Page 5 of Dean's Delinquent

Lord knows after the Melody fiasco, he was watched carefully to make sure he didn’t pull any bone-headed stunts like that again. But overdosing? And where would he even have gotten it?

Pausing, I rub the bridge of my nose and stare up at the main building that holds my office. Could it be that Miss Hartwell is some devious serial killer who uses the press to hype up her murders and put the suspicion off of her?

I know one person who might have an answer. Pulling out my phone, I shoot a quick message over to Doctor Andrew.

John Anderson

Have you had any run-ins with Ashleigh Hartwell?

With the way my luck has been holding out, he’s in a session and won’t be able to answer me until I’m already forced to confront the girl.

Doctor Andrew

Let me check my notes.

His response pings on my phone far more quickly than anticipated. The fact that the name doesn’t instantly send off alarms in his brain tells me she’s at least not an immediate threat. Those individuals usually catch his eye during orientation.

I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting her. Should I schedule a session? See if she’s a good fit for The Society?

It’s not as if I haven’t had that very thought, but the fact that it’s Doctor Andrew asking makes the idea feel wrong somehow. As if his asking a very simple question is all of a sudden invasive. If anyone else asked me, I wouldn’t mind. But with Doctor Andrew...

I’m asking as the dean of Loftry and not as the head of The Society.

In that case, she’s not drawn my attention in any way. Do I need to have a meeting with her? If you’re asking me this, then there’s something about her giving you pause.

Do I really want Ashleigh in the clutches of someone like Doctor Andrew? Granted, now that he’s happily settled with a submissive of his own, his predatory nature has calmed down a bit, but is it enough?

Just as a student meeting with a counselor. Nothing more.

The silence on his end is deafening. I stare at the screen, waiting for his response.

I do hope you are not calling my ethics into question. I was hired by you for my skills as a doctor of psychiatry. Are you changing your opinion because you’re precumming your slacks over some girl?

A frisson of rage slithers down my spine at his words. Not because of what he’s implying, but because he’s right.

Fuck you.

Fuck you too. I’ll see her Monday at three.

Honestly, the idea that she had anything to do with this is even more comical than Sergei being a master linguist in disguise. As a nepo baby, she’d be more likely to order a hit than to actually do the deed herself. But that still begs to reason how she knew about the murder in the first place.

Unless there’s someone who’s feeding her information. The killer themselves, perhaps. Until I know more, I should probably consider this to be more of a blessing than some horrid plot.

Besides, if she’s not the murderer, this could be the opening I need to get her into my grasp so I can discipline her, fuck her, and get her out of my brain. Right now, she’s an ephemeral obsession, an infernal need that drips through my veins until it consumes every thought. But I’m an intelligent man. I know I only want her because I can’t have her.

But I will have her. Somehow, some way, little miss Ashleigh Hartwell will kneel at my feet. I will make it happen.

Taking the steps two at a time, my cock swells behind my designer slacks as I picture everything I’d do to Miss Hartwell. Would she cry and beg for more? Or would she just cry? Either way, I’ll be satisfied.

As I stride into the office, the first thing I notice is Ashleigh’s platinum blond hair glinting in the bright lights. The soft waves caress her face and dip down her breasts as if demanding I bring my gaze there. One cursory glance. That’s all I allow myself. To linger any longer would lead to madness.

Ignoring her completely, I walk over to Shelaine and question her about my messages, missed calls, and things like that. From the corner of my eye, I watch as Miss Hartwell squirms about, no doubt not used to being kept waiting. The blasted paper flutters in her hands and she shuffles about, sighing every few moments.

Such rudeness. Such insolence. My hand twitches as I watch her fluttering about in that chair as if I’m supposed to stop everything for her lack of foresight. The problem is, the more I ignore her, the harder she is to thrust out of my mind.

Forget getting her an appointment with Doctor Andrew. Perhaps it’s my time to lie down on his proverbial chaise. Because I swear it’s as if I can smell her perfume from across the room. I can almost feel her body heat washing over me.

Insanity.

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