When we finally get to the room, she goes straight and falls face-first on her bed. She’s breathing heavily as I walk to the bathroom to wash my face and get ready for sleep.

  A text is waiting on my phone when I return. Of course it’s Natasha. Have you made contact?

  Shaking my head, I quickly tap back. First class is tomorrow. I’ll see him then.

  Gray dots, and her reply annoys me. We don’t have time to waste.

  I’m tapping my reply before I even finish hers. Then you shouldn’t have given me a roommate.

  My phone goes silent, and I plug it in before falling back on my bed. It’s been a while since I went to bed somewhat sober, and I’m not sure what to expect. Lying in the darkness, I think about how I’m going to do this. I’m not even sure what Dirk Winston looks like exactly. Hutch is a sexy giant with dark hair and muscles. I can’t picture a data-nerd, college professor looking like him.

  He’s probably the exact opposite, glasses, skinny. Short. I expect it’ll be easy to get close to someone like that—he probably never gets any female attention in the shadow of a brother like Hutch. Not to mention Scar, with his tattooed, Viking-biker-thing going on.

  My eyes grow heavy, and I feel pretty confident about my ability to manipulate Professor Winston. Then on a whisper, sleep takes me…

  Gray clouds hang low overhead, and I’m sitting on a flat rock on the shores of a solid-black sea so big it could be the ocean. A cool wind pushes my pigtails behind my shoulders, and I’m carefully taking my favorite toy apart, arranging the pieces in a line.

  It’s a simple Russian nesting doll, a matryoshka. She's nowhere near as ornate as the ones in the shops, but I love her so much. I open each cone, delighted as the dolls inside get smaller and smaller, until the tenth piece is so very tiny, the size of a grain of rice, with the same painted face and shawl on her head as the biggest one.

  A strong gust of wind, and my heart plunges as I almost drop her. With trembling fingers, I put her back in her mother’s belly and carefully restore the other nine pieces. I’ve just screwed the top on the biggest one when I hear the sound of raised voices coming from the direction of our house.

  Scooping up my doll, I run over the uneven, rocky shore. I’ve stayed out longer than I should’ve, and it’s time for supper. A drop of cold rain hits my cheek, and my eyes are fixed on the ground, so I don’t fall. It’s not until I reach the dark gray sand that I look up, all the way across the grassy field to where my father should be.

  It’s when I see them standing there. Three men I don’t know, facing down my papa. Our eyes meet, and he holds out a hand. “Stay back, Ahren… Stay ba—”

  A staccato pop!, and he falls to his knees. He’s a tall man, so his head still reaches their chest.

  His eyes are still on mine, and my legs cramp as I try to run faster. Ahren means angel, his pet name for me. Another pop, and he falls flat on his face, his limbs limp at his sides. I drop to the ground as if I’ve been shot, my voice a shrill wail. My face is in the sand, my fingers curling in the soft silt. Strong hands grasp my arms, dragging me away.

  My doll… I clutch her in my palm. She’s all I have left of him. Struggling, I try to fight them off, to push them away, but I’m too little. I have no power. Papa…

  “Reanna, it’s okay… Shh, it’s okay.”

  With a yelp, I realize I’m in my bed on all fours, searching like a child, throwing my blankets aside, a thin sheen of sweat coating my body.

  Ali is at my bedside shushing me, and my forehead drops to my hands. I struggle to catch my breath, fighting against the hot tears threatening my eyes.

  “It’s all gone,” I whisper.

  “You were having a bad dream.”

  I sit on my heels, struggling for calm. “I’m sorry, I…”

  I don't know what to say.

  “Were you dreaming about the war?” Her voice is calm, mascara-smudged eyes round with empathy.

  Pressing my lips together, I decide to lean into her narrative, even if it’s false. “Maybe? I don’t really remember.”

  I remember.

  She sits carefully on my bed. “You know my major is psychotherapy, but my focus is on dreams and dream therapy.”

  I’m not talking to her about this one, so I try to play off what just happened. “You can major in dream interpretation?”

