Chapter Three

Caelum

That wasn’t a snore.

I want to believe strongly that wasn’t a fucking snore.

I paused mid-sentence, marker still hovering above the whiteboard. For a moment, no one in the room dared to breathe. Then it came again—low, drawn-out, and disrespectfully human.

Jesus Christ.

My glare shifted toward the corner of the hall, and there she was, the brown-haired disaster from earlier. The one who’d walked in through the wrong door, interrupted the lecture, winked like she owned the room, and said something about making only the kind of noise I approved of.

What was her name again? Celine.

Of course.

She was slouched on the desk, head tilted back, mouth slightly open, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that made her look both unbothered and dangerous. The sight tugged at something I had buried so deep I thought it had rotted away.

The class began to whisper. A few students tried to hide their laughter. I let them.

“Fascinating,” I said, calmly setting the marker down. “It seems Miss Moretti finds the mysteries of planetary motion soothing enough to sleep through.”

A soft ripple of laughter followed, though no one dared laugh too loud. My voice always cuts humor short.

She didn’t stir. Not even a twitch.

I continued teaching, finishing the last segment of the day—studying compatibility through celestial alignment. My tone stayed even, detached. I didn’t need to raise my voice; silence obeyed me naturally.

When I finally closed the textbook, I spoke without looking at them. “Your assignment will be on compatibility studies. Choose a pairing—any pairing—and analyze how opposing forces create harmony. Submit before the next lecture.”

Chairs scraped. Bags zipped. Students murmured as they left, the noise swelling then fading until the room was nearly empty. Except for her.

She slept through the end of the class. A low chuckle escaped my lips. For someone who looked like she was going to impress me, I can't help being impressed.

For a ridiculous second I considered letting her sleep until the next class. The world has a hunger for inefficient gestures; sometimes I indulged it to prove a point. But she had just interrupted my lecture with a performance—whether calculated or accidental—and I do not indulge interruptions.

I crossed the room. The further I walked the more of her I catalogued: the slope of her nose, the way her lashes fanned in sleep, the pale crescent of that mouth I had seen curl into a cheeky contempt two nights ago at the bonfire. She should have been frail in the way of people who flirt without consequences. She wasn't. There was a steadiness about her even in sleep that made me want to measure it, press on it and see if it flexed.

Her head rested against her folded arm, her lips parted slightly. She looked… peaceful. Too peaceful for someone who’d walked into my class with the kind of boldness that could make a man forget the rules he built his life on.

I leaned down, resting a hand on the desk beside her. My palm came down sharply on the table.

She jolted awake, head snapping up—straight into the metal rim of the open window. The sound echoed. She groaned, hand flying to her head.

“Fuck—” she hissed.

Damn, the way she cursed.

I straightened, watching her. “That’s one chaotic way to wake up from a peaceful sleep.”

Her head turned sharply toward me, eyes flashing with annoyance. “You could’ve helped me avoid that accident, Professor Reed.”

There it was again, the familiarity borrowed from a place she had no right to be. The way she called me with casual defiance. It was infuriating, and for reasons I could not name, not entirely unpleasant.

My lips twitched, just slightly. “Why?”

She blinked. “I don’t know. Any gentleman would do that.”

“I’m not your gentleman, Miss Moretti," I said evenly. “I’m your professor.”

She muttered something under her breath. I caught the words ‘doesn’t even look old enough’ and narrowed my eyes. “You said?”

“Nothing, sir,” she replied too quickly, her hand rubbing the sore spot on her head. “It must’ve been unpleasant to sleep all through… sorry, si—”

She started to rise, but I cut her off. “If you can’t take my class seriously,” I said, voice low, deliberate, “don’t attend a second time.”

She froze, glaring. “I’m qualified to be here.”

“I’ll determine that.”

She straightened, fire flaring in her eyes. “And how will you decide that? I haven’t even taken a test, sir. You can’t punish me for sleeping — you could have ignored me.”

I tilted my head. “Then stay home if you can’t keep your eyes open in class.”

“Sir—” she began, voice tight.

