Page 45 of Ashen Souls

But even as I focused on the road, the collar of my turtleneck rubbed against my neck, an abrasive reminder.

Daeren.

The rational part of my brain was horrified. I had a physical bruise left by a creature who shouldn't exist. I should have been driving to a hospital, or a church, or anywhere that made sense.

But beneath the panic lay a darker, more terrifying truth: I wanted the monster to come back.

I didn't need a therapist to tell me I was crazy.

Enough. I pushed the thought away.

The university gates rose ahead of me, framed by ivy dripping with rain and the gothic spires of Vesbridge’s oldest buildings.

I found a spot in the student lot, switched off the engine, and sat there for a moment, watching the rain trail slowly down the windshield.

My phone buzzed in the cup holder.

Harper: I’m looking forward to mythology. If Professor Hotness even breathes in your direction today, I’m taking notes. I need content.

I snorted and typed back.

Me: Content?

Harper: For your tragic love life memoir. Working title: Dream Daddies & Academic Zaddies.

A reluctant smile tugged at my mouth.

I locked the car and stepped out into the drizzle.

By the time the mythology lecture rolled around, a tight knot of anticipation had coiled in my stomach. I claimed two seats in the back row. A moment later, Harper dropped her bag onto the desk beside me, armed with a fresh notebook and a wicked smirk.

And then he walked in.

Conversations thinned. Chairs creaked as people shifted in their seats, the quiet settling almost without anyone noticing why. His sleeves were pushed up his forearms, his jacket slung casually over one shoulder, dark hair falling into his eyes from the damp air outside.

“Good afternoon,” he said.

“Today, we continue our discussion of visitation myths.”

The hidden bruise at the base of my skull ignited, as if the word visitation had just pressed the thumbprint back into my flesh.

He began speaking of gods who intruded into mortal worlds through dreams. He dismantled the violent intimacy of nocturnal encounters as if he were taking apart a watch. The chalk cracked against the slate in decisive strokes, leaving behind names and fragments that felt too close to the memory I was trying to outrun.

I tried to take notes. I pressed my pen to the paper, but the ink just bled into the margins as my focus kept straying back to him.

He scanned the room with cool indifference. But the moment his attention landed on me, the sweep stopped. Instead of a passing glance, his stare pinned me, an unrelenting demand to hold his gaze.

“...Notice the pattern,” he said. “Desire framed as divine visitation. Consent blurred, agency complicated. Was the mortal blessed, or was something taken?”

He turned away from the board to face the rising amphitheater.

“Most myths about visitations pretend the mortal had no choice. But desire is rarely that simple.”

The words struck far too close to home. They didn't feel like a lecture anymore. They felt like a clinical diagnosis. My chest seized, the walls of the lecture hall suddenly feeling too close. He was standing at the front of the room, calmly dissecting the exact surrender I had confessed to myself just an hour ago in the safety of my car.

“Ms. Hart.”

The sudden sound of my name cut like a snapped string.