Amara Sterling pushed open the heavy wooden door to the lecture hall, heels tapping like defiance across polished floors. Late. Again.
She didn't care.
She had a chai latte in one hand, phone in the other, sunglasses still on because her hangover hadn't quite forgiven her yet.
The room quieted.
She paused. Lifted her eyes.
And met his.
A man stood at the front of the class, dressed in black. Dark button-up shirt, sleeves rolled. Crisp. Controlled. Sharp jaw, pale skin, piercing gray eyes that didn't blink.
He didn't speak.
Didn't smile.
Didn't move.
Just looked at her like she was… wrong.
Amara gave a bored smirk. "What?" she said, not bothering to sit yet. "Never seen a student before?"
A few students snickered. He didn't.
"Name," he said flatly.
She arched a brow. "Excuse me?"
"Your name," he repeated. "So I know what to write on the expulsion form."
Gasps scattered across the room. Amara blinked.
"Wow." She laughed. "So you're one of those professors. Got it."
He stared. "Name."
Her jaw tensed. "Amara. Sterling."
Something flickered in his expression — too fast to name. Not surprise. Not fear. Something… hollow.
Then it vanished.
"Take a seat, Miss Sterling," he said coldly. "And take off the sunglasses. You're not on a runway."
The entire hall was dead silent.
She walked to the nearest seat like she didn't feel the heat in her face. Sat down. Removed the glasses slowly.
He turned back to the board, picked up a piece of chalk.
"I am Professor Lucian Vale. Welcome to Classical Literature: Death, Desire, and the Undying."
That voice.
It was velvet and razorblades. Smooth but biting. Every syllable carried like it had already been echoed through centuries.
Beside Amara, Isla Amara's bestie leaned in. "Damn. Who pissed in his coffee?"
Amara didn't answer. She was still staring at his back.
There was something off about him.
Too still. Too cold. Too… ancient.
And why had her chest tightened when he said her name?
Lucian knew she was watching him. He felt it.
He always felt it. The moment her soul reentered the world, it was like a thorn under his skin. Her presence always rang louder than the rest.
Amara Sterling.
Same soul. Different body.
He couldn't let her fall in love. Not this time.
He would be cruel. He would be distant.
He would not allow The Binding to take her again.
"Your assignment," he continued, writing in a sharp hand across the board, "is to read The Myth of Orpheus and Eurydice. And then tell me whether you believe love is a salvation—" he turned, gaze slicing toward Amara— "or a death sentence."
Their eyes locked again.
She tilted her head. "Well," she said slowly, "if the love's worth dying for… does it really matter?"
Silence.
Lucian stared at her. His throat tightened.
Of course she'd say that. Of course.
His voice was low. Final.
"It always matters."