11. Lynn
— ? —
Lynn
Morning arrives like an uninvited guest.
I’ve slept maybe three hours total, and half of that was spent clutching Milo’s cardigan like a security blanket, which is embarrassing enough that I’ve decided to never acknowledge it happened.
The campus is buzzing with some kind of news when I drag myself to the dining hall for coffee. I catch fragments of conversation as I shuffle through the line:
“ - heard he just vanished-”
“ - office completely empty-”
“ - mysterious circumstances, apparently-”
I’m too tired to care about campus gossip until I hear a name that makes my blood run cold.
“Professor Gorman retired,” my barista says when I ask. “Like, overnight. Showed up this morning and his whole office was being converted into a supply closet.”
“A supply closet,” I repeat flatly.
“Yeah, weird, right? No farewell email, no announcement. Just gone.”
I take my coffee and decide, with the bone-deep wisdom of someone who has been through too much this week, that I’m not going to ask any follow-up questions about Professor Gorman’s sudden disappearance.
Some things are better left unexamined.
My morning is unexpectedly free, they haven’t found a replacement for Gorman’s class yet, which means I have three hours with nothing to do but think.
This is a mistake.
By 10 a.m., my dorm room looks like a crime scene. A crime scene exclusively populated by evidence of ADHD in crisis mode.
There are pros and cons lists everywhere.
I’m not exaggerating. Everywhere. On notebook paper, on sticky notes, on the backs of receipts. One particularly desperate list was written on a paper towel because I couldn’t find anything else.
I count them: seventeen lists.
There are also three unrelated crafts in various stages of incompletion. I started a friendship bracelet, remembered I don’t have anyone to give it to, moved on to attempting origami, got frustrated, switched to sketching a floor plan of my dream apartment for reasons I can’t explain.
The existential spiral hit somewhere around hour two.
What even is consent when a goddess is involved? Can I give informed consent to a divine mandate? Am I being cosmically pressured? Is the goddess watching right now? Can she hear my thoughts? Does she know I called her ritual a “divine raffle”? Am I going to get smited?
The nap happened after that. Self-defense mechanism.
But now I’m awake, surrounded by paper debris, and I’ve made a decision.
I pick up my phone and text Milo:
Library. 6 p.m. One hour before closing.
His response comes within thirty seconds:
I’ll be there.
That evening the library is quiet this close to closing.
I’m behind the circulation desk when Milo walks in.
He looks terrible.
Physically he’s still unfairly attractive, all sharp cheekbones and broad shoulders and eyes that make my stomach flip. But there are shadows under those eyes that weren’t there before. His jaw is tight. He moves like someone bracing for a blow.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi.”
We stare at each other across the desk. The fluorescent lights hum overhead.
“I have something for you,” I finally say.
His eyebrows lift slightly. “For me?”
I reach under the desk and produce a piece of paper. It’s slightly crumpled from the seventeen times I rewrote it. The header is written in silver glitter gel pen, because if I’m going to do this, I’m going to commit to the aesthetic.
“A contract,” I announce.
Milo takes the paper like it might explode.
“‘The Official Agreement Regarding the Provisional Consideration of Potential Ritual Partnership,’” he reads aloud. His lips twitch. “Provisional consideration.”
“I’m not saying yes to anything yet. I’m saying I’ll think about it.” I fold my arms over my chest. “Under certain conditions.”
He’s scanning the document now, and I watch his expression shift as he takes in my admittedly chaotic handwriting and liberal use of colored ink.
“‘Party One (hereafter referred to as Lynn) agrees to provisionally consider the role of ritual partner to Party Two (hereafter referred to as Hot Professor Milo)-’” He looks up. “Hot Professor?”
“Typo.”
“In glitter pen.”
“I was tired.”
The corner of his mouth curves. He keeps reading.
“‘Conditions of Agreement: Number one. Honesty always. Party Two won’t lie to Party One, even by omission.’” He nods. “Reasonable.”
“Number two,” I prompt.
“‘No lycan secrets. Party Two will answer any and all questions about lycan nature, culture, abilities, and weird biological functions.’” His ears go slightly pink at that last part. “Also reasonable.”
