Page 86 of Marrying My Professor

When rational thought returns, we're both breathing hard, still connected, her dress absolutely ruined and evidence of what we just did likely covering every surface in this classroom.

"We should go," I say eventually, though I make no move to pull away. "Before someone comes to investigate the noise."

"Probably," she agrees, but she's smiling—relaxed and sated in a way she wasn't before, the manic energy finally burned off into something manageable.

I pull out carefully, immediately mourning the loss of contact, and help her stand. She wobbles slightly on her heels, and I steady her with hands on her waist.

"Better?" I ask softly, searching her face for signs of the breakdown I was worried about earlier.

"Better," she confirms. Then her smile turns wicked again. "Though I think I might need additional tutoring, Professor. You know, to make sure the lesson really sticks."

Despite everything—despite the murder and the blood and the absolute insanity of what we just did—I find myself laughing.

"Your dedication to education is truly remarkable, Miss Cross."

"Mrs. Draven," she corrects, her hand finding mine.

24

ALEXANDER

The summons comes three days after James's body is discovered in the maze.

Three days of investigation, of questioning, of the Veritas moving through their protocols with bureaucratic efficiency. Three days of Elara and me maintaining perfect composure while the world spins around us, pretending we're as shocked as everyone else by the "tragic accident" that claimed a faction leader's life.

The official story is exactly what we planned: James Harrington, caught up in the excitement of the final trial, entered the maze to experience it firsthand. He encountered one of the more elaborate set pieces—the angel and devil section—and in the dim lighting and theatrical fog, he slipped. Fell badly. Hit his head on the decorative stone bench in one of the alcoves.

The blade wounds are explained away as impalement on the decorative iron work that adorned some of the maze's features. The blood is simply the result of arterial damage from the fall. A terrible accident. A cautionary tale about the dangers of hubris.

No one questions it.

Or rather, no one questions it officially. I can see the doubt in Nathaniel's eyes when he looks at me, the calculation in Evander's expression when his gaze lands on Elara. They suspect. Of course they suspect.

But they can't prove anything. And more importantly, they don't want to.

James Harrington was a problem. A liability. A faction leader who'd gone rogue, who'd killed without authorization, who'd been holding leverage over the Praefectus Maximus himself. His death—however it actually occurred—solved several problems the Veritas leadership had been struggling with for months.

So they accept the story. File the paperwork. Hold a memorial service that feels more like a formality than genuine grief.

And then they summon me to the Council Chamber.

The room is unchanged from the last time I was here—when Elara's life hung in the balance, when I extended my service indefinitely to save her. Same vaulted ceilings. Same stone walls that have witnessed decades of decisions that shaped lives and destroyed futures. Same semicircular table where the faction leaders sit like judges presiding over trials that never had fair outcomes.

But the faces are different now. James's chair sits empty, a visible gap in the power structure that everyone is acutely aware of. Julian Voss looks more tired than usual, his politician's smile absent. Dominic Kane watches me with hooded eyes that give away nothing. Evander Thorne maintains his usual serenity, but there's something sharper in his gaze today.

And Nathaniel Davis sits at the center, his expression unreadable as I approach the table.

"Alexander Draven," he greets, his voice carrying in the cavernous space. "Thank you for coming."

Like I had a choice. Like summons from the Praefectus Maximus are optional.

"Of course," I say, stopping at the designated spot—close enough to hear clearly, far enough to maintain the hierarchical distance they require. "How can I be of service?"

The formal phrasing tastes like ash, but it's the language they expect. The submission they demand.

Nathaniel leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers in that particular way he does when he's about to deliver news he knows won't be well-received. "The Council has been discussing the matter of faction leadership. Specifically, the leadership of the Sovereign Bastards."

My stomach drops, but I keep my expression neutral. "I see."