Periwinkle

23| MY STUDENT

SHANE'S POV

The slam of the door echoed in the hollow room that had become my office in the weeks that I'd been here. A ragged breath escaped my lips, a strangled sound echoing in the sudden silence of my office.

I ran a hand through my hair, the dark strands sticking up in disarray. The image of Leo's hands on Kara, the way her breath hitched as his lips grazed her skin, was seared into my brain. The memory of the way her eyes fluttered shut as Leo's touch ravaged her, of the helpless moan that left her lips, sent a fresh wave of nausea washing over me.

The same lips that had brushed against mine a few short weeks ago.

The same lips with which she must be kissing Leo right now.

Disgust. Fury. Disbelief. A strange, primal feeling that I couldn't begin to explain. All the emotions warred within me, a tangled mess that left a bitter taste in my mouth.

My gaze fell on the stack of papers on my desk—grading, lesson plans, the usual academic shit. The sight of it only served to further fuel my frustration. I had a plan and a job here. I came here in the first place to get some fucking peace of mind. Especially today. I thought I'd finally get to catch a break after weeks of relentless work. But everything went to shit the moment I stepped into the kitchen and stumbled upon the sight of my idiot brother tangled with her.

She was ruining everything.

Crossing the room, I sank into the leather chair behind my desk, the cool surface offering little solace against the heat coursing through me. Squeezing my eyes shut, I tried to tamp down the surge of emotions. Calm. I had to calm down. But no matter how much I tried, the anger didn't stop simmering under my skin.

How could one be so careless? She knew I stayed here too. How could they just fool around at any corner of the house like this when they knew I'm here? Leo, I could understand. He'd always been a shameless fucker. Her, though? I was her professor. She was my student.

She was my student. My student.

No matter how many times I repeated that in my head, the image of her half-bare, the way she arched into Leo's touch, her taut nipples, looking so hard and delectable, sent a jolt through me, straight down to my groin.

The way she looked at me with her lust-crazed eyes but didn't say or do a thing to stop Leo made me harder.

Shame washed over me, hot and unwelcome, as I fisted my hands, trying to make sense of the emotions inside me. Shame at the way my body had reacted, the tightening in my gut, the inexplicable surge of possessiveness. Shame at the anger simmering beneath the surface, a stark contrast to the composed demeanor I meticulously maintained.

Even if she didn't say anything, I should have. Even if I hadn't said anything, I should've walked out sooner.

What the hell had I even been thinking?

Thinking? No, that was the crux of the problem. I hadn't been thinking.

Sighing, I closed my eyes again, trying to push the image out of my head. My fingers drummed a staccato rhythm on the desk, the sound a counterpoint to the erratic thudding of my heart, and the image turned to the one of the night a couple days back when I gave her a ride back to her apartment. The memory of her laughter in the car that night and the unguarded vulnerability in her eyes played on a loop in my mind. It was a stark contrast to the confident, sometimes infuriating young woman I knew in class.

My mind flashed back to what had just happened. My hand clenched into a fist, knuckles white against the dark wood of my desk. This wasn't right. On any level.

Pushing myself out of the chair, I paced the room, the floorboards creaking beneath my weight. Every fiber of my being screamed for an outlet, for the release that usually came from a ride. But for some reason, the idea didn't hold as much solace as it usually did.

My gaze drifted to the antique liquor cabinet tucked away in the corner. I wasn't much of a drinker. The occasional celebratory glass of champagne, perhaps, but hard liquor? Rarely. Not to mention, I'd gotten myself drunk just a little over a couple weeks ago. It wasn't like me to drink again so soon. Yet, tonight, the amber glow of the liquid within those crystal decanters seemed so... inviting.

With a sigh, I strode over and flung open the cabinet doors. The scent of aged liquor filled the air, a stark contrast to the usual paper and leather musk of the office.

Hesitantly, I poured a measure into a waiting crystal glass, the clink against the ice cubes the only sound in the silence of the room.

The first sip was a fiery assault on my taste buds, but as it burned a path down my throat, a strange warmth spread through my chest, loosening the knot of tension that had taken root there.

Before I knew it, I was pouring another, then another, the amber liquid dulling the sharp edges of my anger and painting the scene in the kitchen with a hazy indifference.

Time blurred as I sat there, and the night deepened outside my window, the only light filtering in from the desk lamp. And the anger slowly began to ebb, replaced by a cold, steely resolve and resentment. I didn't know just how much time had passed when a thought snagged in my mind.

Grabbing my phone, I typed out a message, the words laced with the same simmering intensity that suddenly coursed through my veins. Short and curt, it conveyed urgency without needing further explanation. I knew I didn't have to say anything else; Leo would guide her to my office.

She needed to be here and face the consequences of her actions, of their actions. And I needed to make sure nothing of the sort repeated itself again.

Because whatever this little charade was, it ended now.

As I waited for her to come into my office, the silence of the room became more suffocating with each passing second, and I found myself stealing a glance at the door every few seconds.

How long did it take to walk across the damn hallway?

Just when doubt began to creep in, I heard the sound of footsteps approaching my door.

Even though I didn't think I was that drunk yet, seeing as I had a high tolerance, I still straightened my posture, forcing a semblance of composure as the doorknob turned and the door creaked open slowly.

There she stood in the doorway, her brown eyes wide and apprehensive in the dim light filtering from my desk lamp. Her usual confident stride was hesitant, replaced by a nervous shuffle.

"You wanted to see me, Professor Carver?" Her voice was barely a whisper, but it sent a strange mix of anger flickering through me.

With the glass of amber liquid still in my hand, I leaned back in my seat as I said quietly, "Take a seat." 

*****

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