by V. F. Mason
We met in high school during lunch break, bonded over our mutual love for old movies, and have been inseparable ever since, so when she heard I picked her university to attend, she jumped with joy and screamed into my ear for ten minutes straight.
I take four steps up the stairs before a deep, husky voice pierces the deafening silence and halts my movements. Something forbidden in its nature, it envelops me in unfamiliar anticipation. If he tries hard enough, his voice might be used to hypnotize people all around him, leading them to their doom for how beautiful and rich it is. “You’re late.” I hear a marker being dropped on the desk. “Usually whenever someone is late for my class, they stay outside. There are always consequences for our actions, after all.”
Morgan winces, and everyone freezes, probably as shocked with this information as I am.
Doesn’t the university have a policy that you can still enter class if you are fifteen minutes late? Not to mention, Professor Smith was never this strict with us.
My mind swirls with all this while he orders, “Turn around.”
Dammit.
Taking a deep breath, I slowly spin around and finally get a look at my new professor, who is still standing by the board. The air hitches in my lungs as a powerful spurt of energy slams into me so hard it’s a wonder I’m still standing.
His dark hair falls to his neck where various tattoos mark his skin in different Celtic knots and shapes that speak about the rich history behind them, bringing attention to his tan skin.
A beard emphasizes his high cheekbones, and a nose that has been broken a few times—by the look of it—adds somehow to the overall dark appeal emitting from him and luring you to discover more of the secrets he hides.
His full lips stay even, no hint of a smile, and I think he rarely does anyway, judging by the countless magazine spreads I’ve seen of him through the years. Smiling must be a foreign concept to him, and it explains why, despite his fame, some journalists avoid him like the plague.
With one word alone, he can destroy careers and self-esteem, having no regard for the people around him and staying deaf to any pleas they might have addressed to him.
Because this man doesn’t believe in mercy and compassion. Only success appeals to him, and if you fail to meet his standards, you might as well be dead. He won’t ever spare you a minute of his time.
His clothes hug him like a second skin, leaving no doubt this man works out daily, his muscles so defined any sane woman would be tempted to see what hides behind that sweater of his, to run her fingers over the flawless canvas his body must be.
Only two words describe him overall—darkly handsome.
He’s magnetic like a burning fire you can never tear your gaze away from; it has a certain pull on us all. That’s why no one can resist him or his charisma that fills the space the moment he occupies it, making you almost struggle to breathe, because his energy sucks out everything else.
Our gazes clash, his piercing brown eyes drilling into mine as he sweeps them up and down my form lazily, almost possessively, breaking goose bumps on my skin, sending hot flushes through my entire system, and awakening unfamiliar sensations all over me.
My feet barely stand still, itching to run to him and touch his face to be sure I haven’t imagined him, while the desires igniting my blood demand quite different things all together.
All involve him and his strong arms that promise safety from the outside world and would forever lock me somewhere far, far away. Despite how horrible it sounds, I wouldn’t mind it.
Because he’d be with me all the time.
Famous author, professor, a sensation in the history world, a man who has invested in stocks so well all the doors are open to him, and luxury surrounds him.
No one can dictate to him, and whoever does lives to regret it, because nothing and no one stands in his way.
Women fawn over him, dreaming about catching the attention of the notorious bachelor. Although, according to rumors, he never stays with them long enough to even utter a word of commitment.
Men stay away, in awe of his accomplishments at such a young age, and strive to be like him.
And finally, a man who has been my crush through all my high school years, ever since I spotted him on TV, and no one ever has been able to measure up to his haunting handsomeness.
The star of all my innocent fantasies and now… to my utter mortification… my professor.
Ryder MacAlister.
Chapter Three
“What’s considered a sin?
Craving something to the point of insanity.”
Ryder
* * *
Estella
Ryder—no, Professor MacAlister—slides his gaze over me one last time before going to the desk and picking up his tablet, scanning through something and firing another question my way. “What’s your name?” His voice pierces through the haze settling on me, and it takes me a second to register his words.
Pressing the book to my chest, hoping it hides my rapidly beating heart, I curl my fingers around it, doing my best to control the tremor in them. “Estella.” His brow lifts, and he leans back on his desk, clearly expecting to hear the rest to punish me accordingly in front of everyone. His reputation precedes him, and no one ever dares to skip his classes, let alone be late. Once you’re on his shit list, it’s impossible to get off it; therefore, most students just drop the class all together. “Estella Reed.”
A shadow crosses his face. His eyes flicker and then blaze anew with some kind of emotion I can’t name. It passes so quickly I must have imagined it. Then he gives me back his indifferent stare.
“Estella.” My name somehow sounds forbidden on his tongue, as though it’s laced with secret meaning only he can understand. Once again, awareness rushes through me. It electrifies even the hair on my body and makes me question my sanity. Who reacts this way to a stranger—and a professor at that—while the entire auditorium trains their gazes on us? “Don’t ever be late to my class again unless you want to study on the other side of the door.”
