Page 231 of Lessons in Cruelty

Melissa lets out an audible sigh of relief, and I join her a second later. Professor Rooke turns to us, and smiles.

“If you’ll excuse us, Miss Parker.” He holds out his arm, brown eyes fixed on mine. “There’s something I need to speak with Miss Lee about.”

“Actually, I was just—” I hike a finger down the other side of the passage. But I cut off when Melissa jabs her elbow into my ribs.

She isn’t even subtle about it.

“Ow!”

Neither am I.

“Stay and enjoy the party,” she says, then cuts her eyes to Bastian. “I’m sure Professor Rooke will protect you against all the baddies.”

If she only knew he was the baddie. If she only knew what he did in that dressing room.

If she only knew how much I liked it.

I refuse to crane my head back to look up at him as I take his arm because I don’t want him seeing any of my thoughts written on my face.

“Catch ya later,” Melissa says, and I turn to scowl at her over my shoulder. She smiles, making a heart out of her fingers like she’s doing me a favor.

Traitor.

“Never a dull moment with you, Miss Lee,” he murmurs, nodding his head to a guy in a white tux as we turn the corner into the main ballroom area. “But I really wouldn’t recommend getting on the dean’s bad side.”

“Yeah.” I try to pull my arm out of his, but he tightens it against his side, trapping me like he did back at the boutique. “Apparently, she hunts people for sport.”

He laughs, and I throw him a suspicious glare despite promising myself not to get drawn in by his charm.

I assumed he was heading for one of the cocktail tables spaced around the edges of the ballroom where we could stand and talk amidst the bustle of chatting, laughing, dancing guests.

But I got it wrong.

A new song starts up, something with intense violin chords and just a hint of a familiar tune.

“I missed you in class this week.”

“Melissa took notes for me.”

“For all your classes?”

I bite the inside of my lip, trying to hold back the words, but apparently I’m a bitch when I’m in fight or flight mode.

“My bad. I thought you’d quit my other subjects for me.”

My hackles rise when he chuckles.

It’s not a pleasant sound.

“If you feel I may have overstepped, then I suppose an apology is in order,” he says, turning, his hand sliding down my arm until he’s grabbing my wrist.

I open my mouth to confirm just how massively he’d overstepped, but then he bows over my hand and I’m too confused to speak.

“May I have this dance?”

“Wh—”

My protest is cut off as he tugs my hand, closing the distance between us. In the same fluid motion, he gets his other arm under mine, using it to guide my hand up to his shoulder. He grasps my hand in his, tightens his grip, and whirls, spinning us into a loose cluster of dancers in the middle of the ballroom.