Chapter 41: Spearcrest Saints: Part 3 – Chapter 41

Theodora a fifteen-minute head start before following her out.

The cold night air does little to cool the burning heat in my skin, and I break into a run. I catch up with her on the main path, the one lined with birch trees, and I grab her by the waist, drawing a gasp from her as I bury my face in her fragrant hair.

“Come on,” I groan, taking her by the hand.

We make it as far as the first classroom we find in the Old Manor. My keys shake in my grasp as I unlock the door, and I slam it shut behind us. As soon as I do, Theodora is on me, her arms wrapping about my shoulders, her mouth on mine.

She tastes like vodka and raspberries.

An addictive taste, and I know I’ll never be able to drink vodka again without thinking of kissing her.

I haul her against me, ravishing her mouth with ravenous kisses as I carry her towards the teacher’s desk, propping her on the edge. When I pull away, she looks up at me, her mouth open and wet and pink.

“Lift your skirt,” I command her.

She bites into her lower lip and slowly lifts her skirt. The crimson fabric makes her look paler still—in the darkness of the unlit room, she almost glows.

“No underwear, Theodora?”

“It didn’t go with the dress,” she explains, laughter in her voice. “A fashion faux pas.”

“And what was the purpose of the dress, aside from driving me to the brink of madness?”

“To get you on your knees,” she answers. “Of course.”

So I do. I get on my knees and bury my head between Theodora’s legs, feasting on her, tasting the sweet nectar between her thighs, the intoxicating proof of her desire for me. She’s incredibly responsive, every lap of my tongue drawing shivers and husky cries from her.

It’s the most addictive sensation I’ve ever felt—the sensation of giving Theodora pleasure.

It’s a sort of power, the only power I could ever hope to hold over her. It’s a power I hold in my tongue, in my fingers, a power I use to dangle her right over the edge of a cliff. When she grows still, her breath caught in her throat, her fingers gripping the edge of the desk, the sensation is almost overwhelming. She comes against my mouth with a cry of shock and pleasure, and I don’t quite let her ride out her orgasm, desperate to feel it with her.

Surging to my feet, I flip her around so she’s facing the desk. She flattens herself down of her own volition, fingers splayed out, and tilts her hips to meet me in a silent invitation. I roll on a condom and guide myself inside her. She’s dripping wet, and I let out a groan as I slide in with one thrust, forcing myself to pause, to let her adjust.

It’s hard, desperate fucking at first, taking something I’ve been craving for so long, taking what I need more than air. And then, I lower myself against her, lacing my fingers through hers against the table. Her head rises, settling into the crook between my shoulder and neck, filling my senses with the fragrance of her hair.

“Feels so good,” she rasps, arching into me. “Oh god, Zachary, please… feels so good.”

I come in a shudder of surprise, a broken cry escaping my throat. My thrusts grow frantic at first, then finally stop. We lie against the desk for a long moment as I soften inside her, and when I make to stand up, Theodora’s fingers grip mine.

“No,” she whispers. “One more minute. Please.”

With a rasping chuckle, I settle against her, kissing her head through her hair.

“This would be more comfortable if we were in a bed,” I point out.

“We don’t have a bed,” she replies.

“No. But we will, one day. We’ll have an apartment and a bedroom and a bed where we can have sex for as long as we like and then cuddle twice as long.”

Theodora’s body stiffens underneath me, and I frown, wondering if she’s about to push me away. But she doesn’t.

We linger for a long time, and then we fix ourselves, and I walk her back to the girls’ building. We bid each other goodnight and part ways, but for the rest of the night, a strange weight of inexplicable dread settles on my chest.

see Theodora, in our usual place in the library, she greets me with a quick little smile that immediately puts me at ease.

“Have you started Mr Ambrose’s Hegel assignment yet?” She shakes her head and rubs her forehead. “It has to be the worst Apostles assignment yet.”

“Not a fan of Hegel, then?” I ask in a light tone, settling myself down at her side.

She points at the pile of books on the desk next to her laptop. It’s tall enough to reach higher than her head. “It’s all the reading. And it’s so dense. I genuinely don’t know how I’m going to find the time.”

“Would you like to collaborate?”

“Collaborate with you?” She narrows her eyes. “I don’t know if I trust you.” I open my mouth in a scandalised gasp, and she hurries to add, “Academically, that is. I don’t know if I can trust you .”

“I’m good enough to take to your bed but not good enough to help with your assignment?”

She looks around in concern, and when she’s reassured there’s nobody around to hear us, she leans towards me and says in a lowered voice, “That’s because I trust you to make me come, but I don’t trust what you’re willing to do to win against me.”

I let out a burst of frank laughter, flattered and amused by her honesty.

“The competition stiff now there are only four of us,” I admit, pulling my laptop open.

“Exactly.”

“Well, if I can’t help you with the reading, then would you at least like to have a look at my notes?”

She hesitates, glancing at my laptop screen. I open the document and show her my compiled notes. She frowns and gives me a dismayed look.