  Pushing off the bed, I go to where I set out my clothes for today. I intentionally chose something memorable, and I need to focus on my future, not the past.

  “It’s more talking about the stressors behind your dreams.” She stands and takes a floral dress out of her closet. “It’s based on Freudian dream theory. Dreams are expressions of repressed and unconscious wishes. Your dream is the fulfillment of that wish.”

  “Cool.” I go to the bathroom to brush my teeth and apply some light makeup.

  Ali is right behind me. “If you ever want to talk, I’m not licensed yet, but I’m a good listener.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” Grabbing the brush, I smooth it through my hair, giving my outfit and face a quick inspection.

  Low-cut jeans, short, tight top, red lips and a hint of mascara on my blue eyes. This should get his attention.

  “You look really pretty.” Ali frowns at herself in the mirror. “I look like I got run over by a truck. Remind me not to do shots again.”

  “I’ll try.” If I remember college correctly, it won’t matter.

  Heading back into the room, I grab my books, and she pulls on a pair of ankle boots.

  “Coffee? Hot chocolate?” She stands, and I nod, thinking.

  “Coffee.”

  Waiting in line at the coffee cart in the quad, Ali surveys her schedule. “I can’t believe we don’t have a single class together.”

  “I’m not a psych major.”

  “But you’re taking criminal psychology with Professor Winston.”

  Nodding, I quickly place my order for coffee: two creams, no sugar. Ali orders hot chocolate. We swipe our student cards, and head for the psychology department.

  “So you’re a criminal justice major.” My roommate scrunches her nose. “Sounds like an oxymoron. Do criminals deserve justice?”

  “Everyone deserves justice.” I recognize that male voice from last night.

  Evan slides up beside us, and Ali gives him a bright smile. “Hey! I knew we’d see you guys around again.”

  “The campus is not that big,” I quietly note, stopping at the door of my class.

  “No way—are you headed in here?” He motions to the door, and my stomach sinks.

  Forcing a smile, I blink up at him. “Sure am. You?”

  “Yes…” He does a little fist pump. “Homework buddy.”

  Great. Another complication.

  A loud male voice from inside draws my notice.

  “They’re starting.” I grab the door to the small auditorium, and hold it open. “After you.”

  Evan heads inside, and I take a beat. Ali waves, heading down the hall, and I wait a few seconds longer. I want to have his full attention when I enter.

  The male voice comes closer, and the door pushes open a bit while I'm holding it. “Are you coming in?”

  Lifting my chin, my eyes lock with intense, green-hazel and my chest squeezes. Dirk Winston is not skinny. He’s not a computer geek. He’s not even short.

  I’m five-eight, which is tall for a girl, so he’s got to be six foot. His brown hair is slightly wavy and attractively messy, and he smells like clean citrus and fresh soap. I can tell he’s muscular by the way his slim button-down shirt stretches over his chest and shoulders.

  Full lips part over straight-white teeth, and he gives me an all-American-hero smile. “We’re starting now, Miss…?”

  Blinking away quickly, I try to catch my breath. Professor Dirk Winston is lose your panties, fall to your knees, thank (not-lost) Jesus, fucking hot as sin.

  My dream from this morning, my papa’s murder, echoes in my memory, and I’m ashamed. I don’t fall for marks. I’m a soldier, and this job is the chance of my life, to find answers, to avenge my father.

  “Sorry…” I clear my throat, finding my focus. “Lorak. Reanna Lorak.”

  “If you’ll take your seat, Miss Lorak.” He turns, and his ass is perfectly tight in those jeans.

  I almost exhale a delighted sigh, but a hissing sound snaps me out of my lust-filled gaze. Evan tilts his head towards the empty seat beside him, and I remember how to walk.

  Professor Panty-dropper continues his course introduction as I quickly take my seat and get my shit together. I’m better than this. So what if he’s even hotter than his older brother?

  An image of Natasha’s scowling face flashes across my brain, melting my lust into anger. Nothing has changed about this job, and in an hour, I’ll make the first move.