A chuckle sounds in my ears, my insides flipping at the prospect of being a laughingstock to the entire class in the place I wanted to start fresh. But then butterflies erupt inside me when he shifts his attention to whoever dared to laugh, his voice dropping a few octaves and sending chills down my spine for how cold it is.
“It concerns all of you. If you are late, don’t bother to come. I do not teach those who don’t value my time.” Hushed whispers fill the room while Professor MacAlister looks back at me. “You can sit now.
“Yes, sir,” I reply, and his hold on the tablet tightens for a fraction of a second before he puts his hand back on the desk. Scorching heat surrounds me, and I hate myself for adding the “sir” at the end. It sounds so wrong in the current situation.
Wrong in ways I never felt before, which only proves I’ve finally gone insane and deserve the Weirdo nickname given to me during my high school years.
Turning around, I quickly go to my seat and sit down next to Morgan, who writes something in her notebook and slides the thing to me.
Sorry, girl. If it helps, he was a dick to us all before you came in.
While it does very little to save my ego after he crushed it so badly, a smile curves my mouth, and snatching out my pencil, I write underneath her note.
It’s okay. Just my luck to be late on his first day.
Flipping open the book to page fifty, I rest my chin on my hand and read on the board that he is focusing on ancient myths today so we can work on them properly for our midterm.
At least he will follow Professor Smith’s syllabus.
“Care to share with the class what made you smile, Estella? Morgan must be hilarious.”
I freeze while my friend’s shoulders sag, fear etched on her features while she squeezes her pencil in her palm, a sign of her nervousness. Morgan won a scholarship for her artistic degree and took this class because it promised to be easy. She can’t allow herself to fail
or get anything lower than an A, so her fear is valid.
I was born into wealth and status, but that doesn’t mean I don’t understand the struggles normal people face every day.
And sure as hell, my friend doesn’t deserve to be punished for my mistakes. He will now be a hunter, setting his sights on the prey—me—pointing out my every screwup to drive me out of his class.
He acts as if we are still in high school. What in the hell!
Other professors barely spare us all a glance, yet this guy memorizes names on the first day and notices every little thing.
I open my mouth to apologize, but other words escape me, horrifying me for my boldness that I’m powerless to stop. “She really is.” A few students look over their shoulders at me, amusement flickering in their gazes, while others glare at me for disturbing their class. “And no, I don’t care to share.”
Oh my God.
What am I doing?
I should know better than to poke the beast and earn myself his wrath, especially since my degree depends on a lot of classes he probably now teaches.
Silence stretches around us. The wooden clock hanging on the wall above the board ticks loudly, and each sound accelerates my pulse as I dread his next move.
A smirk curves his mouth, although it signals the forthcoming danger rather than easing the tension in me.
He wraps his hand around a red mug, his diamond watch glistening under the harsh light. Thunder echoes outside, and lightning flashes. These are followed by the loud tapping of rain on the building’s roof, birthing a longing in my chest.
I love standing in the pouring rain. It washes away any fears I might have, making me feel alive—almost merging with it.
And in rain… no one ever sees your tears, because they run together, becoming one. No one ever knows about the pain stabbing at you bit by bit, drawing blood drop by drop until nothing is left.
Professor MacAlister drags me back to the present though, bursting the bubble around me. “Since you are in such a chatty mood, Estella, tell me your thoughts on the Hades and Persephone myth.”
My brows furrow, and I shift my focus to the board, where we have another myth. Why are we talking about Hades right now?
Everyone hectically rifles through their books, finding the right pages, probably afraid he might address some questions to them. Although, why are they worried?
Almost everyone knows this myth; it’s not like it’s super rare. In fact, I think it’s one of the most popular among them all.
I even participated in a school play about it, for God’s sake.
“It’s sad,” I say, and he sips his drink, propping himself on the desk. “A sad myth that was supposed to explain, back in the day, why there are changes of weather through seasons.”
Demeter, the goddess of harvest and agriculture, was responsible for making the land fertile to grow grains and any other provisions people needed, according to the myth. She had a beautiful daughter called Persephone, who she loved dearly.
The god of the underworld, Hades, fell in love with Persephone and wanted her for his own. But he knew Demeter would never allow it. He went to Zeus, Persephone’s father, who gave him permission to kidnap her, so he did, trapping her in the underworld.
After Hades abducted Demeter’s daughter, she tried to get her back but couldn’t find her anywhere. She searched and searched, filled with despair, yet no one had a solution for her. Finally, some of the gods told her what happened, and as revenge, she froze the land, not letting it produce. People couldn’t harvest anything, so Zeus ordered Hades to bring her daughter back.
Hades, though, tricked Persephone, making her eat in the underworld, and because of this, she had to spend half the year with him.
So goes the legend that spring comes when Demeter welcomes her daughter, as she is so happy… and winter comes when Persephone must go back to her husband, and her mother mourns her loss.
“Sad,” Professor MacAlister repeats, as if tasting the word on his tongue. “Why?”
“Well, he kidnapped her and then made her stay with him. How can it not be sad?” Josephine cries out several rows behind me, and Professor MacAlister looks at her as her face becomes all red. “If you ask me, this myth shouldn’t have taught people about weather but how damaging it is to kidnap women.”
