by Watson, Rhea
And by then, they had handed over all the power.
That was part of the game, too.
The panic in their eyes upon realizing precisely what they had signed up for. Exquisite.
“Can I say something…” She paused, then set her teacup on the desk, removing all possible distractions. “…off the record?”
Panic lanced through me now, and I did my best to keep the surface calm as I nodded and motioned for her to speak. “Of course. If you don’t mind, I’d prefer all discussion of kink with one of my professors to be off the record.”
Her little giggle settled the maelstrom brewing below these still waters. “Absolutely.”
But then the shine in her eyes dimmed, humor gone, replaced with—fear. Uncertainty. Her throat bobbed ever so slightly through a gulp, and I allowed her a moment to lick and nibble at her lower lip—a habit I would stamp out if I were her Dom. Too obvious. Too revealing. All that fidgeting told the world she wasn’t sure of herself, and darker predators than me would take advantage of that.
“I…” Her gaze shot skyward for a moment, and she took a deep breath before continuing. “I… kind of like rough sex. It’s taken a while to clue into it, but… I like being, you know, controlled. I like… when it hurts a little.”
I stiffened. Like catnip, her omission. Her surrender. Her secret. Fuck.
“Do you think I would like pain?” Alecto carried on. She sat straight and sure, hands still, and I admired her bravery—even if she wouldn’t meet my eye anymore. “You know, receiving it… Maybe as a stress relief, just like you?”
When those amber gems glanced up, they knocked the wind out of me. So open. So raw. Looking for guidance in all the wrong places.
It could have been so right, this dynamic twining around us fluid and natural, easier than any submissive I had met in the past.
But…
But she was one of my professors.
An employee.
An underling.
I… couldn’t.
Right?
If it were up to my cock, I certainly could. Already it had stiffened to half-mast, thickening with interest the longer she looked at me with that overtly submissive expression—
“Alecto.” I cleared my throat and leaned forward, adopting a tone I might use on a troublesome student—then instantly backtracking. Because it only made my cock harder to imagine her as a student in need of both guidance and discipline, and that was just so unacceptable I ought to be tarred and feathered this very second. “I’m happy to discuss this with you. I would obviously ask that you keep these conversations to yourself—” That had her nodding frantically like such a very, very good girl. “—but for the sake of our professional situation, I think we should leave it at that… talking.”
“Oh. Yes, of course.” She deflated right then and there, schooling her features as she stammered, “Definitely. I wasn’t… I… You… I wasn’t trying to, or, or insinuating—”
“No need to be embarrassed,” I insisted, hating the thought of a rejection I didn’t want to give making her clam up. “Although… I’m a little embarrassed myself. I don’t usually discuss sadism over afternoon tea.”
That and I officially couldn’t stand up anymore—not if I wanted to maintain some level of decorum. Still, that didn’t seem to make her feel better, her blushes shameful now, no longer pricked with an excited pink. Gods, this had taken a turn.
Pain.
I hadn’t meant to inflict it, yet I’d done so without laying a hand on her.
“Why don’t we circle back to this another day?” I offered. Let her breathe. Let her think. And let me get rid of this blasted erection. “Tell me about your lesson plans for the upcoming term while we finish our tea.”
Clearing her throat, Alecto planted her hands on the chair arms and pushed up. “Oh, no, I won’t take up your time with that. I can go—”
“Sit.” Out barked an order from a man who wasn’t her Dom but sure as hell sounded like him. She stilled, eyes snapping to mine, and then slowly sank into the chair. I nudged her tea toward the edge of my desk, a flicker of my brow encouraging her to take it. And she did. Held it close. Took a tiny sip, gaze trapped in mine, focused. Excellent. Best to end this in a safe place, to not let her mind spiral after dashing out of my office. Picking up my cup, I gave her a small approving nod. “Good. Now, tell me your lesson plans.”
Like everything taught at Root Rot, I possessed vague knowledge of the herbalism and potions curriculum, but Alecto immediately delved into such exquisite detail that I’d never forget it if I tried.
And that only made things worse.
Because she responded to my request flawlessly, in depth and without skipping a beat.
But this was for the best. She relaxed in time, passion for her profession obvious—and the main reason I’d hired her without bothering to check with all fifteen of the references on her application. Alecto Clarke was good. A treasure for any academy.
A treasure I could tarnish if I wasn’t careful.
So I listened deeply and spoke sparingly. I let her take charge, steer the conversation, get intense about specific flora that caught her interest.
All the while trying to get rid of the hard-on straining against my trousers. Usually shop talk was the furthest thing from arousing, but it didn’t go away. Didn’t lessen. Stayed proud and firm and stiff, the sound of her voice spurring it on.
Hell, the stubborn bastard remained long after she left, the appointment concluded on good, safe terms, and wouldn’t disappear until I took care of it.
Once again disappointed in myself.
Unable to think of anything but Alecto until I chugged a dreamless sleep aid later that night.
Fully aware that even though we had set boundaries, she was going to be a problem.
A problem that, honestly, I didn’t want to solve.
And only when I acknowledged that, just before the potion dragged me into the black, did I realize I was well and truly fucked.
