#Chapter 6: The Professor's Student

Lila's POV

My fingers were still on his sleeve.

The cufflink pressed into my thumb. Cobalt blue enamel inlaid in silver, cold and smooth. The same as the one sitting in my nightstand drawer. The one I'd taken from room 619.

Gemma grabbed my elbow and yanked me backward. "Are you insane?" Her voice was sharp and low. "You just threw yourself at the professor."

"I didn't—"

"You grabbed his arm. While drunk. In a bar. That's throwing."

I wasn't listening. I was staring at the cufflink. The bar light caught the enamel and threw back a glint of blue, and something in my chest clenched at the sight of it. My mouth opened and the words came out before I could think about whether they should.

"I have the matching one."

It hit the air wrong. Too loud for the distance, too raw for the context. But he heard it, because he turned, and for the first time since I'd walked over in my borrowed lace dress with cocktail courage in my veins, the Professor Aldrich looked at my face.

Not a glance. A look. His eyes moved from my mouth to my jawline to my hair, and I watched the recognition land. The slight narrowing of his eyes. His jaw setting harder. Up close, his cologne hit me. Warm and dark and familiar in a way that made my stomach flip.

He knew who I was. The wolfless student who couldn't hold a guard position. The one who sat in the back row of his combat hall and took notes while everyone else sparred.

The faint interest on his face vanished. His expression went flat. Professional. Closed.

"These cufflinks aren't exactly rare, Miss." His voice could have frosted glass. "Half the shops in the city carry this design. Go home. Next time you might not be this lucky."

He turned and walked into the crowd without looking back.

I stood there with my pulse hammering against my ribs. My roommate was tugging my arm, asking what cufflink, what matching one, what was I talking about. But all I could hear was my own heartbeat slowing down. The panic dissolving.

He wasn't the dom. Of course he wasn't. The BDSM community had hundreds of thousands of people. What were the odds that the man in room 619 was also the man who taught my worst subject? I'd been drunk and stupid and my brain had connected two dots that weren't even in the same picture.

I let Gemma steer me out the door. The night air hit my bare shoulders and I shivered so hard my teeth clicked.

"Let's go home," I said.

The next morning I stood in the combat hall in my training tank and leggings with the taste of a hangover still at the back of my throat. The professor was at the front, clipboard in hand, black shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms. No cufflinks today.

"Pop quiz," he said. "Defensive series. Three rounds."

I failed all three. My guard was half a second slow every time, my footwork tangled beneath me, and the gamma I was paired with put me on the mat twice. The second time, my hip hit hard enough that the pain shot all the way down my leg and I tasted copper where I'd bitten my tongue.

Professor Aldrich stopped beside me on his way past. Didn't crouch. Didn't lower his voice.

"Miss." The word carried across the hall. "If you have the energy for pole dancing, I suggest you redirect some of it toward your training. I'm beginning to question whether you're here to learn."

The hall went silent. Thirty students suddenly fascinated by their own shoelaces. My face burned from my ears to my collarbones.

"I was just blowing off steam after practice, sir."

He was already walking away.

After class, everyone filed out. I stayed. The hall emptied and the overhead lights dimmed to half-power on their timer. I ran the defensive series alone. Guard up. Pivot. Block. Reset. I ran it until my arms shook and sweat ran into my eyes. I ran it again. I ran it until muscle memory started doing what my brain couldn't.

My phone buzzed in my gym bag. Once. Twice. Three times.

I checked it during a water break. Three messages from Derek. Babe, I hurt myself at practice. Can you come wrap my knee? Then: Where are you? Then: Hello??

I stared at that screen for a long time. Three years of dropping everything whenever he called. Skipping lectures, leaving dinners, bringing ice packs and sports drinks, rearranging my entire schedule around his practices and his moods. Replying in under twenty seconds because that's what a good girlfriend did. Being the girl who always came when she was called and never asked for anything back.

I blocked his number. Deleted the thread. Put the phone back in my bag and went back to the mat.

Third Person POV

The football field was emptying at sunset. Players stretched near the bleachers, helmets off, grass stains drying on their knees.

Their captain leaned against the metal railing and checked his phone again. Three messages sent. Zero replies. He scrolled up and down. The screen sat blank.

"She didn't come?" One of the guys elbowed his shoulder pad.

"She's sulking." Derek shrugged. "She found out about the other night. She'll get over it."

That was the thing about her. She always got over it. Canceled dates, forgotten anniversaries, the time he'd left her waiting in the rain outside the stadium for forty minutes. She forgave everything and came back every time. She'd once skipped her favorite writing seminar just to bring him an umbrella.

But the sun went down, and his phone stayed quiet.

"Still nothing?" someone said.

He straightened up. "A thousand dollars. Each of you. Says she picks up in under a minute."

"You're on."

He smiled, pulled up her contact, and dialed.