Chapter 3 Luminary
Luminary
COLLINS
Luminary has to be one of the most beautiful words in existence. The archaic meaning is described as a natural light-giving body, like a planet or a star. In the realm of astronomy, the ancients looked to these celestial bodies for guidance.
It’s also a person who inspires or influences, especially one prominent in a particular sphere. Not so unlike the original meaning, as we can see the evolution, but maybe less whimsical, lyrical.
During my preparation, I came across many interesting articles like this, but nothing—no amount of preparation or study—could prepare me for Stonehurst University.
The clack of my heels on the smooth sandstone echoes in the long stretch of hallway. The architecture is a mix of Gothic Revival and Glasgow Style, with vaulted ceilings that lend to the elegant curvature of the arches.
The research university itself sits atop a rugged bluff overlooking the Pacific, weathered by the elements and time.
Salt air drifts inside the dark, hollow limbs of the structure, carrying the scent of coastal evergreens.
Towering spruce and vibrant vine maples surround the campus, their misty branches and fiery red-and-orange leaves woven into the very fabric of this academic harbor.
But there’s something else—something indefinable and chilling that clings to my bones as I navigate the Kessinger Wing, some unknown entity casting a shadow everywhere I look.
As I near PAT 211, I glide my blunt nails across my forehead to sweep my long bangs aside and take a fortifying breath.
Then I pull open the exit door to the lecture hall.
The deep baritone of a male voice fills the auditorium, and a thrilling tremor travels through me. Keeping my gaze aimed at the carpeted floor, thankful for the muffled sound of my footsteps, I creep into a seat along the empty back row of tiered bench seats.
Discreetly, I set my briefcase on the floor beside my feet and look up toward the front of the theater—
And my breath immediately catches at the sight of him.
Keeping his back to the room, he works an equation on the blackboard, scrawling Greek letters and algebraic strings in his messy script. His smooth timbre fills the hall as he talks out a calculation, the acoustics projecting his low mutterings.
My gaze falls down his body in appreciation of the lean, muscular build of his physique. He’s dressed in a tailored, all-black suit, the dark dress shirt fitted beneath a black vest, cuffs tapered close around his wrists where black leather gloves meet.
I’m struck by the sight of him, in the flesh, my heart thundering. Out of habit, I press my palm to my chest, focusing my breathing to slow the climbing rate of my heart.
He pauses, left hand held at an angle from the board, while he takes a moment to analyze. He drags his gloved fingers over the medium taper of his black hair before he begins working the equation once again.
“Black holes are extreme distortions in spacetime. When two black holes collide, it’s an immensely violent event.
Physicist Kip Thorne likens this merger to a cosmic whirlpool.
Two intense vortexes of twisting space that send gravitational waves rippling out through the fabric of the universe.
Like a storm in time.” He makes a mark on the board.
“As we sit here, these tiny ripples from violent cosmic events are passing through this room, passing through us, subtly altering the flow of time. With detectors like the ones Thorne helped design at the LIGO Observatory, we can now detect these faint distortions from millions of light-years away.”
I can’t help being drawn in by the smooth cadence of his voice.
It’s captivating—everything about him is captivating.
While I’ve studied footage of him, making sure I could identify my target, it has failed to prepare me for the visceral impact of being in his presence, hearing his voice, breathing the same air.
And in the space of a skipped heartbeat, I know it’s him that infuses this institution. It’s his dominating force that pervades every stone and shadow.
Orion Night.
As many of the students are doing, I shift my attention around the room, where he lectures on the physics of astronomy three times a week.
Dark fabric drapes the walls between the opaque windows with black ornamentation.
The entire theater is carved in stone and deep wood, reminiscent of a Gothic cathedral, something right out of a Victor Hugo novel.
Antediluvian objects decorate the space.
Brass globes and spinning dials. Phases of the planets and astrology from when it was a science.
My thoughts turn to the slender brass piece I keep in my pocket, trying to match it with one of the artifacts. But at this point, it would only confirm what I already know. The second I saw the man, I knew he was the one.
He was mine.
My thoughts halt as I become hyperaware of the sudden silence. I sense the moment his sharp eyes snare me, my movement caught as I look toward the front of the room.