3
Alecto
Yesterday’s conversation with Jack had been… illuminating, to say the least.
And I’d been thinking about it ever since he dismissed me, three cups of tea later and my lessons for the next four months nitpicked apart by a warlock who definitely knew what he was talking about.
It had taken a lot of balls to share that side of himself with me, someone who, for all he knew, could shout it to the world. Write a letter to the high council. File a report like he’d suggested. None of those thoughts ever crossed my mind, of course. He had been there for me without judgment, without criticism—except when it came to my lesson plans. For those, he had a few thoughts and tactful suggestions that sent me scurrying back to the drawing board today. Sure, I had a curriculum guidelines to adhere to and content that needed to be covered in the second term, but the way I delivered it was always up to me.
And my delivery could use some work, apparently. Jack constantly framed it as to make things stronger, why not…
I appreciated that.
He handled me with kid gloves, just a little, and usually I hated that approach from my boss.
But I liked it with him.
I found myself hanging on his every word, desperate for him to never stop talking, to lull me into a stupor with that ridiculously deep, rich voice of his.
Only I wished he had talked more about sadism.
About pain and distraction, relaxation and release.
I’d tried just about everything else in my twenty-nine years. Sex and alcohol and the odd hit of pot or pills. Memories stayed with me, fire and smoke and my shrill cries drowned out by splintering wood and crumbling walls. Articles written about the fire, about my parents and their scattered parts. Growing up without them, with grandparents who did the bare necessities to raise me but always treated me like an adult—as if trauma had aged me a few decades when, really, I had regressed.
No one saw that.
No one saw that I was stil
l a little girl on the inside, frozen in fear, desperate for a hug and a cuddle and soothing words to make the nightmares go away.
They thought I had matured.
I was just angry. And scared. And alone.
There were so many shitty things out there to make me forget for a little while, but pain had never been one of them. I’d always thought I had enough pain in my world. Sex made me feel good, but its thrall became less and less effective as the years went on, as the connections between me and the guy—or guys—in my bed felt thinner and more superficial.
Maybe I needed to take things to the next level.
Change it up.
Really disconnect.
I’d been thinking about it since I tiptoed out of his office, pushing the conversation deep down and praying that no one could read our secret on my face. Last night, my hand had crept between my thighs while Bjorn slept soundlessly in the other room, Jack’s voice whispering across my flesh, rumbling in my ear, and I came harder than I had in ages.
So good—just from the memory of him, of our private talk that would never leave his office.
Today, however, I needed to focus. Even in an almost empty castle, most students gone home for the break, a few professors vacationing around Europe while they had the chance, the job never stopped. My chat with Jack had opened my eyes to more than I cared to admit, so much so that I tried spanking myself with a hairbrush after my shower—just one smack, which didn’t really do much, honestly. But our discussion had also shined glaring spotlights on a few holes in my plans for the term, and before I forgot all the points he raised, I had to fix them.
I… needed to fix them.
Because he had told me to.
And it felt good, another of our dirty secrets, to do as he instructed.
All that had led me to the staffroom. With colleagues scattered around the main table, working and chatting and drinking gallons of coffee, I had opted for the couch, forcing myself to sit near the low fire in the hearth, the flames tinted purple and only occasionally snapping—only occasionally launching my heart into my throat.
Pen in hand, I’d been at it for the better part of an hour, and as the clock chimed the three-o’clock toll, I moved on to midterm study outlines.
I hadn’t bothered to give them last term, and most of my first and second years had flopped. While they performed marginally better on my end-of-term exams, I decided to throw them a bone this time around—as per Jack’s suggestion—and guide them through the specifics to get a passing grade.
Massaging the knot at the back of my neck, I glanced toward the main table, to my colleagues and the chandeliers and the hazy sunlight streaming through the many arched windows. All of it reminded me of Bjorn, who had been out cold since yesterday, my entire potion consumed by the time I poked my head in to check on him at sunset. Fear that I had dosed the medicinal properties too high reared its ugly head between all the Jack thoughts today, but even distracted, I could nail that potion in my sleep.
And I hadn’t been distracted brewing it for him—unless concern counted as a distraction, then maybe. He might have been a tough former Viking, a vampire warrior born in a more violent time, but that wasn’t him now. Bjorn was sweet. Empathetic. Thoughtful. Hilarious and snarky and more than capable of calling me on my crap. Of all the people in this castle, I’d always suspected my roommate would be the one to sniff out my fraught connection with Benedict Hammond long before I ever considered sharing it.
The thought of losing him that night…
Gutted me.
Terrified me to the bone.
Since starting at Root Rot, I might have developed an inappropriate crush on Jack Clemonte and still occasionally lusted after Gavriel, the sex too good to forget, but I valued Bjorn above all the rest. He was my friend and then some, and I dreaded the trauma waiting for him to deal with when he finally woke up, rested and healed but still just a little bit broken.
Or, like me, a lot broken.
Because I was a fucking expert at trauma, unfortunately, and something like that—being crucified, threatened by the sun, weak and helpless and afraid—stuck with you.