“Number three.”
“‘Full disclosure about the pack. Party Two will provide comprehensive information about pack structure, leadership, and any relevant political situations that might affect Party One’s decision.’” He folds the paper carefully. “I can do that.”
“There’s one more.”
“I saw it.”
“Read it out loud.”
He meets my eyes. Warmth flickers in his gaze.
“‘Number four: Courting. Party Two will engage in active courting of Party One for authenticity purposes. Party One refuses to be treated as merely a body for ritual use. If Party Two wants Party One, he works for it.’”
The silence stretches between us.
“Authenticity purposes,” he repeats softly.
“I need to know this is real.” My voice cracks slightly, and I clear my throat. “I need to know that if we do this - if I agree to be your ritual partner - it’s because you actually want me. Not just because some goddess told you my name.”
“Lindsay-”
“I’ve been someone’s means to an end before.” The words come out harder than I intended. “I’ve been the stepping stone, the convenient option. And I told myself I’d never do that again. So if you want me to even consider this, you have to show me that it’s real. That I’m real to you.”
He considers that.
Then he pulls a pen from his pocket, an expensive-looking fountain pen that probably costs more than my monthly food budget, and signs the contract with a flourish.
“May I keep this?” he asks.
“It’s your copy.”
He folds it carefully and tucks it into the breast pocket of his jacket, right over his heart.
“I’ll honor every word.”
The knot behind my sternum eases, just slightly. “Good.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“That’s literally what condition two is about, so yes.”
“The pros and cons lists.” His eyes crinkle slightly. “How many did you make?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You have a piece of paper stuck to your sweater.”
I look down. There is, in fact, a sticky note adhered to my cardigan sleeve. It reads: CONS: could be cosmic manipulation. PROS: have you SEEN his arms.
I peel it off with as much dignity as I can muster.
“Seventeen,” I admit. “I made seventeen lists.”
“And the verdict?”
“Inconclusive.” I tuck the sticky note into my pocket. “But several of the pros were compelling.”
“Such as?”
“The blessing. You said the ritual brings health, strength, prosperity.” I meet his eyes. “I’m a broke scholarship kid, Milo. My family has nothing. If there’s even a chance that this ritual could change that - could give us some kind of stability - I have to consider it.”
His expression softens. “That’s not the only reason you’re considering it.”
“No.” I take a breath. “I also like you. Horribly. Against my better judgment.”
“Horribly,” he repeats. “Against your better judgment.”
“I stand by my word choice.”
He rounds the circulation desk, moving slowly enough that I could step away if I wanted to. I don’t want to.
“I’d like to tell you more about the ritual,” he says, stopping just a foot away. “If you’re amenable.”
“Condition two,” I remind him. “No secrets.”
“Knotting is an old custom.” He leans against the desk beside me, close enough that our arms nearly brush. “Most lycan packs have abandoned it over the centuries. They consider it… archaic. Uncivilized.”
“But your pack keeps it.”
“My pack keeps many rituals that others have discarded. We believe there’s power in tradition.
Meaning in the old ways.” His voice drops, taking on a warmth that makes my skin prickle.
“The goddess has blessed every knotting ritual we’ve ever performed.
The couples who participate report feeling…
connected. In ways that transcend the physical. ”
“Connected how?”
“They can sense each other’s emotions. Their well-being. Some say they can communicate without words.” He turns his head, meeting my eyes. “The bond isn’t just for the ritual, Lindsay. It’s permanent.”
I let that sink in. Permanent. Forever tied to this man through some kind of supernatural emotional Wi-Fi.
“So if we do this,” I say slowly, “we’d be linked. Indefinitely.”
“Yes.”
“And I’d be able to feel your emotions.”
“Yes.”
“Even the embarrassing ones? Like when you turned into a tomato trying to explain lycan anatomy?”
His jaw tightens, but there’s laughter in his eyes. “Yes.”
“Fascinating.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“I’m processing. Big difference.” I chew my lip, thinking. “So just to be completely clear, because I want to hear you say it: the knotting ritual involves us having sex.”
“Yes.”
“And during that sex, you’d… knot. Inside me.”
