Page 11 of Crown of Thorns
I sense it the first moment I step into the classroom. I knew they only had one study hall inside this castle, but the size of this class reminds me of my high school years.
The group is rowdy, not paying me any attention as I make my way to the front. One of them stands by the window, smokinga cigarette while chatting with his friend, who sits with his feet on the table, his chair pulled back on two legs. I contemplate snatching the cigarette right out of his hands, but refrain. I don’t want to make any enemies on my first day.
After placing my laptop on the desk, I straighten to my full height. “Welcome, everyone. My name’s Noah Montague. I’m a professor in both sociology and finance. I’m grateful for those who signed up for this class. We’ll be looking at group behaviour in finance and will analyze your own behaviour in a number of test cases.”
Everyone ignores me.
I clap once, sharp, clearing my throat. “Excuse me, class has begun. Can someone please close the door?”
“We’re not complete yet,” says the guy by the window, then flicks away his cigarette and blows out a final hit. Sliding the window shut, he plops down onto his seat next to his friend.
“Well, those who arrive too late will have to skip the class. Please close the door.” My request stays unanswered. “I expect you to show the same respect I’m showing each and every one of you.” I end up walking down the aisle myself, annoyance building in my gut. Just as I grasp the door handle, it’s pulled open from the other side with such force, I’m thrown against a solid chest. “What the…”
The door flies open with dramatic flair, the clack of designer boots echoing like a warning down the corridor. Louis Deveraux enters like the lead in his own private play. Coat slung over one shoulder, lips curled into a smirk sharp enough to cut glass. “Well, hello again,” he drawls, voice dipped in honey and sin. The scent of bergamot and expensive cologne hits before he even rounds the threshold. My skin prickles at the proximity. Charcoal eyes, framed by sculpted brows, drag up from my shoes to my face. Slow, indulgent. Louis whistles, low and mocking, like he’s already claimed me.
Clenching my jaw, I feel my nostrils flare. “I thought you hadn’t signed up for my classes.”
“I changed my mind. Mo, your seat,” Louis winks, then walks past me and inside the classroom.
In a blink, everything shifts. Chairs scrape, spines straighten, and the room holds its breath. The prince has arrived. Books are being opened, and the noise dims to a silence. I grind my teeth when a guy on the row stands and picks up his stuff, clearing the table that sits right across from my desk. Again, I let it slide. One challenge at a time.
“Just to be clear, we start at eight thirty. Not five minutes later. I show up on time and expect the same courtesy from my students. Yes, Deveraux?”
“How can we call you, Professor? You’re so young.” He blows a bubble with his gum, encouraged by the others as it grows and grows.
My hands ball into fists. “No chewing gum in class, please.” Louis squints his eyes when someone takes a picture, making everyone laugh. “No phones either. And you may call me Professor, or Mr. Montague.”
Louis sticks out his tongue and collects the gum, sticking it under his desk. White heat appears behind my eyes, recollections burning of all the shit jobs I had to keep food on the table. Hours of scraping gum from school furniture.
His eyes stay fixed on me through the entire length of my introduction. He sprawls in his chair like he owns the place, thighs parted, long legs stretched nearly to my desk. Inked fingers twirl a pen like a blade.
I don’t often feel vulnerable while teaching, but right now I do.
Because he’s the kind of boy who takes up space like it’s his birthright.
Because I’m in trouble, and he knows it.
The hours crawl by in a blur of meaningless classes and forced smiles.
Hours later, when I get home after work, it still controls my thoughts.
Pouring myself a glass of wine, I sit at the bar, phone in hand. A quick search on Louis Deveraux gives me information I already know. Heir to the Deveraux Holding, together with his famous twin, Arthur, and their obnoxious cousin, Gaël. There’s a stepbrother, Régis. The family worth is over five billion euros. Louis has over two hundred thousand followers on IG, where he mostly shares boring pics of himself at luxurious parties. He shows off his tanned skin, his muscled build, and his ink. He smiles at the camera like he knows exactly how hot and bothered he leaves the rest of us.
#frenchboyspartybest
#barcelonagayparade
I scroll through the first fifty posts before I realize what I’m doing. One of the videos auto-plays with sound. There’s a burst of laughter and music and I jolt, nearly dropping the phone. Each grin sends feelings through me. Half shame, half heat. I feel pathetic. Oh, for fuck’s sake.
The door to the studio opens, and Melody walks in. Her curls are wrapped into a messy bun, and she shuffles by on her slippers, yawning. “You’re back. How was your first day?”
“It was alright.” I watch as she washes her hands by the sink.
“What are you watching?”
“Nothing, really. I was about to go to bed.”
A phone rings.
