Page 25 of Coveted

When he finishes reading, he arches a brow at me. “What does that mean? What’s the wind got to do with anything?”

I gesture at the door, my face burning.

“Do you want to learn about prose?” I ask sarcastically. “Because come on in. The class has already started, asshole.”

Lucan’s quiet for several moments, during which I question whether he was making fun of me or genuinely asking.

He had to be making fun of me, right?

“Forget it then.” He shoves the notebook into my arms. “I’m a business major. I’ve got a planet to run.”

His pure audacity shocks me into laughter.

“Wow,” I say. “Your inflated sense of self is unreal.”

Suddenly it’s like I’m wasting his time, not the other way around. With a bored look on his face, he turns and walks down the hallway.

“Did you send it to me?” I call out.

I’m ashamed that I only have the guts to ask him about the locket as he’s walking away.

But I get no answer. He doesn’t even look back.

“See you tonight, Sadie,” he says.

My lungs ache with tension.

Tonight? What’s he talking about?

He’s definitely going to snap my neck like a tree branch.

Worse? I’m officially late for my first class.

Bracing for the professor’s wrath, I turn the creaking door handle and enter the room.

Seven faces turn to look at me. Six students and the professor are seated at the polished mahogany table.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, pulling out a chair and sinking into it.

The professor inclines his head in acknowledgment.

He wears a neat tweed suit and his dark hair is graying at the temples. His frown lines are deep, like he spends endless hours buried in challenging books.

Professor Patrick Worthington. I’ve read all about him, as well as plenty of his work. He’s meant to be a brilliant teacher.

And I’ve just shown up late, like a student who lacks respect for his time. Ugh. It’s even worse because I’m on a scholarship.

“You were occupied by none other than Lucan Hale, the Prince of Darkbloom.” The professor is English, his accent strong and proper. “Far be it from us to take precedence.”

My fingernails dig into my palms.

Is he being sarcastic in a friendly way or a nasty way? Jittery from my encounter with said Prince of Darkbloom, I can’t tell. The English accent doesn’t help either.

But the other students smile easily at me, as does the professor.

Cautiously, I exhale.

“We’re just getting to know each other,” says the professor. “This isn’t middle school. You won’t be rapped over the knuckles for being late. It’s your education.”