Behind his black-rimmed glasses, Orion’s piercing gaze scans the pews, seeking the change in his environment, and those striking teal eyes alight on me in the back row.
And time seems to distort, making me feel his words on a deeper level. The past, present, and future linked in one moment. As the seconds slow and speed all at once, I’m left breathless in the wake of his discerning gaze.
The intelligence banked there is startling, but it’s the uncharacteristic beauty that catches me off-guard, caught in a labyrinth of lust and wonder.
God, to wield the power to devastate with a single glance is a frightening ability.
I feel the years fall away, the past dissolving beneath his unblinking catalogue of my features, and an electric charge builds between us, a palpable link to the man I’ve been chasing.
I’m vibrating with a dangerous mix of exhilaration and fear, unable to hide the effect he has on me. As his bold gaze sweeps over me, I feel the touch of it on my cheeks, neck, clavicle, sending a flush of heat through my entire body.
Emboldened, I lift my chin and stare right back at him, ignoring the curious glances from students.
He glides his tongue over his bottom lip before he breaks eye contact, shifting his attention to his audience.
In an effort to resume his lecture, he falters and stumbles over his words. Then gives a self-deprecating laugh.
Smiles.
That smile illuminates his face, and something inside me wakes.
“Damn, where was I?” Orion says, a slow smirk spreading across his full lips, and a blush burns through my skin.
“Gravitational waves. The violent nature of space when extreme forces are at play. It can be…intense.” His arresting gaze tracks back to me, offering another dizzying smile.
“Fuck,” he mutters, driving a hand through his hair. “I apologize for getting off track.”
The class laughs easily in response. But I know this man never apologizes. For anything.
Being the woman who makes him lose his place during a lecture feels empowering—and seduction is nothing if not a game of power.
Dr. Orion Night may be a luminary in the field of astrophysics, but this is my domain. Strategic dark psychology and perfectly timed moves.
His sphere revolves around a branch of space science that seeks to understand the universe, exploring the life and death of stars, planets, and galaxies.
He’s the brilliance behind Stonehurst Observatory’s exemplary astronomy program, and the president of the university desires to keep their brightest star shining in order to continue to pull funding.
He’s also psychologically unbalanced.
A liability the university has taken great care to keep under wraps, requesting in-house, NDA-contracted psychiatric measures to evaluate the level of risk to the university.
As fate would have it—with a little help—Dr. Collins Holbrook has been employed for just this purpose.
When the lecture lets out, I wait patiently for the students to clear the room. As I descend the steps, it’s the moment of truth. Whether I can commit. I’ve never gone undercover before, and I fear he’s going to see right through me, like peering through one of his lenses into space.
My background has been scrubbed by the most advanced agency software tools. A search of my name will produce a carefully curated identity.
Orion removes his glasses and places them in his vest pocket before he props his forearms on the lectern, casually watching me approach with a mix of caution and curiosity, as though he holds all the secrets of the universe behind his masked expression.
And he does. This man holds all the secrets.
I will my hand to loosen its grip on the handle of my briefcase as I stop a few paces away from the lectern. Before I’m able to introduce myself, the door to my right opens, and Dr. Banner enters.
“Ah, good. You’ve already met,” he declares.
“Not properly,” Orion says, his rich tone curling around each syllable as his gaze drags down the length of my body in obvious appraisal.
Heat flushes my face, and I school my features, trying to discern what reaction will most entice him. Innocent blush? Confident appreciation? Coolly offended?
“Well then, allow me the privilege.” Dr. Banner greets me with a chaste smile, but I detect the wariness behind his bravado.
Our conversation from yesterday still weighs heavily on him, his fear of this situation going badly.
“Dr. Night, may I present Dr. Collins Holbrook. She’s taking over the counseling services for staff. ”
I extend my hand toward him. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Night.”
He hesitates, something akin to betrayal flickering across his face. He remains rooted to the lectern, his gloved fingers tapping the edge, my hand extended awkwardly between us.
My gaze bounces between the two men, and Dr. Banner clears his throat, his discomfort mounting the longer the seconds stretch.