His pupils dilate. “Yes.”
Heat shoots straight to my core, so sudden and intense that I have to grip the edge of the desk.
“And we’d need to practice,” he says, his voice dropping to something rough and low. “Before the ritual itself. To ensure compatibility.”
“Practice.”
“Practice makes perfect.” He shifts closer, and suddenly his mouth is near my ear, his breath warm against my skin. “Knotting lessons, if you will.”
My entire body is on fire.
“That’s-” My voice comes out embarrassingly breathy. “That’s very educational of you.”
“I aim to be thorough.”
Jesus Christ.
I take a step back before I do something inadvisable, like climb him like a tree in the middle of the library.
“One more thing,” I manage. “About the teaching situation.”
His expression sobers. “What about it?”
“You’re still my professor. Technically.”
“I could resign.” He says it simply, like he’s offering to pass the salt. “Tonight, if you wanted. I could stop being your professor and court you as a normal man. If the power imbalance troubles you.”
I snort before I can stop myself. “You think there’s anything normal about you? About this situation?”
“No.” His lips curve. “But I’d try.”
“Don’t resign.” The words surprise me, but I mean them. “I need the class for my degree requirements. And besides, I’m already learning more about Victorian literature from you than I did in a whole year with-”
I stop. We don’t say Gorman’s name.
“I understand.” He’s looking at me like I’ve given him something precious. “Then we continue as we are. Professor and student in public. Something else in private.”
“Something else.” I raise an eyebrow. “That’s romantic.”
“Would you prefer a more specific label?”
“I’d prefer you to earn one.”
His smile widens. “That sounds like a challenge.”
“It’s a condition. Condition four, subsection-”
“You didn’t have subsections.”
“I’ll add them.”
He laughs, actually laughs, a real one, and the sound tugs at a spot behind my ribs I’d rather it left alone.
“I should get back to work,” I say, gesturing at the desk behind us. “Shift’s not over yet.”
“Of course.” He straightens, but doesn’t move away. “Can I stay?”
“In the library?”
“Near you.”
I pretend to consider it. “There’s a reading area by the windows. Good lighting. Comfortable chairs.”
“I’ll find a book.”
“You’re not going to actually read.”
“No,” he agrees. “I’m going to watch you.”
“That’s creepy.”
“Is it?” He leans in again, and we’re close, so close I can see the gold flecks in his eyes, can count his eyelashes. “Or is it devoted?”
“The line between those is thinner than you think.”
“Then I’ll stay on the right side of it.”
We’re a breath apart. My heart is hammering so hard I’m sure he can hear it.
“We’re in public,” I whisper.
“I’ll gouge the eyes out of anyone who sees us.”
“That’s definitely creepy.”
“Devoted,” he corrects. “Extremely devoted.”
I’m going to kiss him. Close this gap and kiss him and damn the consequences and-
The front door opens with a crash.
I jump back so fast I nearly knock over the return cart. Milo doesn’t move at all, just turns his head slowly toward the entrance like a predator identifying potential prey.
It’s just a student, a harried-looking freshman with an armful of books and absolutely no idea how close he came to interrupting something momentous.
“Sorry!” the freshman calls. “Is it too late to return these?”
“You’re fine!” My voice is too bright. Too cheerful. I sound deranged. “Just bring them to the desk!”
As the freshman approaches, Milo finally steps back. But his eyes don’t leave my face.
“The reading area,” he says quietly.
“By the windows.”
“I’ll be there.”
He moves away, selecting a book at random from a nearby shelf, it’s upside down when he opens it, not that he notices or cares, and settles into one of the window chairs.
True to his word, he doesn’t read.
He watches me.
For the entire remaining hour of my shift, his eyes never leave me. Not when I check in returns, not when I help the freshman find a research guide, not when I start shutting down computers and flickering lights.
And the whole time, all I can think is:
If he doesn’t kiss me soon, I’m going to die.
I’m going to literally expire from wanting.
They’ll find my body in the stacks, cause of death: terminal romantic frustration.
But he just sits there, watching, the contract tucked against his heart and a promise in his eyes.
And I’ve never wanted anything the way I want his mouth on mine.