Pen to parchment, I scribbled a few bullet points about the midterm outlines, head down and brow knitted—when a body suddenly plopped onto the couch next to mine, forceful enough to send me bouncing and make my pen jump. Usually Bjorn was the only one who literally hopped onto the couches with me, but there were a few other professors I clicked with who might try to up the friendship ante on our mini holiday.
Only the figure in the corner of my eye sat taller than any of the ladies I’d drunkenly belted Spice Girls tunes with back in July.
Dark and big, imposing, he smelled like sandalwood and cedar—
My blood ran cold.
Why the fuck was Benedict Hammond—aka Ash Cedar—sitting next to me?
Slowly, I glanced to my left, willing it to be anyone else.
But nope.
Patrician nose. Thin lips. Trimmed stubble. Salt-and-pepper sideburns and tousled faded brown waves that always looked finger-combed and artfully sideswept. Same old stupid traditional warlock robes, this time in a rich mahogany, his shoes a polished leather. Purple flames glinted off their sharp pointed tips, and I swallowed a wave of nausea, heart thundering at the sight—at the heat crawling up my spine, the fire closing in.
Exhaling sharply, I shuffled over as far as the couch would allow, but that only put maybe an extra half foot of space between us, his body directly in my personal bubble and triggering every internal alarm.
“I thought you were hiking in Switzerland,” I said as lightly as I could manage. Even in hiding, Benedict must have had the backing of the Hammond coven fortune behind him. His clothes, his shoes, his snobby air all screamed money, and the fact that everyone knew he took lavish vacations any chance he got, usually with some twiggy aristocrat descended from French or Austrian witch royalty, was telling.
But he was here.
Beside me.
Breathing the same air, his arm outstretched along the back of the couch and his body angled toward mine.
“No, I… Things are a little messy on the home front.” He adjusted his robes so they fell open just enough to reveal a crisp white dress shirt beneath. “Thought it best to stay and support the headmaster during this… trying time.”
I nodded, unable to look at him this close after those words he had casually tossed my way, drunk and invasive and dangerous to the core.
Do you ever think this Samhain will be your last Samhain?
What the fuck had that even meant, anyway?
A threat?
Had he figured me out? Or was he just rambling—just feeling wistful on a sabbat that really meant something in our little sect of the supernatural world.
Parchment in my lap and scattered on the armrest like flags to stake my claim on the couch, I death-gripped my pen to my chest. If he exhaled that spearmint breath on me one more time, the tip was going right in his eye. “Ah. That’s nice of you, I guess.”
Cue a strained silence that threatened to go on until the end of fucking time—
“Alecto, I’d like to apologize for Samhain.”
Ignoring the stab of panic at the sound of him saying my name, murmuring it like he had the right to make it sound so intimate, I frowned and slowly lowered my pen-shank. “What?”
“I only have a hazy recollection of our talk,” Benedict insisted, sweeping a hand through his hair with a huff, like he was just so disappointed in himself, “but I know it upset you—whatever I did say, anyway. And please know that was not my intention.” He shuffled closer, steering me under his arm, and my hand leapt to my throat when I felt the airways constricting. “I’m so sorry. After the night you had with Asulf, the last thing you needed was me—”
“You don’t have to apologize.” I never need you, you murderous fucker.
“But I do.” With an elegant snap of his fingers and a murmured summoning spell, a coffee materialized in his fr
ee hand, and he offered the steaming mug with a smile so sugary sweet that it could make your teeth rot from the proximity alone. “Consider this an olive branch.”
Uh. What.
“One cream, one sugar, and a splash of vanilla.”
Oh gods, he knew my coffee order.
“Just the way you like it.”
“Oh. Uhm…” I swallowed hard, bile sizzling up my esophagus, and then accepted his stupid peace offering with a shaky hand. “Thanks.”
Liquid fire spilled over the rim and dribbled down the sides, and as Benedict chuckled and swiped at the droplets with his knuckles, I resisted the urge to chuck the whole thing in his face and be done with it. Instead, juggling my pen, the mug, and all the papers piled high around me, I awkwardly maneuvered things so I could set the coffee I had zero intention of drinking down on the flat armrest.
Classic inconsiderate nice guy schtick—look like you’re doing a kind thing, all the while making it inconvenient and terrible for the woman in question.
“We were all out of sorts that night,” I told him, unable to take his expectant silence a second longer—like he was waiting for me to trip over myself thanking him for the coffee and the apology and the handsome smiles he kept casually tossing out there.
“Yes, but I don’t want us to stay out of sorts.”
Alarm bells shrieking an octave higher and louder than usual, my head snapped his way, pen falling and rolling into the cushion dip between us. What… the fuck was that supposed to mean?
“You’re a very brave witch, Alecto,” Benedict mused, easing closer and staring into my eyes as if he hadn’t already memorized every fleck of color. Honestly, this guy and my eyes. Seldom blinking. Always staring. How didn’t the world know this freak was a psychopath slasher killer? He went for one of my curls, perhaps to stroke it or tuck it behind my ear, but I shifted just out of reach with a sniff, pretending not to notice.
