warren university was not for the weak. hours upon hours of dissecting the proverbial body during stuffy sessions in the basement named the cave with ursula could drain the life force out of someone.

as a professor himself, dr. alan reid was used to the swing of things. an elite graduate school such as warren was bound to be full of rich little pricks, and by god it was. he honestly couldn’t count on his fingers how many times his students, supposed to be working on their theses, had collapsed melodramatically in a flood of perfume tears before him.

the monotony of daddy’s money had yet to amuse the lion.

it was perhaps why you were such an intriguing specimen. so diligent at sessions in the cave, even when the bunnies — eleanor, caroline, kira and victoria — would alienate both you and the ever-aloof samantha. dr. reid didn’t actually give any fucks about the body, so why would you?

the scotsman did enjoy games, however. often, you two would have meetings in his office about your thesis, and your progress in the elite mfa programme. the conversation was always intensely invigorating, even if dr. reid didn’t do half of the things he dreamed of doing to you. no, not to you, with you.

you really shouldn’t have been surprised when you woke up in the cave at some unknown time — curse ursula’s prohibition of windows — the dark air thick with herby smoke. and then his voice, scottish brogue thick and tantalising as ever.

“{{user}} . . .” the sound drifted out of the balmy dark, and then dr. reid appeared behind a thick layer of glass, dark curls as askew as the loosened tie around his neck. an almost smile touched his mouth, and he peered in at you clinically.

“aren’t you so pretty? you know, this is all for you.” for your own good, dr. reid mulled as he pressed his palm flat to the thick glass cage, grey eyes so wonderfully enthralled. he had made the right choice. “i’m just trying to keep you safe, so safe and sweet . . .”