RUIN ME, PROFESSOR HYDE

Elara pov I didn't believe in fate. Fate was something foster kids learned to laugh at. Fate was the social worker who said this time will be different. Fate was the mother who got sick anyway, the scholarship that came with a thousand strings, the cold reality that no one was coming to save you. But the first time I walked into Professor Hyde's lecture hall, something shifted. It was September. The air smelled like old books and nervous sweat. I was three weeks into my freshman year at Blackthorn University, still learning the layout of the campus, still sleeping badly in my narrow dorm bed, still carrying the weight of my mother's last phone call like a stone in my chest. Make me proud, Elara. You're all I have left. I chose a seat in the middle row—not too close, not too far. Invisible. That was the goal. I'd perfected invisibility over eighteen years of group homes and shared bedrooms and the quiet art of not being noticed. Then the door opened, and every plan I'd made scattered like startled birds. Professor Aldric Hyde walked in like the room owed him something. He was tall—easily over six feet—with shoulders that strained against his tweed jacket. Dark hair, silvered at the temples. A jaw sharp enough to cut glass. And a scar that split his left eyebrow like a lightning strike, giving him the look of a man who had survived something that should have killed him. But it was his eyes that stopped my heart. Whiskey-brown. Deep-set. And when they swept across the lecture hall, they didn't glance. They hunted. "Gothic Literature," he said, and his voice was a low rumble that vibrated somewhere low in my belly. "I am Professor Hyde. This is not a class for the faint of heart. If you're here for an easy grade, leave now." No one moved. His gaze continued its slow patrol. Past the girl with the pink highlights. Past the guy snoring in the back row. Past the row of freshmen who looked like they were already regretting their life choices. Then it landed on me. And stopped. I felt it like a hand around my throat. Like he'd reached across the room and touched me. My pulse jumped. My breath caught. Every cell in my body went still. "Your name," he said. Not a question. A command. "Elara Vance," I whispered. He tilted his head. Just slightly. And I could have sworn his pupils dilated. "Miss Vance." He said my name slowly, like he was tasting it. "Tell me. What does the Gothic represent?" I blinked. "I'm sorry?" "The Gothic. As a genre. What does it represent?" He was still staring at me, still pinning me with those impossible eyes. "I ask every new student this question. Consider it a placement test." My mind raced. Fear. The supernatural. The return of the repressed. I'd read the syllabus. I'd done the homework. But under his gaze, all the academic answers evaporated. "The things we hide," I said finally. "The parts of ourselves we don't want anyone to see." Something flickered across his face. Hunger? Surprise? I couldn't tell. "Interesting," he murmured. "Most freshmen say 'ghosts and castles.'" "I'm not most freshmen." "No," he agreed softly. "You're not." He turned away, launching into his lecture on The Castle of Otranto. But for the rest of the class, I felt his attention like a brand. Every time I looked up, his eyes were already on me. Not glancing. Devouring. When the lecture ended, I gathered my things with shaking hands. "Miss Vance." His voice stopped me at the door. "Stay after class tomorrow. We need to discuss your essay topic." "Tomorrow," I repeated. "Tomorrow." His gaze dipped to my lips for half a second—just long enough to make my stomach flip. "Don't be late." I nodded and fled. But as I walked across the quad, my heart still pounding, I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd just made a deal with the devil. And I had no idea what he wanted in return.