Page 4 of Even Werewolves Learn

“Yes,” I repeat in English this time. “But class doesn’t start for another hour.”

I think that he’s going to disappear at my words—and truly, I hope he does. I’m starting to feel slightly hot and bothered, and he hasn’t said a single word since I turned to face him. It doesn’t bode well for me in this class if he’s actually one of my new students.

The only reassuring thing in my train of thought is the fact that he’s young, way younger than what I would go for. He can’t possibly be over thirty. I’m not even sure he’s over twenty-five.

And this is what brings me back to reality. I have no reason to drool over this male, be it one of my students or not.

He’s most likely not interested, and I sure as hell can’t be.

Period.

“Did you need something?” I ask, still slightly bothered by his presence.

Get a grip, Constance. You can’t feel like this while he’s here. He’s just one of your students at worst and only a stranger who came for information at best.

I smooth the front of my deep blue skirt with my hands, as if occupying them is going to make this moment a little less tense or awkward—on my side, I have no idea what it looks like from his point of view.

The male doesn’t utter a word, and prowls in my direction—yes, prowls, because I’m pretty sure under the surface of this male’s skin lurks a predator.

Still without a word, he faces me and takes a step. And so I take a step back so we don’t end up in close proximity.

He takes another step, and I do the same.

By my fourth step, my butt hits the edge of the table I was organizing when he arrived, and I feel trapped against it.

He takes another step. And then another.

I can feel the heat coming from his body radiating all over mine, and I hold my breath, too scared to take a whiff and decide I like it.

No. We already said we can’t like him. He’s too young.

I close my eyes and turn my head to the right when I feel his breath caress my skin on the left side of my throat.

I swear I hear him inhale, but I still refuse to open my eyes at the intrusion.

I should call him out. I should push him away.

But I do nothing of the sort, and I just wait until he’s done.

Done doing what? I have no idea …

Too quickly, I feel the heat of his body leave my vicinity, and when I open my eyes, he’s gone.

I find him sitting at the desk in the center of the first row, with a few sheets of paper and one of the pencils I left on the table.

“Did you hear me when I said the class isn’t for another hour?” I ask, slightly lost as to why he’s already sitting at one of the desks when there’s obviously no reason for it.

“I did,” he says. “But I’m already here. I might as well get the best spot.”

Usually my students think the best spots are at the back where they can nap next to the heater during winter, but I don’t tell him that.

Instead, I shrug like I’m not bothered by his presence in my classroom and occupy myself with trying to get the room set for the other students’ arrival.

I’m perfectly aware that I’m fussing over nothing, but it feels weird to just sit at my desk and wait—I’d probably nibble at my nails while trying to cast inconspicuous glances at my new student if I did that.

I still cast discreet looks in his direction while I move around, but I’m more subtle doing it now than I would have been while facing him.

This is going to be a long hour until class actually starts.