FANG
I have a problem.
This problem is pretty, with purple hair, bright, expressive eyes, and an earthy sweet scent that makes my mouth water.
The problem is named Maeve Brooks, and she’s supposed to be my student.
She stands at the doorway to my office, tilting her head in confusion, worrying her lip.
I want to bite it.
Avery is going to kill me.
“I’m assuming you didn’t get my email,” I say, and she shakes her head.
“What email?” she responds.
“The one that said the music room has no power and that the quiz is moved to next week.”
“Nope.” She shrugs, then sets her guitar down against the doorframe. “I didn’t expect the second day of a class to be cancelled.”
I groan. “Neither did I,” I admit. “I hate doing that, and I’m sorry you had to show up here.”
The second part is a lie.
I’m thrilled that she showed up. I had sent the email to all the students as soon as I could and fully expected to not see her until next week, which would give me a few days to tamp down my Alpha instincts.
But now she’s here, in my office, her chamomile aroma the most potent I’ve ever scented it.
This time, though, there’s whiff of something else on her.
She’s been with another Alpha.
A low growl sounds in my throat, and I cover it quickly with a cough.
It shouldn’t matter.
This doesn’t matter.
She is my student.
She is?—
“I’m going to fail your quiz,” she announces, and that stops my primal line of thinking.
“What? I doubt that.”
She shakes her head adamantly. “I don’t know shit about any of this,” she admits, and I chuckle at her bluntness. She peers over at the papers I was grading and makes a disgusted face. “And what the hell is that?”
“Advanced composition,” I murmur, amused.
“Like writing music?” she asks.
“That’s exactly what it is.” I grin.
“Avery said that you can compose music in your head,” she adds thoughtfully. “That you’re likely the smartest guy in the building, besides him.”
“I mean, he’s not lying.”
