I bury myself in my notes, scribbling translations in the margins next to old English words. I am still on the first page when students begin to filter into class, chatting with each other and bragging about their newest caffeine creation from the campus coffee shop. For the foreseeable future, my mornings will consist of listening to my classmates debate whether their newest more-sugar-than-coffee creation could land an appearance at Starbucks.
“Duuuddddeee,” the guy two seats in front of me says, his eyes going wide as he sips his drink, “you’ve got to try this.”
“Give me,” his friend demands, bringing his thumb to his palm repeatedly like his hand is a lobster claw.
The guy forks over his drink, and his friend takes a sip before he gags and pushes it back at the guy like the cup is contagious.
“What is that?” the friend wheezes, popping the top on a pack of breath mints and shaking the open container into his mouth until they start spilling past his lips onto the floor.
The guy two seats up from me grins and puffs his chest. “One grande pure Kona coffee, two scoops of chocolate protein powder, three scoops of matcha powder, one tablespoon of ginger, two lime wedges, and one bag of earl gray tea. Perfect for the gym rats and the stay-at-home moms looking for a little antioxidant action in their morning cup of joe.”
The friend’s mouth falls open. He pops another mint for good measure.
I bite my lip to stifle my laugh. William would have brought a Route 44 cup to class and done something truly ridiculous like added all of the above and a slice of pizza for good measure.
I manage to tune out the world and resume my study of Beowulf, but I get stuck on “ofer hronrade hyran scolde,” which I think has something to do with scolding a whale—wait, that’s not right.
My fingers flip through my already dog-eared Etymological Dictionary until I find it. Scolde, the past indicative form of the verb sculan, means must or shall.
The whale must... The whale must? Crap.
As I wallow in my misery, a book drops next to my feet with a thud.
“Pick it up,” a voice growls, its owner pressing his palms flat against my desk.
The chatter inside the room stops, everything going quiet as I look up to see Ian freakin’ Beckett staring down at me. His words repeat inside my head like the stylus of a record player skipping over a disc.
She is mine. She is mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.
His gaze is like molten silver, heated by an invisible furnace. I blink up at him, letting a mask of boredom fall over my features, though I have to clench my fists to stop the tremble in my hands. My heart stutters out of control, the rhythm erratic.
I am going to develop an arrhythmia because of this a-hole.
I must be certifiable to question him. Molly said he practically owns the Academy. I must have a death wish, but the word tumbles from my mouth nevertheless.
“Sorry?” I ask, sounding positively unapologetic.
Ian’s gaze narrows. He knows I damn well heard him. “Did I stutter, Stormy?”
“My name is Harlow.”
“No.” He shakes his head as if I’m just not getting it and he’s losing patience.
He leans in so close that the peppermint lingering on his breath stings my nostrils. “Your eyes are the color of the sky before the hurricane hits. Your hair is as white as lightening, except for this,” he tugs on the black lock near my temple, “which is like the ashes left behind after the strike.”
His words might be beautiful if they didn’t come out of his wicked mouth.
“Isn’t that the name of a prostitute?” I frown at him, tilting my head like a confused puppy. “May I choose the prize behind door number two, Bob Barker?”
Someone snickers.
His smile spreads like a pour of honey over his face. He leans over, his gaze latched on my black lock of hair, which he seems obsessed with.
“I don’t give a shit who else claims that name, Stormy,” he says, his gaze flicking back to mine, “because you fucking own it.”
I roll my eyes. I don’t want him to know how his proximity has caused the butterflies that sleep low in my belly to awake from their slumber.
“Ian whatever-your-middle-name-is Beckett,” I say loudly, “you are the human equivalent of cheese pizza.”
He smirks, his response instantaneous. “Hot and delicious?”
“Disappointing.”
The class titters, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s still smirking.
He leans back down, crowding me, and purrs his next words so low only I can hear. “I want to fuck you until I die so the last thing I know is your arms.”
My eyes go wide.
What. The. Hell.
I blink up at him. He’s so close, and I’m lost in clouds of cardamom and fresh cut pine. I shake the fuzziness from my brain and plummet back to earth as my firecracker mouth crackles to life.
“Do you have a fetish for fender benders?” I snap.
“No.”
“Then stop with the Jekyll and Hyde act,” I hiss. “You’re giving me whiplash.”
He smiles. His hot breath heats the shell of my ear as I turn away from him. I can’t bear to look at his stupid, beautiful face.
“Oh, Stormy, you’re welcome to slam into me anytime, though preferably sans car.” His lips brush against me as he adds, “I’m going to give you three more seconds to pick up that book. If you don’t, I’m going to taste those smart-ass lips of yours in front of the whole class.”
My gaze snaps to him. He looks like he just might do it, and the thought sends me into a tailspin. My pulse hears the battle cry of impending war and beats its drum louder.
“One,” he says, arching a cocky eyebrow. He cannot kiss me. He
