Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 135378 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135378 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
I should listen to them, but I don’t want to believe them this time. Not about Professor DeMarco. I don’t want to believe all men are like that, but I don’t have a great case with the evidence I’ve gathered so far in my lifetime.
You can’t disprove a hypothesis if you’re too big a chicken to run the damn experiment.
Besides, I’ve survived the failed experiments in my past. If I’m wrong, I’ll survive one more.
The old wood creaks as I ascend the staircase. I keep a hand on my purse, cognizant of the pepper spray inside.
Not that I want to pepper spray him, but I’m betting everything on the hope that he’s not a fucking creep, and I could be wrong.
Please don’t prove me wrong about this.
I’m so tired of constant diligence. It shouldn’t be so fucking hard to just exist in the world and not be used and tossed aside.
Perhaps it’s the environmentalist in me, but I loathe this culture of easy disposability. Everything can’t be replaced, and even the things that can be… should they be? I don’t think so. Not always. I believe in the value of people and things, and I believe some things are well worth the effort of fixing them up instead of throwing away.
A flash of Dylan with Elle surfaces, but I stomp it down with more force than any of the other memories.
He doesn’t deserve to have someone loving him when I’m trapped in solitude, unable to trust or let anyone in because of what he did to me.
I wish I hadn’t come here, but I’m here now. It’s too late to turn back.
I want to go back to my safe little bubble. I don’t want to unearth any more unpleasant truths or bet on the decency of any more people.
I’m tired of being alone, but alone is… safe.
If you don’t have anyone, then you don’t have anyone to hurt you.
Only that’s not fucking true either, is it? Because I sure as hell have been hurt by men who weren’t mine.
My face is warm by the time I reach the top of the stairs.
I’m fighting back anger because I know the hope I’m clinging to is fragile, and it won’t take much to snap that thread.
Please be decent. Please be decent.
If he’s not, I might push him down the stairs.
Time slows as I walk down the quiet hallway. My stomach rocks with nerves. Ahead of me are closed doors on both sides of the hall, but one is cracked open.
An invitation?
I suppose so.
The tension inside me pulls tighter, but I straighten my shoulders and lift my chin and force one foot to go in front of the other.
I feel sick by the time I stop outside the door.
I close my eyes and take a breath.
Please.
“Professor?” I call softly.
The floor creaks on the other side.
I shift my weight, glancing down and tucking a chunk of hair behind my ear.
I clear my throat. “Should I wait downstairs?”
“No.”
The terse word sounds strange through the door.
A frown flickers across my brow, my instincts trying once more to get me to turn around.
I wish he’d say more, anything to ease my mind, but the idea that he’s angry with me does more to get me in the room than anything else.
The nerves I always feel in class start to flood my system, washing out the anger and doubt. The pepper spray in my purse might as well be a bottle of bubbles for the threat it poses as I walk inside his bedroom, my stomach roiling with the idea that I’ve displeased someone.
The lights are off, but it’s around sunset so there’s still some light coming in through the windows.
The bed looms large on the right wall.
I don’t see him.
I expected him to be sitting on the bed, I guess. I don’t really know what I expected.
Not for him to be mad at me, I know that.
Why is he mad at me? I’ve done exactly what he asked me to do. He doesn’t know I’ve gone back and forth about it, that I was mad and scared coming up the stairs. All he knows is that I came like he told me to, so why—
The door slams shut behind me, and I jump.
On instinct, I turn around, and my heart nearly drops out of my body when I do.
Because it’s not Professor DeMarco darkening that closed doorway.
Chapter Seventeen
Sophie
Silvan.
My mouth goes dry at the sight of him, all broad shoulders and chiseled features. He’s made of granite as he stalks toward me, and without thought, I back away from him.
“Wh-what are you doing here?” I stammer, confused.
He’s wearing jeans and a black T-shirt stretched tight over his well-muscled body. He seems to grow larger as he closes in on me. My chest tightens when I feel the wall at my back and realize there’s nowhere left to run.