Clementine.
He was once my saviour, now he's my captor.
Ezekiel Ambrose doesn't hide who he is. Unlike me he's proud being a monster.
Cruel.
Popular.
Devilishly handsome.
Sinner.
Ezekiel
O...
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🦢
Autumn and I are sitting at the end of the row when the bell rang and students began flushing in. World history is the only class students are eager to attend.
You might be thinking they show up because knowledge is very important to them. Well, that couldn't be further from the truth.
The real reason strides in, his suit impeccably tailored, accentuating his biceps and the sleek curve of his hip. He casually swings the door shut with a nudge of his foot, making his way toward his desk, coffee in hand, completely oblivious to the stares he gets from my fellow female classmates.
Autumn leans in close, her hush for my ears only. "Could they be more obvious? The girl next to us is practically drooling."
I slightly lean back in my chair, head tilted back as I peak at the girl underneath my lashes. She was in fact drooling.
I sit upright, stifling a laugh. "I can't blame them, really. Mr. Alister is handsome, even for a 42 year old."
Her entire face scrunches up. "He's 32, girl."
My lips form a small 'O.' "Oh." I say dejectedly. I guess the scowl that permanently resides on his face adds years to his appearance. That plus the haircut and the trenchcoat he always wears.
His eyes flicker to the grandfather clock then at his watch, breathing out a sigh. I nearly jump out of my seat when he shuts the textbook in his hand, the loud noise catching me offguard.
"Let's start the lesson, shall we?"
I take out both my laptop and textbook, planting them on the table in front of me. Judging by the bored look on his face, I knew he wouldn't go easy on us.
Had he taken up a modelling job instead of the teacher position, I guarantee he would be famous by now. Mr. Alister has the looks of an actual greek god, plus the softiest hair–so I've heard.
We spend the next thirty minutes being a slave to literal paper. After finishing the 6,000-word essay on the Renaissance and Reformation, my wrists throbbed with pain.
Making your students write without a break in a span of 1 hour and 30 minutes had to be illegal.
Beside me Autumn flicks her wrist back and forth, trying to regain some of the strength she just lost. "I want to die."
Our psycho of a history professor lifts his chin, his eyes wandering the classroom of zombies. Once satisfied with the outcome of his demonic terror, a slow yet cunning smile reached his lips, the edges curving into a grin.
"Looks like I did my job today." The grandfather clock struck. "You're all dismissed."
I collect my belongings, stuffing them into my tote bag before standing up with the rest who run out of the classroom. Between juggling my weight and the weight of my best friend who insisted her wrist couldn't handle opening her locker, I was in a rush to get out of here.
