Page 40 of Even Werewolves Learn

There’s a sigh on the other side of the door, and then she whispers, “I’m so fucking screwed.”

Not enough to my taste is the first thing that crosses my mind.

I look at my lap again, my knot refusing to deflate even though its only purpose is to keep me locked inside of her.

Not nearly enough indeed.

21

Constance

Istill receive flowers every day.

I thought Louis would stop at some point, but he’s not planning to, or we haven’t reached that point yet.

He’s surprisingly quiet in class for the following week. For the last detention period too.

And when the first Saturday without detention arrives, I lie wide awake in my bed, even before the time my alarm clock would ring if I were to go to school.

There’s a sort of hollowness in my heart that I can’t place.

Maybe I got used to his presence for a month, and now I need to get used to his absence instead.

Liar.

Yes, I got used to his presence, but I don’t think I can get used to his absence.

I hate it.

To myself, I can say that.

I won’t tell him, though. I can’t. He’s my student.

It’s already more than problematic that I’ve touched myself to the memory of his voice or the idea of riding his cock—and his knot—for the past two weeks. I can’t make it a reality.

Not while he’s still my student.

Which means, on Monday, I have no right to feel white-hot rage inside of me when I see Eliza—the student I paired Louis with at the beginning of the year—drop her hand on his forearm when I ask the class to study the list of theater plays I want them to pick from.

They’re old French plays, and the idea is to adapt them into a more modern version of them. They’ll need to pick apart what’s old French from what can still be used in this new version, and then pick one scene and act it out before Christmas break. It’s both a research exercise and something that will make them talk in French.

Just a class exercise, one that doesn’t require touching—at least not until they pick a play and scene to enact, and even then it might not involve touching.

That’s the only reason why I’m mad.

But then, she scoots closer to him, and that same hand drops under their desks, and Louis tenses.

From my spot, leaning against my desk, I can’t exactly see what she’s doing with her hand, and it’s only when her hand surfaces back on the desk that I let myself breathe again.

Why am I reacting this way?

I have no right to get mad. He doesn’t belong to me.

She can do whatever she wants to him under the desk as long as he consents to it. It’s not my problem.

Then why do I want to rip her hand away and pair her with someone else—anyone else?

I should be happy she’s trying her luck with Louis.