Three minutes. Four. The stragglers in the hall thin out—students heading to their next class or the cafeteria, or somewhere else on campus.
Five minutes.
The door opens again.
Rooke steps out, shrugging into his designer tweed coat. He locks the lecture hall behind him and heads toward the main stairwell without looking my way.
I follow without a fucking clue what I’ll do when I catch up with them. Because obviously he’s going after her. Obviously they’re going to fuck each other because they’re finally alone and I know she’s been wanting to since we walked away from that mausoleum.
Ha, walked? I didn’t fucking walk anywhere. She had to carry me out of there like we were behind enemy lines.
So, yeah, I don’t know what the fuck I’m going to do, but I can’t let him get away with it.
Not after sitting through an hour of his bullshit lecture about self-destruction while my skin crawled every time he opened his mouth.
But Rooke doesn’t go downstairs with Haven. He takes the stairs up to the faculty floor.
I have no reason to follow him.
Yet here we are, in the same hall me and Haven visited the day we came to see the dean.
Rooke unlocks a door halfway down the corridor and disappears inside.
He’s gone to his office, and Haven went to the library.
Because everything is fucking fine.
I can turn around. Pretend I didn’t just spend ten minutes stalking my psychology professor through campus like an obsessed freak.
But I keep walking until I’m at his door.
The office is small and would have been cramped if not for the window overlooking the sports field behind the main campus building. Bookshelves line one wall, a credenza and filing cabinets against the other. A desk with a few piles of papers and a sleek computer fills most of the remaining space.
Rooke has his back to me as he strips off his coat and tosses it over the back of the nearest visitor’s chair. He’s scrolling on his phone, oblivious as he tugs loose his tie.
I could tackle him from behind, and he wouldn’t even see me coming.
Instead, I step deeper into his office and push the door closed behind me. I try to do it silently, but there’s a faint click as it closes.
“Office hours are posted outside,” he mutters without turning around, eyes still on his phone. “I’m not available right now.”
“You’d better make time,” I grate through clenched teeth.
Rooke stills. Then, slowly, he turns.
His expression is unreadable. Eyes dark, mouth flat, shoulders loose. Giving nothing away, like always.
I fucking hate that.
“You spoke with Haven,” he says, sounding resigned. Though fuck knows why.
“Don’t.”
He tilts his head. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t bring her into this.” My jaw tightens, my hands curling into fists at my sides. “This is between you and me.”
He perches on the edge of his desk between the two visitor chairs, crossing his arms, eyes narrowing slightly. Amusement or interest, though I can’t tell which.
