“Anthony,” I snap, my voice sharper than I intend. I push my chair back, creating a small, desperate space between us. “Let’s just stick to the text.”
He laughs, a low, dismissive sound. “Come on, River. We’re talking about Lolita. It’s all about… getting what you want, right?” He pushes his chair closer, invading the space I just created. His hand moves again, this time resting on my thigh, his thumb stroking the denim of my jeans. It’s a possessive, insistent touch.
Panic flares in my chest, cold and sharp. The common room is empty. The glass walls of the study room offer no real privacy, but no one is out there to see. No one is out there to help.
“Anthony, stop,” I command, my voice trembling now. I try to push his hand away, but his grip tightens.
“Relax, River,” he murmurs, leaning in, his breath hot against my ear. “You’re so intense. I just want to… help you relax.” His other hand comes up, reaching for my hair, his fingers tangling in the auburn strands. He tries to pull me closer, his face looming over mine. The smell of him, sweat and cheap cologne, is suffocating.
My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic drum against bone. I push against his chest, a desperate, futile effort. Fear, cold and absolute, floods my system. No. This isn’t happening.
Suddenly, the door to the study room bursts open with a violent crash, slamming against the wall.
Julian.
He stands in the doorway. A dark, avenging angel, his eyes blazing with a cold, terrifying fury I have never seen before. His gaze sweeps over Anthony, then lands on me with a searing, possessive heat that both terrifies and steadies me.
Anthony freezes, his hand dropping from my hair as if burned. He looks up, his face paling, his eyes wide with shock and fear.
Julian moves. It’s a blur of controlled violence. He crosses the room in two strides, grabs Anthony by the front of his hoodie, and hauls him to his feet as if he weighs nothing. Anthony’s feet dangle inches off the floor, his face a mask of terror.
“Get your hands off her,” Julian growls, his voice a low, guttural sound that vibrates through the room. It’s not the voice of a professor. It’s the voice of a predator.
Anthony chokes, struggling in Julian’s iron grip. “Professor Kincaid! I… I wasn’t doing anything!”
Julian’s fist connects with Anthony’s jaw with a sickening crack. The sound echoes in the small room. Anthony cries out, a strangled sound of pain, and his head snaps back. Blood immediately wells from the corner of his mouth.
Julian doesn’t release him. He shoves Anthony against the glass wall, the impact rattling the panes. “You think I don’t know what you were doing?” His voice is a low, dangerous hiss. “You think I don’t know your type? You think I don’t know what you are?”
He leans in close, his face inches from Anthony’s, his eyes burning with a terrifying intensity. “Let’s talk about your essay, Anthony. The one you submitted last week. The one that was a remarkably well-written analysis of postmodern literary theory. Remarkable, considering it was plagiarized, almost word for word, from an obscure academic journal.”
Anthony’s eyes widen in absolute horror. “No! Professor, please! I… I can explain!”
“You’ll explain it to the Dean,” Julian barks, his voice cold as ice. “And to the disciplinary committee. And then you’ll explain it to your coach, who, I’m sure, will be thrilled to hear that his star player is not only a cheat but a sexual aggressor.” He tightens his grip, shaking Anthony like a rag doll. “Now, get out of my sight. And if I ever see you within fifty feet of River Dawson again, I will personally ensure your academic career, and your football career, are utterly destroyed. Do you understand?”
Anthony, trembling, can only nod, tears streaming down his face.
Julian shoves him away, and Anthony stumbles, nearly falling. He scrambles to grab his bag, his eyes darting wildly between Julian and me, then he bolts out of the study room, disappearing into the empty common room and out the main doors.
The silence that descends is heavy, suffocating. The air still vibrates with the echoes of violence. I sit frozen in my chair, my body trembling, my breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. My hands are clenched into fists, my nails digging into my palms.
Julian turns to me. His eyes, though still dark, have lost the terrifying fury. They are intense, possessive, and filled with a complex mix of concern and something else; a chilling satisfaction. He walks toward me, slowly, deliberately.
He kneels in front of my chair, his hands coming to rest on my face, his thumbs stroking my cheeks. His touch is gentle, almost reverent, a stark contrast to the brutal force he just displayed.
“River,” he murmurs, his voice soft, coaxing. “Are you alright?”
I can only stare at him, my mind a jumbled mess of fear, relief, and a terrifying, undeniable thrill. He saved me, he protected me. He asserted his claim with a violence that both terrified and exhilarated me.
“He… he touched me,” I whisper, the words catching in my throat.
His jaw tightens as his eyes darken with a flash of renewed fury. “I know, little artist. I saw enough.” His thumbs stroke my face in a soothing, possessive rhythm. “And I promise you, he will never touch you again.”
He pulls me gently from the chair, drawing me into his arms. I go willingly, my body collapsing against his, seeking the solid, undeniable strength of him. His arms wrap around me, holding me tight, pressing my face into his chest. The scent of him, woodsmoke, whiskey, and the faint, metallic tang of violence fills my senses. It’s a strange, terrifying comfort.
“This wouldn’t have happened,” he murmurs, his voice a low growl against my hair, “if you had listened to me. If you had obeyed, if you had come straight to me.”
The words are a cold, sharp blade, cutting through the fragile comfort of his embrace. He is comforting me, yes. But he is also reminding me of my transgression, of the consequences of my defiance. He is reminding me that my safety, my very well-being, is entirely dependent on my obedience to him.
