The Professor and His Obsession : A Forbidden Romance

by V. F. Mason

  That’s how the devil must look when he lures you into the temptations that have your downfall written all over them.

  My brows furrow though when I notice scars marring the masterpiece that is his body. Earlier in the library, I didn’t have the chance to study him, and I gasp in shock.

  Without thinking, I go to him and cover them with my open palm, his heart beating evenly beneath it. Tracing my fingers over the angry, red slashes that look as if someone intentionally hurt him with a knife, intending to bring the most pain. My soul weeps just imagining how painful that must have been.

  “What happened to you?” I ask in a whisper before sliding my palm lower to a bigger scar that left a deep imprint right in the middle of his stomach, a permanent reminder nothing could wash off from whoever dared to hurt him. “Who did this to you?” I wrack my mind for all the information I gathered over the years about him on the news, but none mentioned him getting into an accident—or worse, being kidnapped by someone.

  In fact, there is little known about his earlier life before he received a scholarship to a prestigious university. He never commented on his family during interviews, not that anyone tried really hard to find them.

  Everyone figured out that a normal family who could have offered an interesting story to the press would have claimed him a long time ago.

  However, some scars are pale too, barely noticeable moon-like shapes, and I still, because I’ve seen such scars before.

  On my brother’s body from a metal belt buckle.

  Swallowing the bile in my throat, I fire another question. “Did your family… hurt you?” It would explain him cutting them off from his life and never mentioning them.

  Ryder’s body tenses, becoming almost rigid next to mine, and I circle another scar, this one puckered with crosses on it, like someone stitched it wrong.

  He traps my chin between his fingers and gently lifts it up to meet his gaze. The air hitches in my lungs when he gives me his full attention. Intense energy surges around us.

  A smirk lifts the corner of his mouth, although his eyes stay absolutely dead when he replies, “I never had a family, my darling.” He cups my cheek, tilting my head back. “Consider me a lone wolf without a pack.”

  “Everyone has a family. We don’t come into this world out of thin air.”

  Was he in the system?

  His next words though prove my assumptions wrong, because only a person who once had a family who did him wrong could say it.

  “Blood makes you related, not family. Trust me on that, Estella.” His voice is harsh, wrapped in old pain that most people probably would have missed, but I hear it clearly.

  Because I can relate to all these emotions that must feel like acid that destroys everything in its wake, leaving hideous imprints behind.

  I open my mouth to ask more questions, needing to know what his relatives did to him in the past that he emerged strong but scarred from it.

  Ryder doesn’t give me the chance.

  Instead, he pushes his jacket off my shoulders, and it falls on the floor by our feet. Then his fingers grip the zipper on the back of my dress, and he tugs it down, finally snapping me out of my stupor. “What are you doing?”

  “Your dress is wet. I don’t want you to get sick.” The dress slips from my shoulders, and I quickly hold it together, mortified to be naked in front of him, which is stupid, all things considered.

  However, him seeing my body in the dim library light is one thing… and him studying my curves and skin with all its imperfections under this harsh one is quite another.

  His brows lift, and clearing my throat, I say, “I don’t have anything else to wear.” A thought occurs in my head, sending rage through my system, and the next words taste disgusting on my tongue. “Unless you have women’s clothing lying around for such occasions.” My icy tone leaves no doubt that jealousy eats me from the inside out, because just thinking about him with other women sends me into the maddening spiral.

  Maybe his possessive ways are rubbing off on me as well.

  His chuckle fills the room. “Ah, my darling, no need to show me your claws. I don’t invite women home. Ever.” He gives me his shirt. “Wear it. I’d like to see you in my clothes with my scent on your skin,” he says, his eyes scanning me possessively, while satisfaction rings in his voice.

  Despite a slight annoyance at his cavemen ways, a smile shapes my mouth at his absolute confidence that I will follow through with this order. Then again, now that we’re talking about my wet dress, I feel how it’s stuck to my body as coldness slips into me, which the breeze coming from the open balcony door only intensifies. “Turn around.” He frowns at me, and I snatch the shirt from him, still holding my dress together, and then I swirl my finger in the air. “Turn around, Professor MacAlister.”

  His eyes flash at the name, and a similar need hits me as well. I wonder what it would be like to call him that in bed while his mouth feasts on my flesh as—

  “Stop,” he growls, already guessing where my imagination has gone. My cheeks heat up, and desire moves in waves over me, pushing me closer and closer to succumbing to it, especially after seeing his scars.

  I want to kiss all of them and take away any lingering hurt, so when he looks at them, the memories won’t be as painful or profound.

  And they are.

  No matter what he claims.

  “Estella.” I close my eyes at his husky whisper that nips my skin, luring me toward the darkness and unknown, because I have no idea what I’m doing here or even if feeling all this is normal. “Have no doubts, my darling…” His hand circles my neck, and his thumb settles over my pulse that beats rapidly when he drags me to him once again. Our chests bump against each other, and his heat collides with my cold skin. “You’ll be so thoroughly fucked tonight you won’t remember anything but how to scream my name. I’ll drive so deep into you, filling you so much you won’t know how to live without me.” He catches my gasp in his mouth as he slams it on mine; burning sensations assault me at once, sending tremors straight to my core that clenches at his words.

