When I laid eyes on him the first time, I thought I’d walked into the wrong classroom. Tall and broad-shouldered with thick dark hair, he didn’t look like a college professor. He introduced himself with a laundry list of qualifications during that first lesson—including but not limited to a psychology and an art degree. He also told us he enjoys heading out to his cabin in the mountains for some deer hunting when his schedule allows.
Professor Fyre looks up. Our eyes lock, and I blush crimson. When he heads in my direction, I quickly go back to my scribbling. He encourages us to use any medium we want. Something that speaks to us. That we feel expresses our emotions.
That ruled out pasta art—I went straight for a thick piece of charcoal and got my fingers dirty.
Now they’re pitch black, just like my soul.
“That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile, Charlotte,” a voice murmurs beside my ear.
I drop my piece of charcoal.
Fyre knows he’s dealing with goddamn trauma victims—how dare he sneak up on his students?
“I smile all the time.”
“Less often than you lie, it seems.”
I stiffen. “I’m supposed to be concentrating, aren’t I? Can’t go around grinning like an idiot.”
He’s standing so close I can smell him. Feel the warmth of his body, despite the layers of clothing I’m bundled up in because the heating is on the fritz. Pneumonia wouldn’t be the worst thing that’s happened to me the past few months. It wouldn’t even crack the top five.
Fyre lets out a low chuckle that makes my insides tingle in response.
How often does he go to his hunting cabin? Has he ever considered taking one of his students with him?
Ha! A man like him? He says he does this class because he loves helping people discover themselves, but I’ve seen how the regular college students and other teachers treat him out in the hall. He has clout. Probably getting tenure in a few years. He’s at least a decade older than me, and that should put my fantasies to rest, but it just makes me wonder what it’s like to be with an older man.
Fyre makes a sound in the back of his throat. Can he hear my thoughts? My heart pounds at the thought.
“Are you challenging yourself, Charlotte?”
I quiver at the sound of my name. It happens whenever he speaks to me.
Professor Fyre crouches beside my chair, laying a hand on the desk before grabbing the back of my chair with the other. He brushes my shoulder, and that touch sends a shiver through me that I barely suppress.
I stare at the sheet of paper in front of me. I never know what I’m going to draw—I just pick up a piece of charcoal and start doodling. He told us this wasn’t an art class, so what is he expecting from me?
“I want you to bleed,” he says.
I turn, gaping at him.
His dark eyes have the tiniest flecks of gold in them.
Heat flashes onto my cheeks when I realize he’s studying me as openly—as closely—as I’m studying him. Which doesn’t explain why he looks so fascinated. I’m as interesting as a brick.
“Bleed?”
“Slice yourself open, Charlotte. Pour all your anger, your rage, your pain—” he glances away, taps the corner of my black drawing “—onto this page.”
It’s difficult, but I finally manage to face forward again. “But…I have.”
He grasps my wrist, but as soon as we make contact, he tugs his hand away like I burned him. His fleeting touch leaves behind an ephemeral ache. “Dig deeper, Charlotte. Dig until you see bone.”
I’m still trying to catch my breath when his warmth fades away. My head is forward, my chin dipped down. I scan the class through a curtain of black hair, searching.
Fyre reappears a few tables away. He walks with his hands tucked behind his back, gripping his wrists, his eyes darting to every artwork he passes.
I can still hear his voice.
I can still feel his touch.
He glances across the room as if he knows I’m watching and gives me a faint, knowing smile.
Look away, Charlotte!
But I can’t. I’m transfixed.
This must be what a deer feels like when he’s scoping them with his rifle.
“Sometimes it’s difficult to expose your hidden self when there are strangers around,” Fyre says, his eyes on me.
Is he talking to me?
But then his gaze flicks to someone else.
I let out a soft, rueful laugh and drop my head. Why on earth do I have this recurring fantasy that the world revolves around me? I’m one of his students. A troubled soul in need of healing. That’s it.
“I have an assignment for the class.”
My fingers become jittery. I like Fyre’s assignments—he always gives us interesting ways to apply our creativity. Even me with my lowly piece of charcoal. Last week’s assignment was hope.
“I want you to start a new project.”
I purse my lips and glance around at some of the other students. It’s weird calling them that since they range in ages anywhere from fifteen to seventy. But we have something in common. We’ve all been attacked and left traumatized.
By disease.
By a criminal.
By an event or significant other in our lives.
Some of the students shared their stories during that first class.
I wasn’t one of them.
“I want you to work on this project in the privacy of your home.” The professor’s voice draws my attention back to him. Not that it’s ever off him for long. “There are a few stipulations for this piece. Firstly, I want it done by the end of the semester.”
A few heads turn to look at each other. Winter break is a month away. Four more lessons, then my art therapy classes are over.
Forever.
“And I want you to use a different medium than the one you’ve been using in class.”
What? I look down at my mess of charcoal scratchings. This is all I know!
“And third…I need this piece to tell a story. Your story.”
It feels like I’ve just swallowed ten frozen lead weights. My first instinct is to
