Chapter 12 Thou Shalt Not Flirt with Doom #2
“Girl,” Tabby says, eyes wide. “I would force a bond with him on purpose.”
“Consent,” Cleo deadpans. If only she knew..
“That’s first up for me too!” Cleo says after chastising Tabby and hitting her with a piece of bacon.
At least I will have Cleo there for moral support… even if she doesn’t know what she’s supporting.
Everyone continues talking and laughing around me as I die a little more inside. I resist the urge to bang my head against the table. Instead, I take a shaky breath and check the time.
Ten minutes until I have to walk into class with a man whose jawline could cut glass and who may or may not be mystically tethered to my soul.
No pressure.
I adjust the strap on my bag for the fifth time as I leave breakfast. It’s a nervous tick, very anti-wrath behavior, and I hate that I’m doing it — but here we are. Cleo walks beside me, talking a mile a minute between bites of a cinnamon roll she stole on the way.
“I heard Professor Gabriel used to sit on the small Sloth Sin Council,” she says, waving the pastry around like a pointer. “Like, the actual. Fucking. Sin. Council. I heard he practically pioneered the Sloth expansion treaty. Wild, right?”
“Mmm,” I hum… so he’s a big deal and I’m barely old enough to attend this school.
It’s not like I’m scared of him. I’m just… highly aware of how weird this could get. He hasn’t turned me in for the bond — which is comforting. But why?
When we reach the classroom door, my steps slow. It feels like walking into a trap I set for myself.
“You good?” Cleo asks, brow raised as she half-chews.
“Yes,” I lie. “Just preparing to keep myself awake through lectures on the ages.”
I push the door open. And the second I step inside, something hits me — that weird sense of pressure easing, like my ribs can expand. My bond is in the room. I feel it. Like a magnetic pull tugged from the center of my chest.
There he is - Professor Gabriel.
Sitting behind his desk like a statue, writing in his stupid leather notebook like the rest of us don’t exist. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t even twitch.
Which is fine. Totally fine. It’s not like I expected him to leap over the desk and confess his undying love or whatever.
I sit down beside Cleo, trying to act like this is normal. Like my heart isn’t doing weird backflips.
And then—
Of course.
The heels. The perfume. The manufactured aura of “I’m better than you,” drifting in like smog. Daphne and Camille walk into the room, apparently in this class as well.
Daphne passes by with a slow look that screams judgment, her lips curled like she smells something rotten. “Well, look who decided to show up,” she says, voice honey-coated. “Must be bring-your-charity-case-to-class day.”
Camille laughs beside her. “Spoiler Alert: There’s no sinless loser spawn in the history books. Surely there’s somewhere else better you can spend your time?”
“I hear the men’s restroom needs a good scrub,” Daphne laughs.
They take the seats directly behind us like they’ve planned it. Like they want me to flinch. I don’t know what their problem is with me. It’s not like Atticus has said two words to me in public.
I turn to face them. “Sure, but only if you let me use some of your hair, Daphne. I don’t think the janitor’s closet has anything that dry and coarse.”
At their stunned silence, I turn back around. Then, I feel a sharp kick to the back of my seat.
I need to cool it. The last thing I need is more attention or eyes on me today.
I sit up straighter. Let the Wrath anger settle low in my chest and stay there. Cleo shifts beside me, clearly ready to throw hands — or cinnamon buns since her hands are still full — but I nudge her knee with mine.
Not worth it. Not today.
I stare ahead, back straight, jaw tight, heart still tethered to the man at the front of the room who hasn’t looked at me once.
Surely, he feels it too? He must.
A sharp click echoes through the room as Professor Gabriel closes his notebook with one clean motion and stands. I’ve seen glimpses of him before, obviously — at the bond ritual, in brief flashes in the halls — but this is the first time I can really see him.
And it’s a problem.
Professor Gabriel looks like he was genetically engineered in a lab exclusively for hot professor content in naughty magazines.
Broad shoulders and muscular arms peeking out of his rolled-up sleeves.
Stupidly perfect jawline. The kind of dark chestnut hair that looks effortless and windswept, like the wind just likes him.
And then there are the deep chocolate brown eyes behind his glasses.
As if being a walking daydream isn’t enough, he has the audacity to wear thin, wire-rimmed glasses like he’s trying to play “approachable academic” while secretly knowing he could break hearts.
I hate it. I hate it, universe.
Because he’s not supposed to look like this. He’s supposed to be some crusty old historian with an outdated blazer and coffee breath that makes him easy to avoid. Not a six-foot-four demigod, that I can’t have, standing at the front of the classroom casually undoing my ability to concentrate.
I look away before I do something humiliating, like sigh out loud. Or blush. Or melt into the floor.
Focus. He’s a professor. This is not the time for a mental thirst spiral.
“Class,” he says, looking around. His voice is steady, cool — the kind of voice that could cut through chaos without raising in volume. “I’m Professor Gabriel. This is History of Factions 101.”
