Chapter Two – The Cold Professor
767 Words
By the next lecture, I swore I wouldn’t draw his attention again. This time, I chose the middle row, blending into the sea of students. My notebook lay open, pen poised, as if I were ready to devour every word.
I told myself it was just another class, just another professor. But that lie shattered the moment Adrian Blackwell walked in.
He didn’t stroll—he prowled. Every movement was precise and controlled, as though the air itself bent to his will. The room hushed before he even spoke, as if we all answered to the same silent command: submit.
Without hesitation, he began the lecture by slicing through the topics of classic literature with razor-sharp precision. His remarks were more than just educational; they were weapons that eliminated all room for doubt until only the absolute truth was left.
I tried to keep up, scribbling furiously, but every time his voice dropped lower, or when he leaned casually against the desk with that quiet dominance, heat rushed to my cheeks. It was unfair. A man shouldn’t sound that devastating while discussing Shakespeare.
Halfway through, his eyes landed on me again. I faltered, my mind slipping into forbidden territory.
I imagined lying on a bed, his hands exploring every sensitive inch of me. I pictured him gripping my breasts as though he wanted to devour them, pulling me into his arms like I belonged to him alone.
The thought sent a shiver through me.
“Miss Moore,” he said, crisp and direct.
My pulse spiked. “Yes, Professor?”
“Your interpretation of Hamlet’s hesitation in Act Three, Scene One.”
Panic flared. I hadn’t prepared—at least, not enough. I fumbled for words. “I think… It’s not weakness. It’s more of a moral struggle. He isn’t afraid of action—he’s afraid of consequence.”
Silence stretched.
Then his lips curved. Not a smile—something sharper. “An interesting thought. Flawed… but not entirely without merit.”
The class chuckled. My stomach dropped. Heat burned at the tips of my ears.
He turned away, continuing the lecture as if nothing had happened. But the sting remained. It wasn’t just the correction—it was the way he delivered it. Cold. Precise. Almost as if he enjoyed reminding me I was beneath him.
By the time class ended, my chest was tight with frustration.
“The room emptied in bursts of chatter and laughter. I shoved my notebook into my bag, praying I could slip out before anyone noticed me.”
But fate intervened.
“Miss Moore. Stay.”
His voice sliced through the chatter. The others glanced back, curious, then drifted out whispering. Soon, only silence remained between us.
I turned slowly, masking my nerves. He stood by the desk, one hand resting on the polished wood, his gaze fixed on me.
“Your analysis,” he began, tone calm but sharp, “was shallow. Hamlet isn’t paralyzed by morality. He’s paralyzed by himself—his endless thinking.”
I swallowed hard. “I—I understand. I’ll try harder next time.”
“You’ll do more than try.” He straightened and stepped closer. Too close. My breath caught at the heat radiating from him. “If you intend to survive this class, Miss Moore, you’ll prepare. You’ll think. You’ll stop offering me answers you hope are enough, and you’ll start offering me answers that are enough.”
His words cut, but his proximity sent my pulse racing. I hated how my body betrayed me, prickling under his gaze.
“Yes, Professor,” I whispered.
For a heartbeat, the air crackled. His eyes locked onto mine—unyielding, unreadable. It felt like standing on the edge of something dangerous, one wrong step away from fire.
Then, just as quickly, he stepped back. The invisible thread between us snapped, leaving me breathless.
“You may go.”
I grabbed my bag and rushed out, heart pounding, mind a blur of anger and confusion.
Why did he single me out? Why did his words cut like knives, yet his presence burn like heat? Why did part of me—one I refused to admit—crave his attention again?
“The hallway buzzed with whispers that caught on my skin like static.”
“Blackwell called her out again.”
“He’s always hard on someone. This semester, I guess it’s her.”
“Poor girl.”
I should have felt humiliated. And maybe I did. But buried beneath the shame was something far worse.
A thrill.
And I hated myself for it.
- Writer
