.

And then she does the unthinkable. She takes a seat in the front row, directly in my line of fire.

I clear my throat and begin precisely at 2:00.

"Welcome to Advanced Literary Analysis. If you're looking for empty platitudes about the power of literature or gentle discussions about how books make you feel, you're in the wrong classroom.

Literature is a battlefield of ideas, and I expect you to come armed with rigorous analysis, not emotional reactions. "

My eyes sweep the room, locking momentarily with the blonde in front. She doesn't flinch.

"Your first assignment was to read Joyce's 'The Dead.

' We'll begin there." I launch into my lecture, pacing before them like a predator.

"Joyce's protagonist experiences an epiphany when he realizes his wife's most profound emotional experience happened before she met him, with a boy who died for her.

The central tragedy is Gabriel's recognition of his own insignificance in her emotional landscape. "

I'm in my element now. Words flow like weapons, precise and cutting. Twenty minutes in, I pause for questions, not expecting any. First-day students are typically too intimidated to challenge me.

A small hand rises in the front row. Hers.

"Yes?" I say, eyebrow raised.

She stands, and her voice comes out soft but steady. "Professor Davis, I'd like to propose an alternative reading."

The room goes silent. Students glance between us with morbid fascination. I cross my arms, intrigued despite myself.

"I believe you're mistaken about the central tragedy," she continues, her voice gaining strength.

"It's not Gabriel's insignificance in his wife's past that devastates him, but the recognition that he has failed to inspire in her the kind of passion that led Michael Furey to his grave.

The tragedy is his realization that he's been emotionally insufficient, not that he's been preceded. "

My jaw tightens. In fifteen years, no student—certainly no freshman—has challenged my interpretation on day one. Her analysis isn't entirely wrong, but it's the audacity that stuns me.

"And you are?" I ask, voice dangerously low.

"Flower Darling, sir." Her cheeks flush pink, but she holds my gaze.

Flower. A ridiculous name for a serious student. Yet somehow, it fits her—delicate on the surface, stubbornly rooted underneath.

"Well, Miss Darling, while I appreciate your…enthusiasm, I suggest you read the text more carefully before proposing alternatives to established interpretations."

She doesn't wilt under my dismissal. "I've read it twelve times, Professor. I stand by my analysis."

Something ignites in my chest—irritation mixed with something darker, more primitive. I stride toward her, watching her breath quicken as I approach.

"Twelve readings and you've missed Joyce's explicit reference to Gabriel feeling 'a vague terror seized him as if, at that hour when he had hoped to triumph, some impalpable and vindictive being was coming against him.

' That vindictive being is the past she shared with another man. A past he can never enter."

She bites her lower lip, considering. "Yes, but two paragraphs later, Gabriel asks himself, 'how poor a part he, her husband, had played in her life.' His fear isn't about her past—it's about his inadequacy."

The classroom disappears. It's just her and me, locked in intellectual combat. Her eyes shine with the thrill of debate, not submission. And fuck me if that doesn't wake something dangerous inside me.

I force myself to step back. "An interesting perspective, Miss Darling. We'll revisit it when you've had more exposure to Joyce's work."

I resume the lecture, but my awareness of her never fades. She takes notes furiously, head bent over her paper, occasionally looking up with those enormous green eyes. Each time our gazes meet, she blushes but doesn't look away. It's maddening.

I assign discussion groups halfway through class.

The students rearrange themselves, and I circulate, listening.

When I approach Flower's group, a lanky senior—Mathews or Matthews, one of those privileged types with more confidence than intellect—leans toward her.

His mouth hovers near her ear as he whispers something that makes her smile.

My vision narrows to a pinpoint. Blood rushes in my ears.

Before I can stop myself, I'm standing over them. "Mr. Mathews, if you're so eager to share your insights, perhaps you'd like to present them to the entire class?"

He straightens, face paling. "I was just telling Flower that her interpretation was impressive, Professor."

"Miss Darling," I correct him sharply. "And I don't recall asking for commentary on your classmates' abilities. I asked for analysis of Joyce's use of snow as metaphor."

Mathews fumbles through a half-coherent response. I barely hear him. I'm too consumed by the urge to drag him from his seat, to make it clear that she is not for him to impress or charm. She belongs in my intellectual sphere, not his mediocre one.

When class ends, students scramble to escape. Not her. She gathers her things slowly, precise. As she passes my desk, I speak without planning to.

"Miss Darling."

She stops, turns. "Yes, Professor?"

"Your analysis was flawed but not without merit. I expect more rigorous textual evidence next time."

Her face breaks into a smile so genuine it's almost painful to witness. "Yes, sir. Thank you."

As she walks away, I know with absolute certainty what I've never known before: she's already mine. The semester has only just begun, but something primitive and inevitable has been set in motion. I should stop it. I won't.

I'm a man of control and discipline. I've never crossed lines with students. But watching her leave—small frame, delicate steps, mind like a steel trap behind that innocent face—I know I'm fucked.

And I don't give a damn.