Page 11 of Bewitched By the Mountain Man
I drop my bag, pull out my laptop, and open a browser.
Professor Cain. Criminal Psychology.
The search results are sparse. Just a handful of mentions from academic conferences and consulting cases. But one headline jumps out at me among dry citations.
Former Sheriff Lachlan Cain Testifies in High-Profile Human Trafficking Case.
I click.
Lachlan.The name rolls through my mind like a spark sliding across dry tinder. It sounds good in my head. It would sound even better tangled up in bed while he’s inside me.
I shake the thought away.
The article opens with a grainy photo of him in uniform. Same sharp jaw. Same intense eyes. The piece details a sting in a small town called Raven’s Creek, Nevada. Girls had gone missing for months before anyone started asking questions.
I click through, skimming the article. It's from five years ago.
Sheriff Lachlan Cain, 37, led a months-long investigation into human trafficking operations in rural Nevada, resulting in the arrest of sixteen individuals and the rescue of twenty-three victims. The case, which drew national attention, revealed a complex network of…
I keep reading, my heart pounding harder with each paragraph.
Lachlan blew the whistle. Testified against his own deputies. Took down the operation and walked away.
I sit back in my chair, pulse thrumming in my ears. I knew he was intense. I knew there was something about him. But this?
Now I’m sure of one thing.
There’s a lot more to Professor Cain than what he lets anyone see. And all I can think about is how desperately I want to know more about him. About whether what we felt last night was real.
Or just another mask we both wore in the dark.
4
LACHLAN
Three days.
It's been three fucking days since I stood in that classroom and looked into Tessa O'Reilly's face while pretending I didn't know exactly how she tastes.
Three days of barely sleeping, replaying every sound she made, every way her body responded to mine. Three days of telling myself I can handle this. That seeing her twice a week in class is manageable. That I'm in control.
I'm not in control.
I'm standing at my office window, watching rain hammer against the glass like it's trying to break through, and all I can think about is her.
My phone buzzes. Email notification.
Reminder: Office hours today, 2-4 PM.
Fuck.
I don't want to sit in this cramped temporary office in the psychology building, pretending to care about graduate students' questions about deviant behavior when I'm the biggest deviant of all.
I check my watch.3:47 PM. No one's come to office hours yet. Good.
The fire alarm screams to life.
"Fuck," I mutter, grabbing my coat, wincing at the sound.
