Nocticadia: A Dark Academia Gothic Romance

“Have I answered your endless stream of questions?”

Not really, but I didn’t want to annoy him with the barrage still kicking around inside my head. After all, the objective was to flirt, not piss him off. “Yes. Thank you.”

When he hoisted his leather bag over his head, crossing it over his chest, I caught a glimpse of the scar on his neck, reminding me the man had little reason to trust any of the students at the school, particularly a first year like me. He’d been branded, both physically and by rumor, thickening his armor. Making him harder to crack. That he bothered to entertain my questions at all was surprising. “Stay out of trouble, Curious Moth,” he said, as he strode for the door.

Curious Moth.

A nickname.

A fitting one, too, given the fact that I had no intentions of avoiding the flame.

“Miss Vespertine, a word, if you will,” Professor Bramwell said, as I reached the door.

“Of course.”

The class cleared out, and once again, Spencer shot me a glance full of disapproval.

As Professor Bramwell gathered up his notes, I forced myself to ignore the way his muscles bulged at his biceps whenever he bent his arm, or the way he’d rolled up his sleeves to expose the map of veins in his forearms. And those hands. Hands that looked both delicate and barbaric, like they could gently wring the very life out of you. They were handsome hands, with trim nails and strong but slender fingers that I could imagine wielding a scalpel with utmost precision. An artist, no doubt.

To flirt with him, even intellectually, I’d have to allow myself to appreciate these things about him. Allow myself to be attracted to a man who was otherwise off-limits. A man that I imagined was powerful enough to have me kicked out of the school faster than I could say elitist privilege. And what then? If that happened, I’d never discover the truth about my mother.

“I want to apologize for the other night in the library,” he said. “I didn’t mean to speak so crass.”

“It’s fine. Crass is polite where I’m from.”

“And where is that again?” The flexing of his left hand invited a momentary distraction.

“Covington.”

“Interesting.”

“How so?”

“You don’t strike me as particularly hostile.” His eyes reminded me of pennies in a flame, a searing metallic gaze that warmed my blood.

“I have a feisty side.”

“I don’t doubt that.” And just like that, an invitation to flirt. Whether intentional, or not, I couldn’t tell, but it didn’t matter. It was an opportunity to begin chipping at his armor.

Flirt, Lilia. Say something back. Something witty, not stupid, or awkward. “It’s rather presumptuous of you, though. Assuming that, because I’m from a bad area I should be automatically hostile.”

“The fight response is an ancient part of our defense mechanism that has allowed us to adapt, defend. Survive. I’m certain it’s served you well.”

“You’re speaking science again.”

His lip twitched as if he might smile, but didn’t. “Always.” He leaned in, and I could smell the warm cinnamon on his breath over the delicious spice of his cologne. “I didn’t say it was a bad thing.” His brow winged up as he straightened himself and shoved another notebook into his bag. “That will be all.”

At one point during the lecture, his eyes caught mine, and something strange stirred in my stomach. His stare lingered with intensity, forcing me to look away, and when I did, I noticed Spencer’s glancing between Bramwell and me.