Page 29 of Stalk Me

And those are the only kind of ghosts I can afford to be.

Maybe that's what I need to fully become. The perfect daughter, the perfect weapon, carved from ice and sealed in designer armor. My mother always said that power isn't about being loved—it's about being feared. And fear, like the drugs they feed me, can numb everything else away. I should embrace it, the power it gives me, the detachment it offers. Maybe then, I'd be free. Maybe then, I wouldn't feel anything at all. Maybe then, the memories of hands and whispers and expensive whiskey would fade like morning fog over the bay.

Carefully, I wash away the evidence of weakness, reapplying my armor one layer at a time. Perfect hair, perfect makeup, perfect smile hiding perfect lies. I trace the constellation of bruises blooming across my collarbone, already plotting how to turn them into weapons. Every mark is a reminder, and every scar a lesson in survival. By the time I'm done, no one would guess that Luna Queen spent the morning having a breakdown in a dusty storage room.

But as I fold Erik's blazer, smoothing out the wrinkles with trembling hands, I can't quite silence the voice in my head that whispers maybe, just maybe, I don't have to do this alone.

It's a dangerous thought. Hope always is.

Extracurricular Activities

The gothic windows in Professor Austin's classroom let in a lot of afternoon sunlight, which casts long shadows on the desks that aren't being used. Everyone else has already left for their next class or whatever they think of as freedom at Shark Bay, but I stay behind and act like I'm getting my things together. As he moves papers around on his desk, I can feel his eyes on me. He looks at me briefly when he doesn't think I'm watching. Men, even the ones who act like they're above it all, are so easy to guess. Every move I make is meant to catch his eye. The air in the classroom smells of chalk dust and expensive cologne. It smells like power and school. His hands pause over the stack of papers, hesitating just long enough to confirm what I already know.

"Miss Queen." His voice breaks the silence. "A word about your recent performance?"

I turn slowly, letting my uniform skirt swish against my thighs. "Of course, Professor." The title rolls off my tongue like honey, sweet and dangerous. "Is there a problem?" I look into his eyes with practiced innocence while I watch the tension in his face. The afternoon light hits his wire-rimmed glasses and briefly hides his eyes. But I can tell he's nervous because of how his fingers are gripping the edge of his desk.

He clears his throat, adjusting his glasses. The gesture is meant to project authority, but it doesn't work well because his hands shake ever so slightly. "Your grades have been… concerning. And your behavior in class?—"

"My behavior?" I step closer, trailing my fingers along the edge of his desk. The wood is smooth beneath my touch, polished by generations of privileged hands. "I thought I was participating quite actively."

"That's not—" He breaks off as I round the corner of his desk, closing the distance between us. His cologne is subtle, academic—nothing like the expensive designer scents the boys here bathe in. "Miss Queen, this is inappropriate."

"Is it?" I perch on the edge of his desk, letting my skirt ride up just enough to be distracting. "I thought we were discussing my academic performance."

He looks quickly at the door and then back at me. The conflict between his wants and his duty as a professor shows up all over his face. He tries to be a good man and is working hard to stay away from temptation, but he's weak. I've seen him watch me in class. His eyes stay on me for a little too long when I cross my legs or lean forward to take notes. He's not as noble as he pretends to be. None of them are.

"Your academic performance is… adequate," he manages, voice strained. "But your attitude?—"

I slide off the desk and lean in, trapping him between the solid wood of his chair behind him and my body. His pupils dilate. "My attitude? Maybe that's because I understand better than most how this world works. The things we do for power, for control…" I trail off, letting him fill in the blanks.

"Luna." The use of my first name is a crack in his armor. "Whatever you're going through, there are better ways?—"

"Better than what?" I lean forward, invading his personal space. "Better than using what I have to get what I want? Isn't that what everyone does here?"

His breath catches as I trace a finger down his tie. The silk is expensive—probably a gift from some grateful parent whose child needed a grade boost. "This isn't appropriate," he repeats, but he doesn't move away.

"Nothing about this place is appropriate." I grip his tie, pulling him closer. "But we all play our parts, don't we? The dedicated professor, the troubled student… it's all just theater."

"Stop." But his hands find my waist, fingers digging into the fabric of my uniform. "We can't?—"

"Can't what?" I press against him, feeling the evidence of his desire. "Can't admit that you want this? That you've thought about it?"

His resolve crumbles like wet paper. When his mouth crashes into mine, it tastes like victory and expensive coffee. His kiss is desperate, hungry—all that carefully maintained control finally snapping. I let him push me back against the desk, papers scattering to the floor. His hands are everywhere, greedy and demanding, and I give him exactly what he expects: soft moans, arched back, the perfect picture of youthful submission.

But we both know who's really in control here.

I break the kiss, pushing him back into his chair. He watches with wide eyes as I sink to my knees, maintaining eye contact as I reach for his belt. "Miss Queen—Luna—we shouldn't?—"

"Shh." I silence him with another kiss, quick and brutal. "Let me show you how much I want to improve my grade."

My fingers find his belt buckle, smooth and expensive. I take my time opening it, a sharp contrast to the rest of this rushed encounter. Desperation rolls off him in waves. Men are so easy to control, so eager to lose themselves in lust.

I finally finish undoing his belt and unzip his slacks. It's still not too late for him to stop me, to pull away and reestablish the fiction of respectability between us. But he doesn't. Instead, he spreads his knees and pulls his chair close enough to grant access.

I flash a smile that's all teeth and no warmth. "Relax, Professor. I'll make it worth your time."

His protests die in his throat as I free his cock, already rock hard and ready. They always are. They never see the knife until it's far too late, and even then, they never learn.

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