Chapter 2

I tried hard to act like my nervous system hadn’t just short-circuited over a guy sitting quietly in the back row as I pulled out my notebook and uncapped my pen.

The lecture hall buzzed around me, and someone argued two rows down about whether mythology counted as historical evidence. A girl behind me whispered frantically about forgetting to buy the textbook. 

Laptops clicked open, and coffee cups hit desks, and somehow my body remained stupidly aware of him.

The door at the front of the room shut with a soft click before Professor Smith crossed toward the podium carrying a battered leather satchel that looked older than half the campus. 

Gray streaked his dark hair at the temples, and his cardigan looked like it belonged in a museum dedicated entirely to exhausted professors.

“Good morning,” he greeted calmly. “Welcome to Ancient Spells and Religion. If you’re in the wrong class, now is an excellent time to flee.”

A few people laughed, but nobody moved.

Professor Smith nodded once, apparently pleased by that. “Excellent. Then let’s begin discussing humanity’s long-standing habit of fearing whatever it can’t control.”

My pen moved automatically as he talked: suppressed religions. Mythological evolution. Political influence over accepted belief systems.

Normally I would have been completely locked in already, but instead, my focus kept slipping backward, toward him.

I could practically feel the awareness of him pressing against the edges of my concentration. It made no sense. I didn’t even know him. Still, after another few minutes, curiosity won, and I glanced carefully over my shoulder.

He wasn’t looking at me, instead his attention stayed fixed on Professor Smith, expression unreadable. But there was tension in him even sitting still…the kind that didn’t disappear just because someone looked relaxed.

His hands rested flat against the desk, fingers motionless, too motionless, and weirdly, that unsettled me more.

“Miss Dawson,” a voice called, and my head whipped forward so fast my neck protested.

Professor Smith watched me over the top of his glasses.

“Yes?” I answered.

“The difference between a myth that survives and one that disappears?” he prompted.

Every eye in the room suddenly felt aimed directly at me, causing me to clear my throat quickly.

“Power,” I answered. “Who benefits from the story existing and who feels threatened by it.”

Professor Smith’s mouth curved slightly. “Good,” he replied. “Most belief systems survive because someone profits from preserving them.”

I nodded, heat warming my face while I scribbled something vaguely note-shaped onto my paper despite barely registering what I was writing. The rest of class passed in a strange blur after that, as every time I managed to focus, awareness of him crept back in again.

This is ridiculous, I muttered to myself. You’re twenty years old, not a hormonal Victorian woman about to faint because a man made eye contact.

When the clock finally hit the hour, chairs scraped loudly across the room as everyone started packing up.

“Read the introduction and first chapter before Wednesday,” Professor Smith called over the noise. “And please don’t insult me by pretending you understood the untranslated sections if you didn’t read them.”

A ripple of laughter followed that, and I shoved my notebook into my bag, fumbling slightly with the zipper. Don’t look back. I coaxed. Seriously. Don’t.

I lasted about four seconds, before turning slightly, I glanced toward the back row again, and immediately regretted it, because he was already watching me.

Not casually, directly.

My stomach dipped hard enough to make me angry about it. What the hell was this guy’s problem?

He didn’t smile, or look embarrassed about getting caught staring. Instead, his expression stayed controlled, but the intensity behind it made my pulse kick unevenly against my ribs.

I swallowed and forced myself toward the stairs. You are leaving now. Like a normal person. Without embarrassing yourself.

I never made it to the door, instead, pivoting before I could reconsider, I walked toward him.

He stood just as I reached the row, broad shoulders unfolding upward until I had to tilt my head back slightly to maintain eye contact. Up close, he felt even more unsettling. Not because he looked dangerous exactly, but because every instinct in me reacted to him like he was.

“Hey,” I greeted, immediately hearing the forced brightness in my own voice.

His gaze dropped briefly to my face. “Yes?”

The single word came low and rough-edged, and I tightened my grip on my bag strap.

“I’m Analiese Dawson,” I stated. “We share this class, obviously, and I thought I should introduce myself.”

Wonderful. Real Smooth, Dawson, and socially devastating.

A brief silence stretched between us and I noted the faint shadows beneath his eyes like he didn’t sleep enough. There was tension around his mouth too, subtle but constant, like he spent most of his time holding something back.

“Takoda Blackwell,” he answered finally. The name fit him entirely too well…solid, unfamiliar, and edged with mystery.

“Nice to meet you,” I replied automatically.

His gaze flicked briefly toward the room around us before returning to me again. Not nervous, scanning.

The realization prickled strangely beneath my skin. “Do you like the class so far?” I asked, then instantly wanted to take the words back.

His brows pulled together slightly. “It’s been one day.”

“Right,” I muttered. “Fair enough.”

A flicker of something almost amused touched the corner of his mouth before disappearing again before his eyes dropped briefly toward the words printed across my shirt.

HISTORY LOVES A WITCH HUNT.

“You believe that?” he asked quietly.

I glanced down before looking back up. “History usually destroys whatever it fears,” I answered with a shrug. “People, religions, ideas. Same pattern, different century.”

Something shifted behind his eyes. “You should be careful with that kind of curiosity,” he replied.

A small chill slid down my spine. “Why?”

His stare held mine for one long second. “Because people get hurt chasing things they don’t understand.”

The words should have sounded dramatic. Instead, they sounded tired, almost as if coming from experience rather than a warning.

Before I could respond, movement near the doorway caught his attention instantly. His head turned sharply toward it, body tightening almost imperceptibly.

The reaction happened too fast to fake, and every muscle in him had gone alert in less than a second.However, it was gone quickly as he forced himself to relax again.

“You always watch rooms like that?” I asked before I could stop myself.

His eyes snapped back to mine, and for the first time since speaking to him, something genuinely dangerous flickered there. The look vanished almost immediately, but my breath caught anyway.

“You ask too many questions, Analiese.” His voice was low and controlled, but not entirely annoyed.

My stomach tightened unexpectedly at the sound of my name coming from his lips, then he stepped around me.

His shoulder brushed mine lightly as he passed, heat searing straight through the fabric of my shirt, and every nerve ending along my arm reacted.