The next morning, I stood in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection with a frown.
I looked the same—mostly. Same hazel eyes, same unruly waves of dark brown hair, same academic layers that screamed "I own more books than shoes." And yet… I didn't feel the same. Something had shifted, subtle but undeniable, like gravity itself had changed direction.
I pressed my fingers to my pulse point. Still racing. Still unstable.
Lucien Thorne had done something to me.
Or maybe he had always done something to me, and I'd just been too young—too human—to feel it fully before now.
With a sigh, I brushed my hair back, grabbed my laptop bag, and headed out. If I stayed cooped up in this house for another day, I'd unravel.
⸻
Portwood University looked like something out of a gothic novel—stone buildings veined with ivy, arching stained-glass windows, and oak trees older than the state itself. I had taught in more modern spaces, but there was something about this place that always made me feel rooted. Grounded.
When I walked into the faculty building, a warm burst of familiarity settled into my chest.
"Dr. Bennett!" a voice called.
I turned and smiled at Dean Holloway, an older woman with sharp cheekbones, red-framed glasses, and the energy of a woman who had long ago mastered the art of commanding a room without raising her voice.
"Good morning," I greeted.
"We're so glad to have you back," she said, clasping my hand warmly. "I hear your sabbatical research is centered around mythological convergence theory?"
I nodded. "I'm focusing on how ancient cultural myths intersect across geography—especially werewolf and shapeshifter legends."
The moment I said the word werewolf, a flicker of memory hit me—Lucien's eyes under moonlight, the silence of the woods, the feeling of being watched. I blinked it away.
"Well," Dean Holloway said with a curious glint in her eyes, "if you need archival access or assistance from the history department, let me know. And your benefactor wanted to ensure everything was to your liking."
My eyebrows rose. "My what?"
"Didn't you know?" She handed me a sealed envelope. "Your sabbatical grant—Lucien Thorne's foundation funded it."
My stomach dropped.
"I didn't realize…" I murmured, my voice trailing off.
"He insisted. Said he owed it to the university—and to you, specifically."
I managed a polite smile, but inside, I was spiraling.
Why had he done this? And more importantly, why didn't he tell me?
⸻
I found a quiet table in the library and opened the envelope.
Inside was a letter on heavy ivory paper, written in Lucien's impossibly neat hand.
Aria,
You always said knowledge was power. Consider this my way of giving you both.
- L.
I stared at the letter until the words blurred. My hands trembled slightly as I folded it back up and tucked it into my notebook.
He was everywhere.
Even when he wasn't standing beside me, Lucien was embedding himself into my life in ways I hadn't asked for.
And yet… I didn't hate it.
I hated that I didn't hate it.
⸻
After a few hours of work, I decided to clear my head with a walk through the nearby arboretum. The path wound through tall hedges and ancient trees, the sound of birdsong interrupted only by the occasional footfall.
I wasn't alone for long.
"Aria."
His voice wrapped around me like smoke and shadow.
I turned to find Lucien leaning against an iron lamppost, hands in his coat pockets, as if he hadn't just shaken the foundation of my day.
"I should be surprised," I said, "but I'm not."
"I saw you come in," he said, walking toward me with slow, measured steps. "Didn't want to interrupt your work."
"Then why are you here?"
"I owed you an explanation."
"For funding my sabbatical? Or for walking away from me last night like you'd seen a ghost?"
His jaw tensed. "Both."
He came to a stop beside me. The sunlight danced across his face, illuminating the quiet torment etched there.
"I didn't tell you because I didn't want to influence your decision to come back," he said. "But I needed to make sure you had what you needed. Even if I couldn't be part of it."
"Why not?" I asked, voice softer now.
His gaze met mine—and it was full of restrained anguish. "Because I'm dangerous to you, Aria."
There it was again. The weight behind his words. The way he said it like it wasn't up for debate.
"You keep saying that," I whispered, "but you won't explain why."
"I can't. Not yet."
I swallowed hard. "Then how do I trust you?"
He took a slow breath. "Because your heart already does."
Something cracked inside me at his words—like a lock opening to a room I didn't know existed. My breath hitched.
"I'm not asking for forever," he said, voice low and raw. "I just need time. Let me protect you, even if I can't tell you everything."
I wanted to say no. I wanted to tell him I needed clarity or distance. But instead, I found myself nodding.
"Alright," I said. "But only if you stop disappearing into the shadows like some Victorian ghost."
A shadow of a smile tugged at his lips. "Deal."
⸻
That night, as I lay in bed, my thoughts refused to settle.
Lucien Thorne was hiding something. Something massive.
But he wasn't doing it to manipulate me. I could feel that much. He was doing it because he thought he was sparing me.
And in some terrifying, irrational corner of myself, I wanted to understand him.
Even more than that—I wanted to believe him.
What I didn't know was that the world I thought I understood was already cracking beneath my feet.
And when it finally shattered, there would be no going back.