Page 9 of Midnight Curfew

“No, he’s not,” I tell Callum. “He’s thinking, ‘Just wait till I’m emperor.’ ”

Just wait till I come back, Jaeger.

Just wait till I’m in charge.

Just wait…

“Why do you have it?” Callum asks.

“I like Seneca.” I set down my cup, looking at the philosopher still trying to get through to his student and starting to realize it’s no use. “He was wise, but he wasn’t perfect. He was seduced by Rome—the wealth, power, and his position to the future emperor,” I tell Callum. “He’s one of the only philosophers I truly respect, because he made mistakes, and I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t.”

Or anyone who tries to hide them.

“And because I’m also a teacher,” I say in a low voice as I sit down at my desk, “I want to be reminded what can happen if nurture fails over nature.”

I’m no angel, nor do I want to be, but at least I’m not unoriginal, spoiled, or forgettable.

A gleam hits Callum’s storm-blue eyes, and I notice the slight scar at the corner of his eye, just above his cheekbone. Small, but I remember making him bleed there four years ago.

He walks slowly toward me, and I watch him draw closer, letting him. I won’t give him the satisfaction of evading him.

But just as he closes in behind me, between me and the chalkboard, I catch figures outside both of my classroom doors. The one to the left of my desk and the other, which I came through minutes ago.

In a moment, Callum’s hands wrap around my forearms and slide to my wrists as he pins my hands to my desktop.

I ball my fists, resisting, but the dark forms in the doorways loom heavier, and I refuse to look to see who it is. I can guess. Milo Price. Jerome Watson. Vincent Law.

Callum leans into my ear. “You’re right.”

I glower, staring straight ahead.

“Seneca was seduced by Rome,” he whispers into my ear. “Oh, he liked it there. I’ll bet he loved patrician pussy, didn’t he?”

I clench my teeth, rage coursing through my blood, but my pulse races in a way it didn’t in Mrs. Coldwell’s bed an hour ago. All of a sudden, I don’t know what I was expecting after years of preparing for his return, but I’m so glad we’re not going to play nice.

Callum goes on, “But his biggest mistake of all was trying to leave.” His hot breath falls across my skin. “No one leaves Nero.”

I can’t help but smile a little.

“Have you ever seen the real sculpture in Madrid?” he asks me.

I tighten my jaw again. He knew what the sculpture was when he fucking asked.

“The artist never created a final version of it,” he tells me. “It was a plaster rendering. Beautiful, though. Truly a lesson in conveying an entire relationship in one cast…of body language.”

My eyes instinctively fall to his fingers wrapped around my wrists.

An entire relationship…

“It has nothing to do with nurture or nature, Dallas,” he taunts me. “Seneca gave the world Nero. Marcus Aurelius unleashed Commodus. The great King David and his wicked offspring.” His mouth brushes my ear. “Great men produce the worst sons—and students—because if they can’t crawl out from underneath their teacher’s shadow, they’ll have to outdo him in horrors.”

And to my fucking disgust, chills break out down my arms.

I’m not a great man.

And I didn’t teach you everything I know, you little shit.

He inhales through his nose, taking in my scent. “It’s good to see you.”