  5

  Dirk

  First class in the can. I’m standing at the front of the small auditorium, disconnecting my laptop from the podium and making a note of where I stopped. I added a few bonus readings to the homework assignment, so I need to update my syllabus on the campus intranet.

  Campus life is a little different from when I was at Columbia, with everything online now. Dr. Broadman told me since it’s my first year, I should expect to update my lesson plans, assignments, and readings regularly, based on our actual progress. He called it “first-year problems.”

  Sharon sat in on the class, helping with attendance, and I’m pleased to have a good-sized group of students. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but they were very engaged. Of course, they’re paying money to be here, so they’re attentive, asking questions, and taking notes.

  So far, being back on campus, being a professor is scratching that itch, that need for something more.

  Only one hiccup in the beginning, the girl Reanna Lorak charging in late and then staring up at me a little too long and with a little too much interest. It caught me off-guard.

  Long, dark hair, stunning blue eyes… Something was strangely familiar about her, her eyes, her face. I couldn’t place it. I could swear it was as if we’d met before, and for a second, it nearly threw off the whole rhythm of the class, which was potentially embarrassing.

  Of course, being the professional I am, I shook off the phantom feeling and got down to business. I couldn’t possibly know that young woman.

  Heading for the door, I notice the guy she sat with hanging around Sharon’s seat in the risers.

  “So you’re the class enforcer?” He’s clearly flirting.

  Sharon smiles in a dismissive way. “I’ll be grading your quizzes and taking attendance. That’s as much as I do.”

  “Pretty powerful.” His hands are in his pockets, and he’s a decent-looking fellow if a bit smarmy—not that it matters. Sharon can do what she wants.

  “Sorry to interrupt.” I pause beside them. “Just heading back to my office. Sharon, thanks for your help today.”

  She’s on her feet at once, sliding her notebook and laptop into the messenger bag at her feet. “I’ll walk with you.”

  In the hall, the sea of students has thinned to a trickle as the next hour of classes begins. Glancing back, I notice the guy heading out the door of the building.

  “Looks like you picked up an admirer,” I tease.

  “One for me, twenty-five for you,” she teases right back, but I dismiss her comment with a wave.

  “That’s a non-starter, but you and that guy are both students. You could pursue it.”

  “No way.” Her lip curls. “He’s bad news.”

  “Is that so?” I exhale a laugh. “What is your definition of bad news, Miss Stead?”

  She shakes her head. “He’s a fuckboy. Women are notches on his bedpost, and his dates always do the walk of shame.”

  “Hm,” I nod, knowing the type. “But you’re a strong young woman. No judgment here if you want to blow off a little steam.”

  “No thanks. I don’t expect commitment, but I do expect courtesy.”

  “Smart girl.”

  “Woman.” She corrects me, bumping my arm with her elbow. “Anyway, I’ve got to get to Landon’s class. See you tomorrow.”

  “See ya, and hey, let me know if you have any problems with that guy.” I don’t like fuckboys either, and it’s possible my experience with Hana has made me a bit overprotective.

  “You’re sweet, and I will.” She gives me a wink before hurrying away.

  Taking out my key, I unlock the door to my office. I plan to hop online, make those syllabus updates, then head out to lunch.

  I’ve just sat down when a soft tapping starts on my door. “Professor Winston?”

  It’s a low female voice, smoky with the faintest hint of an accent, and even though I’ve only heard it once, I recognize it immediately.

  “Come in.” My stomach tightens as Reanna Lorak steps into the small space I share with my computer. Alone.

  Her blue eyes are so intense, and she’s tall with that magnetic quality models have. She’s still in those jeans and that top, tiny spaghetti straps, no bra, nipples pointed. She’s fit like an athlete, and I blink a few times, tearing my eyes away from her midriff.

  Jesus, fuck that. I’m not ogling her body, what the hell?

  I’m the professor.

  She’s the student.

  The end.

  “Miss Lorak, is it?” I take a beat, picking up my glasses and clearing my mind as I slide them over my eyes.

