Was he wearing a…thong?
When he turned around, I got a good look at his firm, round ass and the back of his long, toned thighs.
His bare ass wasright there, two thick straps of black winding around his waist and beneath his ass cheeks.
My mouth dropped open. Was I still asleep?
What the fuck was he wearing? A jockstrap?
My eyes were riveted to his ass as he walked, cheeks bouncing up and down with every step.
I tore my eyes from him, swallowed hard and gripped my blanket.
“What…what did I say?” I asked. I didn’t think I talked in my sleep. No one had ever told me I did. I used to sleepwalk, but that was a long time ago.
Dakota climbed back into his bed. “I couldn’t understand half of it, something about the snow, and then you kept apologizing to your mom. When you started yelling is when I came over there. ’Bout to wake up the whole damn floor.” He got under his covers and lay on his side, facing away from me.
I couldn’t remember any of my dreams, but if I’d been talking about my mom in my sleep…how embarrassing that he heard that.
“Sorry,” I said softly.
Dakota hummed. “Don’t worry about it.”
My gaze drifted over to the dim light at the foot of his bed. “What is that light?”
“It’s a night light. Is it bothering you?”
“No, I just…why do you need a night light?”
“Because,” he murmured sleepily. “I don’t like the dark.”
I stared at his back until I was sure he wasn’t getting up again. I felt bad about waking him up. What if this became a nightly thing? How did you stop yourself from talking in your sleep? What if I said something really…
I flopped down onto my stomach and dragged the blanket over my head, squeezing my eyes shut against an unexpected wave of tears, trying to will myself back to sleep.
Dean Voss was enormous.
Tall, broad, and thick with equal parts muscle and fat. I’d been expecting a middle-aged man of average height and average looks, maybe glasses and a mustache, but Albert Voss must’ve been six and a half feet tall and was ridiculously handsome.
He looked like he’d come straight off the cover of a magazine with his strong jaw, straight nose, and perfectly coiffed hair the color of chestnuts. The lines of age around his mouth and eyes, in addition to his initially pleasant personality, only added to his charm.
I wondered how much of his looks money had bought and how much were lucky genetics, and I couldn’t help but compare them to my own. It was annoying how focused on the appearance of others I sometimes became. I wished I didn’t do that, that I could just ignore the hated envy that crept up from its dark hole when confronted with beauty. But that little demon was fucking strong. And loud. A vile thing that left a sludge of envious goo in its wake, painting up my insides and burning me like acid.
To Dean Voss’s credit, his gaze never strayed to the mark on my face. He was a master at keeping eye contact—and it was really intense, bordering on unsettling.
I guessed that’s where Dakota got his thousand-yard stare. But that was where the similarities ended, because they actually looked nothing alike. Maybe Dakota took after his mom?
“…and it is, of course, the duty of the Academy to provide its students with everything they need to succeed here.”
Dean Voss had been giving me what I thought was some kind of obligatory welcome speech for the past ten minutes, and I’d listened quietly while nodding andyes sirringhim at the appropriate times. And all the while, dread sat heavy in my stomach.
When was he going to bring up Tagerton?
Dean Voss leaned back in his chair and linked his fingers over his stomach, pinning me with a fierce stare. “It’s come to my attention that you’re in the same room as my son Dakota, is that correct?”
Oh, fuck. Had Dakota said something to him? Was he complaining about me already?
“Oh—yes, that’s correct.” Was I supposed to say something flattering here? To wax poetic on what a fine man he’d raised?