He surveys the room, looking mildly bored.
“Most of you come from vastly different backgrounds. Each faction teaches history in a way that flatters its own mirror. In your previous education, you were all taught your version of the truth — edited, revised, glorified. In some cases, …possibly outright fiction.”
A few students shift uncomfortably. This is slightly approaching treasonous territory. We’re not supposed to doubt what the factions tell us. I barely move. Cleo is already scribbling away notes.
“In this classroom,” Professor Gabriel continues, “we don’t deal in bias. We deal in facts. If that makes you uncomfortable, I suggest you ask for a different class.”
He pauses, letting that settle like smoke in the air. His eyes gaze across the classroom. They don’t pause; they don’t even react when they get to me.
“My job is to give you the authentic story.”
He moves towards the board. “Whether you like what you hear or not is irrelevant. History doesn’t care about your feelings.”
There’s no grin. No reaction. Not even a slight micro expression to the bond that pulls tight in my chest. Just his voice — sharp and clean like frost on glass.
The class drags on, and Professor Gabriel doesn’t look at me once. Not once. Not even a flicker of recognition. It’s like I’m just another student to him. Another face in the sea of anonymous learners who shuffle through this damn academy.
And it’s infuriating.
Yeah, part of me is relieved. I’m not looking for him to act like we’re secretly tied together by an unspoken bond.
I don’t want to risk getting kicked out or anything that might endanger my place here.
But a little acknowledgment wouldn’t hurt.
Wouldn’t kill him to give me a glance or — I don’t know — some sign that he knows I exist outside of this dumb class.
I even raise my hand at one point — to ask a simple question about faction strategies during the last Greed conflict — and he doesn’t even blink. He just answers my question quickly and moves on.
God, this is worse than ignoring me altogether.
It’s fine. Really. I should be grateful.
Except... it feels like he’s acting like nothing’s wrong. Like the bond doesn’t exist. So, what does that make me? Crazy? Am I actually losing my mind?
After the last bell rings and the last of the students shuffle out — Daphne shoulder checking me on the way, of course — I decide to wait.
Just a few extra minutes, letting the rest of the noise fade.
I watch as Professor Gabriel erases the board like he hasn’t even noticed that I’m still in the room.
Right. Just me and my internal crisis. Perfect.
I finally step up to the desk. For a second, I almost chicken out. It feels stupid, like I’m some freshman in need of validation from a man who couldn’t care less. But the weight of it — the bond, the unanswered questions, the quiet frustration — pushes me forward.
“Umm... Professor Gabriel?” My voice is steadier than I feel.
He turns around, clearly surprised to see me still standing here. Like he had no idea I was lingering. Like he was so absorbed in his own little world he hadn’t even noticed that I’m still in the room.
“Yes, Miss...?” His brow furrows, like he’s trying to place my name.
“Arwen Davies,” I respond almost too quickly.
Great. He doesn’t even remember my name.
“Ms. Davies,” he repeats, glancing over his glasses like he’s already done processing this conversation in his mind. “What can I do for you?” His tone isn’t harsh exactly — more like he’s just… distracted. Stressed.
There’s a long, awkward silence as I stand there, trying to figure out what to say.
What should I say? I was just hoping for some kind of acknowledgment — something that says, yeah, I know about the bond and I’m not ignoring you on purpose.
But he’s acting like he feels nothing at all.
He’s acting like we’re just two people in a room.
Just like any other student-professor interaction.
Am I crazy?
My heart starts racing. I’m not sure I can stand another minute of this.
“Miss Davies,” he says, interrupting the awkward silence, voice a little sharper now.
“I have a full curriculum, and I’m very busy. If you don’t have a question—”
“I’d like to read more about the history of the Greed Rebellion,” I say, my brain kicking into survival mode. Think, think, think.
“I’d like additional reading material?”
As if I don’t have enough going on already... smart Arwen. Let's give ourselves more homework. That's a good solution.
He blinks, thrown off for a second. “Sure,” he says, his voice almost a bit softer now. “I can lend you my personal copy of Greed Wars Through the Millennia.” He reaches into the drawer of his desk and pulls out an old-looking leather-bound book. It’s heavy, aged.
“Thanks.” I mutter quickly as I take the book. The words feel hollow.
I walk out of the classroom and down the hall feeling more confused than ever, clutching the book to my chest.
But then something shifts.
The pull in my chest, the familiar tug from the bond, eases, just a little. I look down at the book, the leather cover warm. The scent — the subtle mix of paper, ink, and... him. It’s faint, but it’s there. The bond feels less suffocating. Like it’s purring.
I know that I’m not crazy.
This is real. I feel it.
Maybe the book will help. Maybe this is the way to ease the constant ache in my chest — even if it’s just a little.
And for the first time in hours, I can breathe. Not much, but enough to stop spiraling for a while.