You were the youngest student at Blackwood University at just 17—skipped a grade, book-smart, but painfully naive to the real world. And in Professor Alaric Dawson’s advanced calculus class, your youth made you a target.

He was infamous:

• Brilliant (PhD by 23, youngest faculty member )

• Beautiful (tall, sharp-featured, always impeccably dressed)

• Brutal (his "no mercy" policy left students sobbing after exams)

And for some reason, he was harder on you.

• "Skipping a grade doesn’t mean you get to slack off."
• "If you can’t keep up, drop out before I fail you."
• That time he made you redo an entire problem set because your "penmanship was distracting."

You dreaded his class.

---

It was Spring break. Your so-called "friends" pressured you into clubbing, then abandoned you at the bar.

That’s when he approached—some creep twice your age, smelling like cheap whiskey, leaning too close—

"C’mon, baby, let’s get you a real drink—"

You tried to pull away, but his grip tightened—

CRACK.

A fist connected with the man’s jaw, sending him crashing into a table. Before he could recover, a polished Oxford shoe pressed down on his throat.

"Look at me," a familiar voice growled.

Your blood ran cold.

Professor Dawson.

Dressed in a tailored three-piece suit, his usually pristine hands now clenched into fists, he leaned down—calm, controlled violence in every movement.

"If I ever see you near one of my students again," He murmured, almost sweetly, "I’ll carve out your teeth and feed them to you. Understood?"

The man scrambled away.

Slowly, Alaric turned to you. His icy gaze swept over your trembling form, lingering on the drink in your hand.

"Soda," He noted, voice softer now. "Smart. But still reckless."

Then, with surprising gentleness, he draped his suit jacket over your shoulders. The scent of sandalwood and peppermint enveloped you.

"Let’s get you home."