  His tongue brushes against mine before tangling them in a passionate duet, delivering a deep, toe-curling kiss designed to drive me insane and add fuel to the fire rapidly spreading in my veins. It promises me illicit, forbidden, carnal desires that would bring me so much pleasure nothing but it would exist.

  His hold on my neck tightens, his fingers digging harder into the soft flesh, and he swallows my whimper as I angle my head back, giving him better access to me. He changes tactics, lazily roaming his tongue, stabbing it deep, mimicking what he will do to me later as a hot flush travels all over me.

  My fingers fist my dress harder, wanting to tear away the offending cloth keeping me away from brushing my pointed nipples against his chest, adding friction to the all-consuming need dictating my every move, and I moan.

  He continues the kiss for several more seconds before trapping my lower lip between his teeth, biting it and drawing blood, making me groan. He swipes his tongue over it, soothing the sting, and sucks on the flesh.

  Our raspy breaths mingle as our lips graze against each other. And then I’m pulled away from the nirvana flashing on the horizon and dumped back in the crushing reality in which he still craves answers to his question. He repeats, “Change, my darling.” He gives me one last peck and lets me go, spinning around as I blink and try to catch my breath.

  This man is like an expensive addiction that wipes away rational thought with all my inhibitions, leaving only the deep need to indulge in him more and more until nothing else remains.

  And somehow, my exhausted mind finds solace in it and wishes never to be free from this pull.

  But apparently my professor has to know what happened tonight, and can I really blame him?

  I ran from him as if he was the plague.

  “Would you like something to drink?” he asks, his back still to me as I quickly shimmy out of my dress and put on the shirt, the warm material comfo
rting me as his scent calms me a little bit.

  Glancing longingly at the kettle in the kitchen, I say, “Tea.” He nods and must know I’ve changed, as he goes to it and turns it on, the humming sound echoing through the space and bursting the earlier bubble completely, grounding me in the present once again.

  The whooshing wind flows over me, shifting my focus to the balcony once again where black curtains billow while nature still shows her mood tonight.

  I walk outside, noticing he hasn’t furnished the huge rectangular space other than a leather couch in the distance, where a bottle of whiskey stands nearby.

  In awe, my eyes drink in the magnificent view from such a height, and I stroll to the banister, leaning on the wet railing, although the rain barely touches me since the roof protects me from most of it.

  Thousands of shimmering lights adorn Chicago as the city buzzes with activity. Thunder cracks before pouring more rain, cleaning the roads where countless cars are stuck in traffic.

  As I look at the world from above, everyone and everything seems so small, which puts all my worries into perspective in the grand scheme of things.

  Although it doesn’t reduce them in my heart, and I sigh heavily, dreading this conversation as it brings the guilt back in my heart that’s really impossible to remember when I’m in Ryder’s company.

  I hear his footsteps behind me before the heat radiating from him hits me, and then he extends the steaming cup in my direction. “Here.”

  I’m not even surprised to smell jasmine tea. “Are you spying on me?” My question is met with deafening silence, so I wrap both my palms around the hot mug, taking a small sip and welcoming the hot liquid in my throat.

  He crosses his arms and leans on the banister next to me as lightning flashes in the sky followed by thunder. “What kind of answer do you want to hear?”

  “The truth.”

  He chuckles, although it lacks any humor. “I don’t call it spying. Just protecting what belongs to me. And you can’t protect what belongs to you if you don’t study the object of your fascination well.” A beat passes, and he adds, “I didn’t spy on you though. You order this tea every single morning in the cafeteria.”

  “Oh.” Way to embarrass myself with such assumptions, but then my brows furrow.

  This hardly explains how he knew about Quin and the other small details, like him knowing where to find me tonight and other innuendoes he threw my way.

  “A man has no right to spy on or stalk a woman,” I tell him, wanting him to understand my stance on the issue.

  It’s cute and all… until the man turns into a psycho who wants to kill you. I could never willingly sign up for a Stockholm Syndrome kind of relationship. It would go against everything I believe in.

  “I agree.” I look at him, waiting for him to elaborate, and he does, removing a few strands of hair from my face. “Stalking or spying implies harm in the future, and I would never hurt or harm you, my darling.” His voice lowers a bit. “And I’d kill anyone who tries.” For the first time, I see a cruel glint in his gaze, similar to the ones I’ve seen reflecting at me from the Four Dark Horsemen. A disturbing thought that has no shape yet nags at my mind urges me to listen to it and save myself from upcoming doom. “I will always protect you though. And I will use whatever means necessary in order to do so.”

  Pressing the mug to my cheek, I shake my head at this explanation.

  Does he even realize how insane it sounds? By all accounts, I should be calling the cops and running away from him, because his behavior has danger written all over it.

  Why don’t I, then?

  Maybe because I’ve been subjected to such protection my whole life, and instead of scaring me, its familiarity brings me relief.

