Page 80 of Marrying My Professor

The footsteps stop at the alcove entrance.

"Well, well." The voice sends ice through my veins even as I force myself to remain motionless. "I hoped I'd find you."

James Harrington steps into the alcove, and my breath catches despite every effort to control it.

He's dressed as a devil.

Shirtless, his chest and abs on full display—the physique of someone who spends hours in a gym crafting the perfect image. Black pants that ride low on his hips, revealing the cut of muscles that disappear beneath the waistband. A red cape draped over his shoulders, secured with a golden clasp that glints in the lantern light.

And the mask. Dark red leather covering his eyes and the bridge of his nose, leaving his mouth visible—that same smug smile I've grown to hate, that same arrogant curve of lips that probably gets him everything he wants.

Small horns rise from the mask's temples, and when he moves closer, I can see that his hands have been painted with something dark and shimmering, making them look stained, corrupted.

He looks like temptation given form. Like sin packaged for maximum appeal.

He looks like exactly the kind of devil a stupid angel might fall for.

"James," I breathe, letting surprise color my voice, letting my body language shift from still to startled. "What are you doing here? I thought you'd be on the observation deck."

"I was." He moves deeper into the alcove, his eyes—visible through the mask's cutouts—traveling over me with undisguised hunger. "But watching from above got boring. I wanted to experience the maze from the inside. See what all the fuss is about."

He's lying. The casual way he says it, the practiced ease—he's lying, and we both know it. He didn't come down here for atmosphere. He came looking for me.

Just like I knew he would.

"You're not supposed to be in the maze during the trials," I say, standing slowly, letting the wings shift and catch the light. "Alexander said it's against protocol."

"Alexander says a lot of things." James stops a few feet away, close enough that I can smell his cologne—different from at the Spring Ball, heavier, muskier, designed to overwhelm. "But I'm a faction leader, angel. I can go wherever I want. Protocol doesn't really apply to me."

The arrogance in his voice makes my fingers itch for the blade strapped to my thigh, but I force myself to wait. Timing is everything. Rush this and I'll fail.

"That doesn't seem fair," I say softly, taking a small step toward him. "To the initiates, I mean. They're trying to prove themselves, and you're just⁠—"

"Just what?" He closes the remaining distance between us in two strides, his hand coming up to cup my face, thumb brushing across my painted lips. "Enjoying the view? Taking advantage of my position? Claiming what should be mine?"

His thumb presses harder against my mouth, and I have to suppress the urge to bite, to draw blood, to end this now before it goes any further.

But that's not the plan. The plan requires patience. Seduction. Making him think he's winning right up until the moment he loses everything.

"I'm married," I remind him, letting my voice waver slightly, letting him think I'm affected by his proximity, his touch, his overwhelming masculine confidence.

"To a man who can't protect you." His other hand finds my waist, pulling me closer until our bodies are almost touching. "To a professor on administrative leave who gave up everything just to keep you breathing. That's not a husband, Elara. That's a prison."

"Alexander loves me," I protest weakly, even as I let him pull me closer, let the space between us shrink to nothing.

"Alexander is obsessed with you. There's a difference." His hand slides from my face to my throat, not squeezing, just resting there with possessive intent. "But me? I could give you actual power. Not protection. Not obsession. Real power within the Veritas. All you'd have to do is⁠—"

"Is what?" I ask, letting my hand come up to rest on his bare chest, feeling the heat of his skin, the steady beat of his heart. The heart I'm about to stop.

"Choose me." His smile widens, triumphant and terrible. "Leave Alexander. Become mine. I've wanted you since the Spring Ball, since I saw you in that blue dress looking like you were made to destroy men. And I always get what I want."

The certainty in his voice—the absolute conviction that I'll say yes, that I can be bought or seduced or manipulated into betraying the man I married—makes something dark and vicious unfurl in my chest.

"You think I want you?" I ask, and I can't quite keep the edge out of my voice anymore, can't quite maintain the breathless angel act when rage is burning through my veins.

"I know you do." His hand tightens on my throat, just enough to make breathing slightly difficult. "I can see it in the way you're looking at me. The way you haven't pulled away. You want this. You want me. You're just afraid of admitting it."

"You're right," I whisper, letting my other hand trail down his chest, over his abs, lower. "I do want something from you."