“I’ll have you disqualified and dropped,” I said, turning. “I only want serious students.”

She snatched up her books and followed, breath coming quick. “You can’t do that, Professor Reed. I’m qualified — my CGPA is more than enough.” Her words trembled with anger.

“Grades mean nothing if you can’t focus,” I replied without hesitation.

She squared her shoulders. “I’ll prove you wrong.”

Her stubbornness made me stop dead in the corridor.

  “Oh. Then do the assignment.” I said, stepping back. “Impress me—or don’t bother returning.”

She frowned. “What assignment?”

I reached the door, glanced back once. “I want it submitted at 7 am. Yours must be the first to reach me.”

And then I left her standing there, confusion twisting across that beautiful, infuriating face.

***

The call came as I stepped outside the hall. Kent.

“What did you get?” I asked, unlocking my car.

“One of Nikolai’s men—Capo. What should we do?”

“What did he take?”

“A file from the warehouse. Dark Ring dealings. Alex Rodriguez must’ve reached out to Nikola for help. He sent just one man.”

“Nikolai sent just one man?” I muttered, lips tightening. “Either he trusts him, or he’s setting a trap. Keep him breathing. I’ll handle it.”

I hung up before he could respond.

The drive to the warehouse was quiet. My mind wasn’t. I couldn't help but imagine what Nikola must be working on.

The warehouse door creaked open when I arrived. Ryker stood by the railing, wiping blood from his hands with a rag that had seen better days. Kent was beside him, expression grim.

“He’s all yours, Capo,” he said, handing me his file and a gun.

I checked through. The name is Peter — one of Nikolai’s strongest arms men. I nodded, impressed at his rank.

I set the file down. Kent nodded at me, signifying that I’d soon get the idiot to talk without breaking a sweat.

Peter sat tied to a chair in the center of the room, shirt drenched, a streak of red trailing down his jaw. He looked up the moment I stepped in. I didn’t have to say a word, his body tensed on instinct.

“Does your student know you bathe in blood after every lecture?” he sneered.

I should’ve been amused. Instead, I felt the faintest pull of irritation. The kind that precedes violence.

“You want to tell them?” I asked quietly, pressing the muzzle of my gun against his temple. “Go ahead. Just make sure you finish your sentence before the bullet does.”

He laughed—short. “You won’t shoot. You need information.”

“You know me too well. The information matters, even more than I enjoyed killing.” I smiled.

  “I hope you know I won't talk. Nothing will make me.”

“Jason Lynn Andrews.”

His eyes flicked; the color left his face. “Nice name,” I said. “Nikola must’ve promised it would hide you.”

Kent handed me a tablet. I flipped it so the light hit his face — full name, age, a picture of his mother’s restaurant in Peru, an employee list with a cook I know.

“You thought I wouldn’t find you,” I said, quiet. “I know your parents. Your mother cooks well. One call and that kitchen goes silent.”

He froze, color draining from his face. “You will not hurt people old enough to be your parents.”

“They’re not my parents,” I said simply. “Which makes it very easy to snap their necks.” I stepped closer. “So let’s not test how far mercy goes tonight.”

He swallowed hard, sweat mixing with blood. “What do you want to know? You already know who sent me. You know everything.”

“I do,” I said, placing the tablet on the table. “Which means I already have my answers.”

“Then why—”

The sound of my gun silenced the rest. One clean shot to the chest. His body jerked once, then stilled.

“Dispose of it,” I said, turning away.

Ryker moved forward, dragging the chair across the floor. Kent followed me out, his footsteps hesitant. “You didn't get anything from him.”

  “I already did. Send words to the warehouse in Peru. Nikola is headed there.”

One thing I've found to detect is hidden threats. I got answers I needed from the fear in the eyes of those who crossed me.

  “Fuck it!” Kent cursed, digging out his phone from his pocket, quickly carrying out my instructions.

I slid into the driver’s seat and turned to him. “I need you to find information on the name Celine Morreti.”

Kent raised a brow amidst calls. “Who’s that?”

I looked ahead, starting the engine. “No one.”