  I have no problems with boundaries. I’m just out of practice.

  Her full, pink lips part in a smile revealing straight, white teeth. “You remembered my name.”

  Of course, I did. “Did you need something?”

  She’s holding a laptop, and her long hair is pulled over one shoulder. It’s shiny and straight with a slight wave near the bottom.

  “I’m sorry…” She blinks long lashes onto her cheeks. “I’m a transfer student, so I wanted to meet all my professors.”

  I give her a controlled smile. “In that case, welcome. It’s nice to meet you.”

  Her forehead relaxes, and she exhales a laugh. “The truth is I’m a little worried about your class. I’m not from this country, and our laws are so different. I need to do well.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Odesa. I lived with my father in a small house near the Black Sea… until he died.”

  Her voice trails off, and empathy filters through my chest, lowering my guard. “I’m sorry.”

  “It was a while ago, but it changed my life.” Her nose wrinkles, and she points to my face. “You wear glasses, but not in class?”

  “Yes, actually.” I take them off, studying them in my hands. “I’m right on the border of not being able to see without them, so I can still get away with forgetting.”

  “They look nice on you.” She blinks slowly.

  Tension radiates across my shoulders like a warning. This conversation is becoming problematic. She speaks and carries herself in a way that feels more mature than a typical college student.

  “How old are you, Miss Lorak?”

  Her blue eyes sparkle up at me through dark lashes. “I’m twenty-two, but I thought it was rude to ask a woman her age.”

  “Yes, sorry.” Clearing my throat, I adopt a detached, scholarly tone. “You were worried about the difference in our laws. The good news is we don’t go into law or anything like that. My course is about psychology. The focus will be on understanding how the criminal mind works.”

  With a gentle nod, she steps closer. “Is it possible to understand such things?”

  She’s directly in front of me, the heat from her skin vibrating in proximity to mine, and I can’t help thinking, if this were a different time or place, I’d suggest we go somewhere and have a drink, get to know each other better.

  As it is, I’m her teacher. I’m in a position of trust, and I have no intention of abusing that trust. Taking a step away, I return to my leather chair, putting the enormous mahogany desk between us.

  “If you’re so worried, it’s not too late to drop the course and take something more in your comfort zone.” The suggestion sticks in my throat, but I’m doing the right thing, giving her good advice.

  More “first-year problems”—developing an immunity to attractive co-eds.

  Her blue eyes blink up at me again, and her voice lowers. “What do you know about my comfort zone, Professor Winston?”

  It feels like a taunt, and I shift in my seat. In the field with Hutch and Scar, I’m lethal. I’m not afraid to face down anyone or tell them where to go. Now, with this unarmed girl sitting across from me, a heavy mahogany desk as a shield, I’m second-guessing every word.

  “You’re right. I should’ve said ‘something that would help you adjust more comfortably.’”

  “I’m pretty comfortable with you.” She tilts her head to the side. “The truth is, since my father died, it’s been hard to feel comfortable with anyone. I’ve had to make a way for myself alone in the world. It’s why I need to do well in my classes.”

  There it is—an obvious bid for me to give her a good grade because she’s a pretty girl alone in the world.

  I’m not annoyed. College students do it all the time, and considering her background, she does have my sympathy. It’s possible her situation is more compelling than the average trust-fund kid here on Mom and Pop’s dime, but the prejudice of such a consideration annoys me. Many students have suffered trauma, and giving her special treatment is wrong.

  “If you apply yourself, complete the assignments and the readings on time, you should have no problem doing well in my class.” My tone is firm, all business.

  “I’ve offended you.” Her eyes drop to her lap. “I only wanted to let you know my situation. I didn’t mean to seem like I was asking for… anything.”

  “I’m not offended.” I remain firm. “If you choose to stay in my class, you’ll have to do the work. I’ll give you the name of a tutor if you fall behind—”

  “I’d rather study with you.” Her eyes meet mine again, and it’s time to end this meeting.

  Rising from my chair, I hold out my hand for the door. “I’m sorry, but tutoring isn’t something I do.”