Chapter 4 — The Seed of Obsession (Dorian)

I woke up gasping, the sheets tangled around my body like suffocating snakes. My heart hammered against my ribs as if trying to escape. The image was still burned behind my eyelids.

Lara, but not the Lara I knew from my classes.

In my dreams, she was… different. Bolder. Her eyes, usually downcast and evasive, burned with a bluish fire that made me feel like a rare manuscript being devoured by flames.

She wore a red dress that clung to every curve of her body, and her mouth moved with words I couldn’t hear but felt like a physical touch on my skin.

“Dorian?” My wife Sarah’s soft voice cut through the haze of my desire. “Are you okay? You were thrashing around…”

I turned to look at her. Her messy blonde hair, her blue eyes full of genuine concern. Sarah, my anchor, my reality. And yet…

“Just a nightmare,” I lied, my voice harsher than usual. “Go back to sleep.”

But when she snuggled against my chest, her familiar lavender scent couldn’t erase the smell of jasmine and something darker, more earthy that seemed to emanate from Lara herself in my dreams.

The rest of the night I spent staring at the ceiling, my body tense, every beat of my heart echoing with the image of those dark eyes staring at me through the shadows.

The next morning, in the shower, the almost boiling water couldn’t wash away the sensation of her fingers on my skin. When I dressed for the university, my hands trembled as I tied my tie.

I saw myself in the mirror — a forty-two-year-old man, respected professor, faithful husband… and I felt an overwhelming shame for what my subconscious had created.

On the way to the college, I stopped at the café where Sarah and I went on Sundays. The smell of fresh bread that usually comforted me only made me nauseous today.

“The usual, Professor Caine?” the barista asked with a bright smile.

I opened my mouth to say yes, but what came out was:

“Black coffee. Strong.”

She raised an eyebrow. I always ordered a cinnamon latte, but she nodded. While I waited, my eyes were drawn to a dark-haired woman in the corner. She looked nothing like Lara, but my body reacted as if it were — a wave of heat, a racing pulse.

I cursed under my breath and grabbed my coffee, spilling some of the scalding liquid on my hand in the process. The pain was a welcome distraction.

In the auditorium, my eyes instinctively avoided the back row where Lara always sat. But when she entered, late as usual, it felt like all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room.

She was wearing a black turtleneck sweater that emphasized the paleness of her skin, and her striped stockings went up to her knees. Nothing revealing, nothing inappropriate for a college student. And yet, I felt a wave of desire so intense that I had to grip the lectern.

“Sorry for being late, Professor,” she murmured, her eyes meeting mine for a second before lowering.

Her gaze was brief, but enough. It was the same look from my dream — intense, as if she knew exactly what kind of torment she had inflicted on my night.

“Don’t… don’t worry,” my voice sounded strange, hoarse. “Just take your seat.”

Throughout the entire lecture, I felt her gaze on me like a physical touch. When I turned to write on the board, I could feel those dark eyes running over my body, and my handwriting, normally impeccable, became uneven.

“Professor?” Lara’s voice cut through my explanation of Shakespeare. “Do you think Macbeth’s desire for power was really about ambition… or about filling a void inside him?”

The auditorium fell silent. It was a clever question, far more insightful than usual for a freshman.

“Both, I would say,” I replied, avoiding her gaze. “Power is often a poor substitute for what is truly missing in our souls.”

She smiled — a slow, small smile, keeping that aura of youthful innocence she still carried.

“So maybe he just needed to be… filled in a different way.”

Some students laughed, but I felt a chill run down my spine. There was a double meaning in her words that made me wonder if I was still dreaming.

After the lecture, I fled to my office and locked the door behind me. I took a deep breath, trying to compose myself. It was ridiculous. I was a grown man, not an academic tormented by hormonal fantasies.

But when I closed my eyes, all I saw was her. The curve of her neck, the moisture of her lips, the way her sweater clung to her breasts…

I opened my eyes with a jolt and picked up the photo of Sarah on my desk. Our wedding day. Her radiant face, her white dress, my eyes full of love and not this… sick desire.

“What is happening to me?” I whispered to the empty room.

My own mind had turned against me, weaving fantasies with a student, a young adult but still with traces of innocence that reminded me of her youth. It was repulsive. It was…

The doorbell made me jump.

“Professor Caine?” It was her voice. Lara. “Could you lend me the Shakespeare book?”

Before I could answer, the doorknob turned. Had I locked it? Clearly not, because the door opened and she was there, the book I had used on top of my desk.

“Of course,” I replied, sliding the book toward her.

“Thank you,” she said, taking it. Her eyes scanned my sweaty face, my loosened tie, the photo I was still holding tightly. “Is everything okay, Professor? You look… sick.”

“I’m fine,” I said far too quickly. “Just a busy day.”

She bit her lower lip, and my stomach tightened.

“I dreamed about you last night.”

The air left my lungs.

“What?”

“In my dream…” she continued, her eyes fixed on mine. “You were teaching me about… passion. You said some stories are better learned through experience.”

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. She described exactly what I had dreamed, but reversed.

“That is… inappropriate, Lara,” I forced the words out. “You should go.”

She nodded, but as she passed by me, her hand lightly brushed mine. An electric shock ran up my arm.

“See you tomorrow, Professor,” she whispered, and for the first time, her smile wasn’t that of the shy young girl I knew. “Sleep well.”

When she left, I collapsed into my chair, my hands shaking uncontrollably. It wasn’t my imagination. It wasn’t a coincidence.

Something deeply wrong was happening, and I had no idea how to stop it.