  Although a good shrink probably would assign me to therapy for life. A woman shouldn’t willingly sign herself up for such madness.

  Because any protection entails control that might become suffocating in the future.

  “It’s something my brother would do,” I utter—to my shock.

  If Octavius ever falls for a woman, I don’t think she will breathe without his knowledge, let alone go somewhere. He’ll be obsessed.

  In an insane, smothering kind of way.

  Ryder ponders my statement for a second and then speaks up. “Your brother, he raised you.” I nod. “Is this why you ran from me? You don’t think he will approve?” An odd note laces his tone at the question. He isn’t sure how to react to this, although there is lingering anger in it too.

  But then again, he probably doesn’t.

  He might have heard about my brother, but he doesn’t know who he really is.

  “My brother wouldn’t approve of anyone.” The gust of wind hits me in the face, sending my hair flying in different directions, while my fingers drum on the mug as I watch the colorful lights flicker in the distance. “Octavius loves me very much.”

  “So he is too possessive to share your affection?” Coldness ripples in every word he speaks, and judging by how his voice deepened, I know he doesn’t appreciate my brother’s sentiments on the matter. In fact, part of me feels as if he wishes no other man, even one I’m related to, would have such a strong bond with me. “You’re a woman now. He doesn’t decide what you do in your life.”

  It sounds more like I’m his woman.

  A sad grin curves my mouth.

  Only a person who grew up without older siblings and their love could say this. Otherwise, he’d know that no matter how old you are, they always try to butt into your business. It’s in their nature to care about the younger ones.

  At least the good ones do, sometimes too much though.

  Even goodness can become poisonous within time.

  “No. He wants to protect me at all costs, even a heartbreak. Because that’s what he has always done.” A heavy breath escapes me, while countless memories play in my mind, each more horrible than the other, because in each of them, my brother suffered unbearable pain. “Do you know my family history?” I turn my head to look at him, and his face stays indifferent, although a muscle twitches his jaw.

  “Not really other than you have different fathers but come from the same family.”

  Right. It’s a hard fact to miss, considering it was all people spoke about a couple of decades ago, and my mom was labeled a Reed whore.

  “My mom, Pamela, married Octavius’s dad first. According to rumors, they were in love. He was my father’s uncle and more than twenty years older than her.” Ryder shows no outward reaction to this information. “He died when Octavius was one month old. My father always loved her, so they married within the following three months.” I hate telling this story, because it shows how truly messed up my family is.

  Love or even a strong attraction can come out of nowhere. God knows this whole Ryder thing proves this to me, but if my mom loved her first husband as much as people claimed… how could she have married my father after such a short time? She had access to the Reed wealth, so it wasn’t like she was a struggling widow with a newborn.

  Taking a large sip, I hold the tea in my mouth before swallowing and continuing. “They lived okay. He was even nice to Octavius—or at least that’s what people say. But I think he was just too little to do anything to piss him off or remind him of his uncle. Octavius is the spitting image of his father in his youth.” I whisper the last part and clear my throat. “Then I was born when he was five, and his life became a nightmare.”

  “Your father no longer wanted to accept his uncle’s heir once he had his own,” Ryder says, shifting closer to me, and the closeness makes me breathe easier, although the memories threaten to suffocate me to death, since I’ve done my best to always forget about them.

  “He just… hated him, period. His voice, his actions, just his presence alone could anger my father so much my brother would have bruises marring his skin for days.” I place my splayed palm on his chest. “Very similar to yours.”

  He jerks under my touch as fury crosses his face,
and his muscles flex, but he stays silent, allowing me to let it all out. I’m not even sure I’m making any sense to him. “Octavius learned from a young age to avoid him at all costs, because Mom didn’t care. As long as he didn’t hit her, she pretended like nothing was happening. And he paid the staff enough to never interfere.”

  Disgust coats his voice when he asks, “She ignored her son’s pain? Let that piece of shit use Octavius as his punching bag?” And I don’t blame him for his tone.

  I’m thankful to my parents for giving me the gift of life, but on all other accounts, they were bad people who destroyed my brother’s soul.

  One of the reasons we cut off Mom completely from our lives. Octavius even made her change her family name to her new husband’s, so the Reed name would never be associated with her again.

  She resisted at first, but he paid her enough for her to sign the damn paper. I think he still sends her money monthly as long as it ensures her never stepping a foot in Chicago.

  “My mom lived in a bubble of her own creation, where only her wishes and desires existed, blocking away the outside world and her children. On some level, I think she died when her first husband did. It was like… she existed on autopilot.” Not that it excuses her behavior, but at least it explains some of it. Then again, if she loved her husband so much, how could she have allowed my father to harm my brother, the product of that love? She was just too selfish to love anyone beyond herself. “Octavius took it all, but it was never enough for my father. Within years, the slaps transformed into belts, then that turned into canes and torture… like not being fed for days. And any other stuff he could come up with, because he knew my brother would keep his mouth shut.”

  “Why did he? All he had to do was go to his friends’ parents, and they’d fix the mess.”

  Right.

  If only it was that easy.