Page 159 of The Professor's Wife

His nostrils flared as though he had smelled something awful.

Then he stood.

My heart pounded in my ears as he rounded the desk and came toward me. The closer he came, the harder my body fought the urge to run.

My knees wobbled as I forced myself to stay there and look at him.

My determination faltered as the fear grew.

Fear of punishment.

Fear of his anger.

Fear that he would lock me away until I died miserably.

But that didn’t frighten me as much as the thought of him having my son to himself.

To torment.

To alter.

He stopped in front of me and stared.

Just stared.

The seconds passed, and I found myself counting them. Thinking about how much time had already been taken from me.

How Seneca called it wasted, as though I had given it away willingly.

“He’s mine, too,” Oliver declared suddenly.

There was no feeling in his voice and nothing in his eyes as he looked at me.

“You gave him to me.”

“I did not,” I whispered, my voice breaking.

“He’s mine,” he repeated, his brows lifting a fraction. “Mine to teach. Mine to play with. Mine to enlighten.”

The word enlighten made me stiffen.

Images of the cabin tore through me.

The oil lamps burning out.

The hunger.

The thirst.

The goddamn thirst.

I swallowed hard to rid myself of the ache in my throat, but my shoulders shook and a sob threatened to escape.

“Oliver, please.”

There.

A plea.