Page 33

Today, he's succeeded.

She's in the third row, same seat she always takes—third from the aisle, perfectly centered in my line of sight. For three weeks, that seat has been flanked by empty chairs on either side, a buffer zone she's maintained with deliberate precision. But today, Wesley Carter has claimed the spot to her left.

He's sprawled there in that infuriatingly casual way of his, one arm draped over the back of her chair, his body angled toward her like the rest of the room doesn't exist.

And she's letting him.

I'm at the front of the class, mid-sentence about qualified immunity, and I can see them in my peripheral vision. Wesley leans in, whispers something that makes her lips curve—not the sharp, practiced smile she gives when she's performing, but something softer, more genuine. She tilts her head, her curls brushing his shoulder, and whispers something back.

He laughs. Low and pleased.

My jaw clenches so hard I taste copper.

"Professor Draven?"

I blink, dragging my attention back to the room. Rachel Adams is staring at me expectantly, her hand half-raised.

"Yes?" I manage, my voice sharper than it should be.

"You were saying something about qualified immunity and systemic protection? I think you stopped mid-sentence."

Right. The lecture. The thing I'm supposed to be doing instead of cataloging every point of contact between Wesley Carter and the woman I'm not supposed to want.

I clear my throat, forcing my focus back to the board. "Qualified immunity is a legal doctrine that shields government officials from liability unless they violate a clearly established statutory or constitutional right. In practice, it's a mechanism that allows abuse to continue unchecked."

The words come automatically, muscle memory taking over while my brain does something else entirely. My gaze drifts back to the third row.

Wesley says something else, his hand moving to her shoulder now, fingers brushing the exposed skin above her t-shirt neckline. She doesn't pull away. If anything, she leans into the touch.

And then she uncrosses her legs.

Her right leg slides over her left in a languid motion that draws the eye, that demands attention. Her skirt rides up slightly, exposing the smooth, pale line of her thigh, the kind of skin that looks like it's never seen the sun and would bruise at the slightest pressure. The fabric settles just above her knee, and when her legs finish their slow, torturous crossing, I see it.

Nothing.

No hint of lace peeking out. No shadow of fabric beneath the hem. Just bare skin disappearing under the edge of her skirt, smooth and uninterrupted and utterly, devastatingly naked.

She's not wearing underwear. Elara Cross came into my fucking classroom not wearing any underwear.

Is she trying to kill me?

Heat floods my system—sharp, visceral, and so intensely possessive it frightens me. My pulse kicks up, thundering in my ears, and I have to force myself to look away before I do something catastrophically stupid. Like cross the room. Like haul her out of that chair by her wrist and drag her somewhere private where I can remind her exactly who she belongs to.

All I can think about is the fact that Elara Cross is sitting in my classroom, in the third row, with Wesley Carter's arm draped over the back of her chair, and she's not wearing anything under that skirt.

She doesn't belong to you, the rational part of my brain insists. She's your student. You're her professor. This is a line you cannot cross.

But the line is already so blurred it might as well not exist.

I glance back at them—I can't help it, like my eyes are magnetized to that third row, to that specific seat, to her—and Wesley's hand has moved. It's no longer resting on the back of her chair. It's on her shoulder now, his fingers brushing the exposed skin above the neckline of her cream t-shirt, and she doesn't pull away. If anything, she leans into the touch.

Her head tilts slightly, giving him better access, and he takes it, his thumb tracing a lazy circle against her collarbone.

My vision tunnels.

The rest of the classroom fades—the students scribbling notes, the fluorescent lights humming overhead, the clock ticking toward the end of the period—until all I can see is that hand on her skin.

But then her eyes flick up. Just for a second. Just long enough to meet mine.