“What—when on earth did you manage to do all this?”

“At the weekend—probably while you were recovering from what I can only assume must have been one spectacular hangover.”

She glares at me and then sighs. “It was the worst I ever felt.”

“It’s what you get for drinking Iakov’s vodka.”

“Jealous?” she asks with a smirk.

“You might’ve drank his vodka, but it’s tongue you came on.” I smile, relishing the sudden flush of colour in her cheeks. “So no, Theo. I’m not jealous.”

For a second, she’s speechless, and then she collects herself, smoothing her sleeves and tucking her hair behind her ears.

“Maybe I need to sleep with somebody else,” she says primly. “To keep you humble.”

“You might do so, but I might poison whoever you choose for that purpose.”

She gasps. “You wouldn’t.”

“Not to death, of course. Only just enough to make them spend a few very uncomfortable weeks. Luca’s still alive, isn’t he?”

“You .” This time, her voice is barely above a whisper. “You .”

I laugh and point at my laptop once more. “How about I give you five minutes—and only five minutes—to look at my notes? After that, you’re on your own.”

She hesitates, but as soon as I set the timer on my phone, she scrambles to grab my laptop and reads so fast her eyes fly across the screen like she’s gone mad.

After that, we settle into our work.

Theodora wasn’t exaggerating the difficulty of Mr Ambrose’s latest assignment. Even my head start doesn’t give me much of an advantage when the subject matter is so dense. The complexity of the ideas we are forced to absorb and synthesise requires complete silence, and neither of us speaks for the next few hours.

Now and again, though, Theodora’s head rests against my shoulder as she concentrates on one of her books, or I find myself resting my hand on the low of her back, caressing it with a thumb while I re-read through whatever paragraph I’ve just written.

When we finish our essays, I make a trip down to the coffee machine to get us both drinks—a black coffee for me, a tea for Theodora.

I get back upstairs to find her resting her head against her pile of books, and she looks up with a sleepy smile when I hand her the cup of tea. I sit down next to her, and before either of us can take a sip of our drinks, I lean down to press a kiss to the soft flower of her lips.

“What was that for?” she asks.

“Because you’ve a mouth made for kissing.”

She presses her fingers to her lips. “I do?”

“Mm.” I brush the hair back from her shoulders with one hand. “And a body made for pleasuring and a mind made for admiring and a soul made for worshipping. You’re a creature of love, Theodora, and I want nothing more than to give you that love forever, for as long as we live.”

“You love me?” she says in a tone of surprise. “You’ve never mentioned it before.”

I shake my head in a forlorn gesture. “It takes a cruel goddess to mock her worshippers.”

She grabs me by my tie and yanks me to her imperiously.

“I love you too,” she murmurs against my mouth, and then she kisses me in a long, hungry kiss, a kiss that luxuriates and lingers and fills the golden silence of the library with soft wet sounds.

happens. I wake up in the middle of a deep and dreamless sleep, my heart pounding in my chest. I sit up and turn on the lamp on my bedside table, half-expecting to see a dark shadow looming at the foot of my bed.

There’s nothing there.

I look around the tidy room with a frown. What woke me up? I wasn’t having a nightmare—I barely ever dream at all. I wait, but there’s no noise, no movement. I’m alone in my room. I check my phone. It’s almost four in the morning.

I lie back down, my heart still hammering, and turn on my side. It’s been a couple of years now since I’ve had a panic attack, and I’ve never had one in my sleep. I don’t know if that’s even possible.

Forcing myself to take deep, long breaths, I remind myself that everything is alright. Eventually, I go back to sleep, and when I wake up, I’m completely fine.

I’m sitting in literature class, shoulder to shoulder with Theodora as we are both bent over our notebooks, practically transcribing Professor Elmahed’s lecture. A knock at the door startles everyone in the room, including Professor Elmahed, who looks up with a frown.

“Come in,” she calls.

The door opens, and Mr Clarke, Mr Ambrose’s personal assistant, apologises for interrupting her lesson. “Do you have Theodora Dorokhova?”

Everyone turns to look at Theodora, whose entire body goes stiff at my side. She raises her hand. “I’m here.”

“I’m so sorry for interrupting your lesson, Theodora, but Mr Ambrose would like to see you in his office.”

“Now?” Her voice is like I’ve never heard it before, small and frail, so frail it almost breaks.

It reminds me of her voice the first time I met her outside Mr Ambrose’s office when she was so slight and so delicate looking.

“Yes, Theodora, I’m sorry,” Mr Clarke says.

Theodora packs away her things. I watch her, clenching my fists on my lap to stop myself from taking her hand in mine, wrapping her in my arms. The expression on her face is one I’ve never seen before, confusion and a horrible fear that blanches the colour from her lips. She walks away, and I whisper, “See you later, Theo.”

She turns briefly to cast me a look full of surprise as if she’s forgotten I’m there, as if we’re strangers and she’s wondering how I know her name.

And then she crosses the classroom, and the door closes behind her, and she’s gone.