Burn Me Slowly

Isadora:

Accult History was held in the east wing of Ashwyck, buried in a stone hall with Gothic windows that spilled grey light over long oak desks. The room smelled like ink, iron, and old secrets. It reminded me of a tomb that still remembered the warmth of those buried in it. Appropriate, I supposed, for a class about the first interspecies wars and the Blood Accord that birthed the High Table.

I took a seat at the back. Last row, far corner. My spine pressed against the cold wall, notebook open, pen poised. I hadn’t spoken to anyone since lunch. Loralie had gone off to Divination. I had walked here alone, footsteps echoing.

Safe. Contained. Alone.

Exactly how I needed to be.

The professor hadn’t arrived yet, but that didn’t stop the buzz of spellbound notes zipping through the air, students laughing too loud, brushing too close. Power hung in the room like perfume. Legacy kids making themselves known—flickers of magic like arrogant fingerprints on everything they touched.

I breathed through my nose. Smoothed the page. And waited.

Then the air shifted.

The door creaked open, low and deliberate.

Not a single person looked back. They didn’t need to.

You didn’t need to see Rhett Wolfe to know he’d entered the room. You felt him. Like a thunderclap behind your ribs. Like smoke flooding the lungs. He moved like something half-feral, dragging shadows with him that didn't belong in daylight.

“You’re late, Wolfe,” the professor muttered, now standing front and center at the podium.

A pause. The voice that answered was rough-hewn velvet. “I was hunting.”

A few girls giggled. Someone whispered, “Gods, he’s terrifying.”

I kept my eyes on the margin of my notebook. I could feel him approach. Each step a steady drumbeat in my bones. I prayed he would keep walking. Sit somewhere else. Slide in beside someone else, anyone else.

He didn’t.

Rhett dropped into the seat beside me like a falling blade. No apology. No glance. Just heat. Gravity. The overwhelming scent of smoke and pine and something dangerous.

His knee knocked mine. I flinched.

But didn’t move.

Because I couldn’t. He was huge.

My throat dried as he leaned back in his chair like a king on a crumbling throne, massive frame draped in black, jaw shadowed with stubble, lips parted like he was always just a breath away from growling.

I told myself not to look.

I looked anyway.

He was watching me. Of course he was.

Eyes the color of an liquid gold with flecks of bronze and amber —like sunlight dancing on a forest stream—locked with mine. And that was it. One second. A flicker of something too raw to name. Then he turned his head, lazily. Like he’d gotten what he came for.

I should’ve looked away sooner.

Because I felt like I’d just undressed in front of a predator.

“Take out your texts,” the professor barked, “Page 216. Fae-Vampire diplomatic treaties.”

Pages rustled.

I tried to breathe.

Then I felt it.

A palm. Heavy. Rough. Pressing just under my desk—against the soft skin of my inner thigh.

I froze.

His hand. His hand was resting there like it belonged. Possessive. Warm. Calloused. And far too high to be an accident. He didn’t look at me. Didn’t speak.

But the pad of his thumb stroked once.

Slow. Deliberate. Just enough to scatter my thoughts.

My pen slipped from my grip. I bent to grab it, cheeks flaming, mind already in places it should not be going.

“Are you—” I began, but his voice cut me off.

“You smell like Kai.”

I stilled.

His mouth was close. Right at my ear.

“I don’t like that,” he said, voice dark with something not entirely human. “Next time, don’t let him touch you.”

My spine snapped straight. “He didn’t—”

“I can smell him, Isadora, he was too close to you.” Rhett interrupted. “Don’t lie to me.”

I bit the inside of my cheek.

This was ridiculous. Dangerous.

I should’ve shoved his hand off me. Should’ve said something sharp, stung him with words, something to make him back off.

Instead, I whispered, “You can’t touch me like this.”

He turned toward me, slow as sin. “Then stop me.”

I didn’t.

Because I couldn’t.

Not when his hand slid another inch higher. Not when my body betrayed me—heat blooming beneath my skin like a cursed flower, spine arching slightly toward the hand that made everything else disappear.

No spell could’ve done what he was doing to me.

Not even one wordless glance from Rhett Wolfe.

I stared hard at my notebook, willing myself to regain some ounce of composure.

The Blood Accord was signed at midnight on Samhain, year 893. The treaty… the treaty… gods, what was the treaty again?

The professor droned on about territorial lines and magical sanctions.

I couldn’t hear a word.

Because Rhett leaned in again.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me, Isadora,” he said, voice dark silk. “You walk into a room and you tilt the whole axis.”

I swallowed hard. “I didn’t ask for attention.”

“You don’t have to. You command it.”

My fingers clenched the page.

This wasn’t flirting. This wasn’t harmless.

This was obsession dressed in restraint.

“You don’t even know me,” I whispered.

“I know enough.” His thumb dragged a slow circle just above my knee. “I know you haven’t let anyone in. I know you don’t trust easily. I know you keep your secrets stitched tight under that pretty skin.”

I dared a glance at him. “You think I’m pretty?”

He grinned. It was a sharp, wolfish thing.

“I think you’re dangerous,” he said. “But yeah. You’re pretty, too.”

Something twisted in my chest. And melted.

I hated it.

I wanted more.

His hand finally slipped away. The loss made me shiver. Made me ashamed of the part of me that missed the weight of it.

Rhett leaned back, folding his arms. But his thigh stayed against mine. Close. Steady. Like an anchor I didn’t ask for but secretly needed.

I tried to take notes again. My handwriting was a mess.

“You’re trouble,” I muttered under my breath.

He chuckled low in his throat. “So are you.”

Another beat of silence.

Then, softer, “I’m not like the others here.”

“Neither am I,” I admitted.

We looked at each other again. And this time, it wasn’t fire. It wasn’t flirtation.

It was a mirror.

Something in me recognized something in him.

Darkness. Hunger. Control hanging by a thread.

The professor called for volunteers to recite the Accords. I didn’t hear the names. Didn’t care.

Because Rhett Wolfe was watching me like I was prey wrapped in silk.

But I wasn’t scared.

I was curious.

And I’d always had a bad habit of feeding my curiosities until they devoured me.

“I will see you later,” he said, already standing.

I blinked. “Why?”

He stared down at me. “Because I’m not done.”

The bell rang.

The room emptied around us.

He didn’t wait for my answer.

Didn’t need to.

Because I was already burning.

And gods help me…

I wanted to see how far the fire would go.

How deep the scorch marks would run.

How much of me he’d leave behind when he was done.

And if I’d still go back for more.