“I didn’t ask you though,” he replies and earns himself several chuckles from the class. “Besides, kidnapping is a strong word for what occurred according to the myth.” He takes a small remote, strolls to the wall, and turns off the light as the projector shines the early Renaissance image depicting the myth in question. “He got permission from her father. Back then, it was enough for consent. Women had little say in their fate.” He raises his hand when Josephine tries to add something else. “You can disagree, but it doesn’t change how things were viewed back then. Although an interesting take, Josephine, and a good point.” She blinks in surprise at the praise and smiles, while I roll my eyes.
Sure, he has compliments for everyone else but me. Josephine is a stunning blonde who turns heads wherever she goes, so I guess that plays in her favor, in addition to being super smart. My fists clench at the irrational jealousy traveling through my veins and shame for how idiotic my thoughts are.
In the grand scheme of things, if a comet destroys earth and leaves just the two of us floating in space together… even then, Ryder MacAlister won’t look at me twice or consider me worthy of his male attention.
“Estella.” I jump in place at him calling my name again and snapping me from my thoughts. “You haven’t answered my question. Why is it sad?”
Gripping my pencil, I clear my throat, although everything inside me hates the idea of saying my thoughts out loud. That’s why I prefer written assignments, so no one can listen to my ramblings and judge them. “It’s sad, because no one ever asked Persephone what she wanted.” He turns the light on again, his eyes studying me so intently I resist the urge to snatch out my shawl and cover myself. “Her father decided her fate and sent her to the underworld, where she stayed for months. No one knows what happened. She might have fallen in love with Hades.”
“Yeah, right,” Josephine mutters, but I ignore it.
I could never justify what Hades did, because he indeed kidnapped her, but Stockholm Syndrome exists for a reason.
Who knows what kind of emotions he might have evoked in her after a time? Isn’t this myth sort of an ancient Greek version of the Beauty and the Beast fairy tale? And plenty of people find that story romantic.
“She got summoned back, because her mother wished so. And then her husband tricked her once again, never letting her make a choice.” I bite my lip before continuing. “It was like she didn’t matter to them… a pawn that got moved around on the chessboard however they pleased with no emotions.” I straighten up. “I think she deserved for her parents and her husband to ask her what her heart’s desire was,” I finish lamely and even notice surprise on Morgan’s face, who is already drawing something in her notebook; inspiration always hits her during myth discussions.
Professor MacAlister leans on the podium, twirling his mug in his hand while digesting my explanation, and once again, I feel this odd pull toward him, wanting to uncover what he thinks about or how outrageous he finds my take on this myth.
Instead of his judgment or praise though, I hear another question coming from his mouth. “Do you think Hades could have been her choice?”
His words hang in the air between us, while all students ping-pong their gazes from him to me, anticipating my reply. “Maybe. If she loved him, she might have wanted to be with him for eternity.”
He snaps his fingers. “She still ended up with him though. For six months. A queen of the underworld. Arguably, she got the best of the two worlds.”
“What if she wanted to be with her husband all the time and visit her mother whenever she wished instead?” He dwells on my words, taking another sip, while I add, “Plus, she probably harbored some resentment toward h
er father for dumping her in this situation to begin with. But we never hear her side.”
“Because her entire purpose in this myth was being a coveted damsel in distress. After all, this is about a mother’s love and not some fantasy involving villains who turn into dashing princes and sweep princesses off their feet.” He finishes his drink and places it on the desk while the guys snicker around me.
Of course he finds my explanation amusing and not worthy of his time, as if these kinds of subjects have one correct answer. This study is created on critical thinking.
“Don’t overdramatize or analyze myths, Estella. They were created in order to teach people through them to be obedient. Do not study it through the modern prism.” He presses the remote again, and it goes to another slide talking about another myth, but I just can’t keep my mouth shut after his last comment.
“Since the myths still have some power in the modern world, I think we have to look at them from a different angle than people did thousands of years ago.”
“Girl, just drop it,” Morgan whispers, although it’s too late, since the professor’s attention is right back on me.
I’m not sure what about him ruffles my feathers, urging me to step over the invisible line drawn around me and be more daring in my actions, but I can’t control it.
Maybe it’s because he was my first crush, and if he hurts me enough with his cruel words, finding all my explanations and takes stupid, then it will make me hate him and forget about all my sinful thoughts about him.
He grins, although it doesn’t reach his eyes that stay cold albeit still so focused on me. He makes me feel naked and on display with all my fears. “Whatever do you mean?”
“A few years ago, there was the vigilante roaming this country and Europe, who was catching criminals and torturing them so they would regret all their actions and confess to the sins they committed.” My cheeks heat up, probably becoming as red as a tomato, which only emphasizes my freckles more. “He was called Hades, the underworld god of justice. He’d punish all those men who hurt women in brothels and kill the ones abusing children. Once, he even took down an entire chain of human trafficking, stopping them from hurting a lot of kids.”
