Then his attention shifts to Kai, and his expression smooths into amusement instead.
Bastian’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes as he approaches us, moving in a way that makes my clit pulse.
“Mr. Jordan.” His voice carries across the room, turning heads. “This is a closed exam. Enrolled students and proctors only. Unless I’m mistaken, you handed in your resignation last week.”
I feel Kai stiffen beside me, his hand tightening on mine like Bastian is threatening to physically rip us apart.
“I’m just?—“
“Leaving.” Bastian stops a few feet away, close enough that I can smell his earthy cologne. On cue, it triggers sense memories I really don’t need right now. “Unless you’d like to explain to the registrar why you’re attending a class you aren’t enrolled in?”
“It’s fine,” I whisper, squeezing Kai’s hand before releasing it. “I’ll text you when I’m done.”
Kai looks at me, searching my face for permission or reassurance.
I guess he finds what he’s looking for because, after a moment, he nods tightly.
“I’ll be outside.”
“Adorable,” Bastian murmurs, just loud enough for us to hear.
Kai’s jaw clenches. I think he’s going to say or do something that’ll set off a chain reaction of violence and severe consequences. But he just shoots Bastian a look of pure venom before leaving the lecture hall.
I watch him leave with wide eyes.
When my gaze goes back to Bastian, his dark eyes are gazing at mine with an intensity that causes pins and needles to shoot through my fingers.
“You have two hours,” Bastian says, his eyes taking too long to move away from mine. “Make them count.”
Bastian’s midterm is brutal. My hand cramps around my pen as I scribble about attachment theory, cognitive dissonance, and the psychological impacts of trauma bonding.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
Bastian prowls the aisles like the fucking predator he is. Every time he passes my desk, my skin prickles with awareness. My nose twitching at his scent. My thighs pressing together at his presence.
But he doesn’t pause. Doesn’t look at me any longer than he looks at anyone else. Doesn’t do anything that could be considered unprofessional.
Which is somehow worse.
By the time my essay is done, my brain feels like it’s been put through a meat grinder. A few students have left already, and I wait for a few minutes to time my leaving with someone else’s. But those still left are staring at their exams with the thousand-yard stares of soldiers still trapped in a war zone.
“Five minutes,” Bastian says, returning to the lectern to sit on the edge of the desk. His gaze roves through the students before landing on me. Then dropping to my closed book.
His lip twitches into a smirk.
He’s enjoying my fear.
Fuckingasshole.
Swallowing, I force myself to my feet and head to the desk to hand in my blue book. He watches me the entire way, that smirk staying right where it is. My heart is thundering inside my chest by the time I’m near enough for him to speak.
But he doesn’t say a word.
I retreat, stopping near the doorway, waiting for him to call me back.
But he does nothing. His eyes are on the rest of the class, like I mean absolutely fuck all to him.
What the actualfuck?
