Chapter 17 – The Private Tutoring Session
1393 Words
The clock in Professor Draven’s office ticked softly, its rhythm slicing through the quiet. Aria stood by the doorway, her fingers twisting the strap of her bag.
She had come early, unsure if she should even be here. The idea of a private tutoring session with him had sounded harmless when he’d offered it.
But now, standing here, facing the dark oak door with his name engraved on the plaque, her heart beat faster than reason allowed.
“Come in,” his deep voice called from inside.
Aria inhaled and stepped in.
Professor Draven looked up from his desk, his glasses low on his nose, his expression unreadable. The late afternoon light filtered through the blinds, painting sharp shadows across his jawline.
He wore a charcoal shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, veins visible beneath the pale skin of his forearms. His eyes, dark and steady, found her instantly.
“You’re early,” he said quietly, standing to his full height.
“I didn’t want to be late,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.
He gestured to the chair across from his desk. “Sit. Let’s see where you’re struggling.”
She set her bag down and took her seat, forcing herself to look at the papers on the desk instead of him. Yet, she could feel his presence like heat on her skin.
Every time he moved, she felt it, the pull she couldn’t name, the tension that had been growing since that first day in his class.
He handed her a printed essay. “Your analysis on romanticism is good, but your conclusion loses power. You write as though you’re afraid of your own opinion.”
Aria frowned slightly, staring at her own words. “I just don’t want to sound... wrong.”
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. “In literature, there is no wrong. There is only conviction.” His voice lowered, steady but intimate.
“You have to believe every word you write. Like you mean it.”
Her gaze lifted to meet his. “And if I don’t?”
“Then you make yourself believe,” he said softly.
For a moment, the air between them seemed to shift. Her breath caught, his eyes still holding hers. There was something dangerous in the way he looked at her, something that made her stomach flutter.
“Let’s start with this paragraph,” he said suddenly, pulling back his focus to the page. “Read it aloud.”
Aria nodded, clearing her throat as she read. Her voice trembled at first, but as she continued, she felt herself falling into the rhythm of the words.
His gaze stayed fixed on her face, not the paper. When she finished, he spoke again, his tone low.
“You feel it, don’t you?”
She blinked. “Feel what?”
“The emotion behind the words. That’s what writing is. You let it consume you.”
Aria’s lips parted slightly, her pulse quickening. “I think I do,” she whispered.
He rose from his chair then, moving around the desk until he stood behind her. The sound of his footsteps was soft against the floor. She could smell his cologne, subtle, dark, expensive.
When he leaned forward to point at a line on the page, his arm brushed her shoulder. The contact was brief, but it felt like fire.
“Here,” he murmured, his voice beside her ear. “You hold back too much. If you’re writing about passion, then let it be passion. Don’t censor it.”
Her throat felt dry. “It’s... difficult to write something like that when….”
“When?” he asked, his tone quietly curious.
“When you’ve never felt it,” she said, her voice so soft it almost vanished.
For a heartbeat, the silence was absolute. She felt him still behind her, his breath catching before he exhaled slowly.
“Then maybe it’s time you did,” he said quietly, his tone unreadable.
Aria turned to face him, startled by his words. Their eyes met, too close now.
She could see the faint stubble on his jaw, the way his gaze flickered between her lips and her eyes before he stepped back suddenly.
“I mean,” he said, voice rougher now, “through writing. Experience through imagination. That’s what writers do.”
“Of course,” she said quickly, her cheeks warm. “I didn’t mean…..”
He interrupted softly, “Neither did I.”
But they both knew it wasn’t true.
The next hour passed in fragments, their conversation lingering between academic and something far more dangerous.
When she stumbled over a line, he leaned closer again. His fingers brushed hers as he corrected her pen grip, the contact sending a jolt through her entire body. She froze, but he didn’t move his hand right away.
“Like this,” he said, voice low.
Her fingers trembled beneath his. “Professor...”
“Yes?”
Her name died on her tongue. “Nothing,” she whispered.
He pulled back slowly, and she felt the loss of warmth immediately.
The silence that followed was thick, both of them pretending to read, neither able to concentrate. Aria could barely see the words anymore; all she could think about was how close he had been, how his hand had felt—steady, certain, forbidden.
When she finally gathered the courage to speak again, her voice was unsteady. “You said I hold back too much.”
He looked up. “You do.”
“In writing?”
His eyes darkened. “In everything.”
Her breath caught again. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t teasing. He meant it.
The rain began to fall outside, tapping softly against the windows. A flash of lightning cut across the sky, throwing pale light into the room.
“You should probably go soon,” he said, his voice suddenly controlled again. “It’s getting late.”
She nodded and began to pack her things, her hands trembling. As she turned to leave, he spoke again.
“Aria.”
She looked back.
His gaze was steady, but there was something in it she hadn’t seen before. “Be careful what you write next,” he said. “Words have power. They can reveal more than you intend.”
She gave a nervous laugh. “You make it sound like a warning.”
“Maybe it is.”
Her heart raced as she stepped out of the office. The hallway was empty, silent except for the rain. She started toward the stairs, pulling out her phone to check the time.
A new message blinked on the screen.
Unknown Number: You didn’t listen. Stay away from him.
Aria stopped, her breath catching. Her eyes darted back toward the closed office door, the shadows shifting under the dim light.
Whoever it was, they were watching her.
Her thumb hovered over the reply button, but before she could type, another message appeared.
You have no idea what he’s capable of.
The phone slipped from her hand, clattering softly against the floor. Her pulse thundered in her ears.
She turned back, her gaze fixed on the door of Cassian Draven’s office, the faint light still glowing beneath it. For the first time, she wasn’t sure if what she felt was desire or danger.
And then the door creaked open.
Professor Draven stood there, his expression unreadable, his shirt slightly undone at the collar. “Aria?” he said quietly. “Did you forget something?”
Her breath caught, heart pounding.
“No,” she said, trying to steady her voice. “Nothing.”
He studied her for a moment, his eyes searching hers, as if he sensed something. Then he smiled faintly, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Good night, Miss Vale.”
She turned and hurried away, the phone still buzzing in her hand.
Behind her, the light in his office flickered once before going dark.
But the final text came through as she reached the bottom of the stairs.
He’s not who you think he is.
The message froze her in place, fear and fascination twisting together inside her.
Because deep down, she already knew.
Something about Cassian Draven was too dangerous to ignore.
And yet, she wasn’t sure she wanted to stay away.
- Writer
