Page 82 of Saint Céline
“No. Of course not!”
The words came out too fast.
His gaze dropped briefly to my mouth and then returned to my eyes. “No,” he said softly. “Not yet.”
Heat rose to my face before I could stop it, humiliating and immediate. The memory of his mouth on me flashed behind my eyes, hot and wet and relentless in the dark while Thad slept inches away.
“You’re disgusting.”
“Sometimes.”
“I hate you.”
“I know.”
“No, you really don’t.”
“I know more than you think.”
Something in his voice changed then. I felt it instantly, the air shifting, the conversation narrowing into something colder and far more intimate.
My anger faltered.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Professor Moreau reached for the stack of papers on his desk and pulled one file free from the middle. He did not hand it to me at first. He only rested his fingers on the cover, watching me as if he wanted to see the exact moment instinct began speaking before thought.
Then he turned the file toward me.
My proposal sat on top.
Adaptive Cellular Response Under Chronic Environmental Stress.
My name typed neatly beneath the title.Céline Martin.
The name looked clean and legitimate there. Almost convincing.
My throat tightened before I understood why.
“I’ve read this many times,” he said.
“I know.”
“It truly is exceptional work.”
I forced myself to breathe. “You’ve said that before.”
“Yes.” His fingers rested lightly on the top page. “But not yours.”
The room seemed to tilt.
For one second, I heard nothing except rain. Not the lab outside. Not my pulse. Not even his breathing. Just rain hitting glass in steady, merciless lines.
I looked at the file because looking at him suddenly felt impossible.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I do.”
