Professor Sin

AMARA POV

His hand slid up my thigh, firm and unyielding, dragging heat along my skin.

I sucked in a shaky breath as his broad frame hovered over me, shadow swallowing me whole. Roman Black's mouth was at my ear, his voice low, sinful, the kind that made every nerve in my body bend to him.

"Do you know what you do to me, Amara?"

God, the way his hips pressed down against mine, the way his chest pinned me to the desk, claiming every inch of me like I already belonged to him. My fingers curled tight, desperate to hold on to something real. His scent was leather and mint, intoxicating, and I swore if he moved any closer, I'd dissolve under him.

His thumb stroked my waist, slow, deliberate, leaving fire burn through me. My body arched on instinct, craving more, begging for more. His lips dragged over my neck, rough stubble scraping against tender skin, and I couldn't stop the shiver that ripped through me.

I gasped when he pushed harder into me, that heavy weight grinding against me, my heart slamming against my ribs like it might tear out. My thighs trembled. My pulse stuttered.

The sound slipped out before I could swallow it back.

A moan. Soft. Barely there.

But it was enough.

I jolted back to myself at once. I pressed my legs tightly together.

The desk in front of me. My notebook open. My pen in my hand. The dull scratch of chalk against the board. My chest rose and fell too quickly as reality hit me like a bucket of ice water.

Beside me, the girl with curly hair nudged my elbow, biting back a smirk, her brows raised like she'd just caught me in something scandalous.

Heat rushed in my face. I dropped my gaze to the page, bowing my head as if the words there could open and swallow me whole.

When I dared to lift my eyes again, He was there.

Roman Black.

Standing at the front of the class, sleeves rolled up, voice like whiskey poured neat, smooth and dangerous. His gaze swept across the room like he a bear searching for his prey.

And then it found me.

Something twisted in my stomach. Not butterflies. Something I can't seem to place my hands on . Gosh I'm done for.

I tore my eyes away, pretending to study the syllabus, but my body betrayed me, every nerve locked onto the way his voice wrapped around certain words, low and heavy, like when he said intimacy.

He didn't flirt. He warned. With nothing more than his presence.

By the end of class, I was the last still lingering, shoving papers into my bag. I told myself it was an accident. It wasn't.

"Miss…"

His voice cut through the quiet, low and commanding.

"Blake," I offered, throat dry, pulse hammering.

"Stay a moment."

I did. Because maybe I was stupid. Or reckless. Or just lonely enough to want to hear what he'd say next.

He moved closer. Not touching. But close enough that I could breathe in the mint of his coat. Power radiated off him, slow, heavy, deliberate.

"You've read ahead," he said quietly. "Your eyes gave you away during the discussion. Tell me… did you agree with the ending?"

I swallowed hard. "No."

"Why not?"

My gaze lifted, caught by his. Storm-dark. Controlled. Dangerous.

"Because I don't believe people walk away when they're burning," I whispered.

His jaw flexed, something unspoken flashing through his expression, intrigue, surprise or something darker.

The silence stretched, dangerous, almost suffocating.

"You should go," he said finally, stepping back.

But as I turned, his voice followed, low and rough, not meant for me to hear:

"Curious little thing."

And God help me… I smiled.

I walked out into the fading light of late afternoon, heart pounding in my throat.

The campus buzzed with life, but I felt strangely apart from it. Like I was on a different planet, orbiting alone.

Then I heard it.

"Oh my God, is that your outfit, Amara?"

Laughter. High-pitched. Cruel.

I stiffened.

A group of girls stood by the fountain …hair glossy, lips painted, laughter sharp as razors. I knew them. Everyone did. They were the daughters of senators, CEOs, ministers. Girls who smiled sweetly in selfies and spat poison the second the camera clicked off. The elite. The untouchables.

They called themselves Sassy. God knows why.

And in the middle of them, like a rose among thorns, was my sister.

Nina.

Her arms were crossed, an awkward smile curling her lips. "Guys, stop. She's just…you know. Quiet."

One of them snorted. "Quiet? Or invisible?"

Another chimed in. "Or just poor."

The words sliced through me like cold glass.

Nina glanced over and caught my eye. Her smile faltered, not with guilt. With embarrassment.

She always hated being reminded we were sisters.

I shifted my gaze away, willing the sting in my eyes to fade. My fingers tightened on the strap of my bag.

"Are you walking home?" one of the girls called.

They already knew the answer.

Nina stepped forward suddenly, her voice too loud. "You want a ride, Amara?"

It was performative. A spotlight offer. One she knew I'd never take. Not in front of her friends. Not when they were already laughing.

I shook my head without looking back. "I'm fine."

"Suit yourself," someone muttered, smirking.

Behind me, I heard the purr of an engine, Nina's driver pulling up in her sleek, air-conditioned car. She always got picked up. I always walked.

Twins, some used to think.

But we were nothing alike.

She lived in the sun.

I crawled through her shadows.

The walk home was quiet. But inside me, it wasn't.

Every footstep echoed like a warning, every gust of wind curled around my bare neck like horror. My thoughts drifted back to Professor Black, the way his voice dropped when he spoke to me, like he didn't want anyone else to hear. The way he looked at me, not like a man looks at a girl.

Like a beast recognizing something it wants to devour.

You've read ahead… Your eyes gave you away…

My chest tightened. No one ever noticed that about me. Not even Nina.

But he did.

And that made him dangerous.

I adjusted my backpack, picking up my pace. My legs were starting to ache, and the neighborhood around me began to change, buildings cracked, air colder, windows darker. Home wasn't far now.

Unfortunately.

I crossed the street, hands trembling, my heartbeat rising with each step. My feet slowed, even though I tried to will them forward. The closer I got, the heavier everything became.

My breath sounded loud in my ears. My legs wobbled. My hands trembled against the strap of my bag. My mind screamed at me to turn back.

But I couldn't.

I never could.

Home wasn't a place.

It was a warning.

And tonight, like every other night, I'd have to face it.

The metal gate creaked open. I offered the gateman a small smile as I stepped through.

"Good evening, sir," I mumbled.

He nodded, gaze flicking toward the long driveway behind me.

Luxurious cars lined the front, imported, polished. Among them, Nina's black Benz gleamed under the porch light.

She was already home.

Of course she was.

Our parents were wealthy. Painfully so. But money doesn't buy warmth. Or answers. Or the smallest explanation for why I was treated like furniture in my own house.

I walked slowly toward the entrance, each step feeling like a countdown.

Ten steps.

Nine.

Eight

I gripped the edge of my shirt with one hand, chest tightening.

Six,

Five,

I closed my eyes at the doorstep. Just for a moment. To prepare.

Three.

Two.

I opened the door.

And stepped into hell.

The first words that hit me were sharp, careless, echoing from the hallway:

"The doctor said we have to get the surgery done soon. This can't wait."

Then came a voice even colder.

"And who's going to break the news to Her? Her?"

Her.

I didn't even need to ask who her was.