Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 112849 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 564(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112849 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 564(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
I immediately scan the room for the right seat, though I don’t have many options with only two left by the front. I glance quickly at the professor, just to make sure he’s there, and in that quick glance I feel like I’ve gotten the wind knocked out of me. Which is weird, since vampires usually leave me with an angry, disgusted feeling bordering on primal rage. It doesn’t matter how compelling, how sexual, how otherworldly they are, I see past all of that and am only struck by how depraved, feral, and horrific they are. I see them for what they really are: immoral, monstrous killers.
And staring at Professor Valtu Aminoff, the one who inspired Dracula, I see him for what he really is while he takes my fucking breath away.
He’s leaning over his desk, staring down at something on it—maybe his phone, maybe the curriculum, but I have no doubt that his attention is on every person that walks in his class, even if he doesn’t look like it. For better or worse, my attention is surely on him.
I’ve seen his picture before so I knew what to expect: a tall, well-built man with dark hair and strong features suited to another century. But seeing him in person is something else entirely.
To start, yes he’s tall and well-built but he’s more than that. He’s wearing dark charcoal jeans and a white dress shirt that shows a hint of his chest, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows in a haphazard way that makes him look like he got dressed in a hurry. His forearms aren’t as pale as most vampires, as if he was born with a slightly golden sheen to him. From the way he’s leaning on the desk, the veins and muscles on his forearm pop, showcasing the supernatural strength that he would naturally have.
His shoulders are broad, curving into his shirt, chest wide, biceps taking up the bulk of his sleeves, and I’d have to place him at six-foot-two. Despite his height and how well-muscled he is, he’s not bulky. He’s still quite lean with a lot of length in his limbs, a strange sort of elegance that might be the result of him being a vampire or it might just be him.
Then there is his face. A thick head of black hair, wavy, that falls long, almost past his chin, the kind of hair you want to run your fingers through. His brows are low, naturally arched and dark, harboring deep-set brown eyes, framed by long lashes. Nose is aquiline, like mine, but suits him so much better, mouth wide, lips full, a strong chin. He’s clean shaven but I can tell he’ll have a five o’clock shadow by the time the day is done.
To every student walking in the class, no matter their gender, they would be enthralled by this man. I am sure his nickname here is Professor Hottie, or Professore Bello or something. But they would all chalk up their attraction to him on the fact that when you put all his pieces together, he ends up being an extremely attractive, sexually magnetic, charismatic human being. Who wouldn’t look? But if they could see below the surface, see the life experiences of a 300 year old, plus being the world’s deadliest predator, and having the gift of the supernatural at their whim, they would understand why Professor Aminoff has such a pull on them.
I mean, he’s having a pull on me and I know exactly what I’m dealing with. And I realize this too late, because as I’m about to take my seat, as I’m about to avert my eyes, he looks up at me directly and his eyes meet mine.
In that second I am defenseless, pinned in place, and it’s only when he looks back down at his desk that I feel I can breathe again. He had me there. He really had me for that one second and I couldn’t do a damn thing about it. I stared directly into his dark eyes and I felt like giving everything up for him, I wanted to lie down on his desk, expose my neck, and offer myself to him.
In that second, I was no longer a witch with magic at her disposal. No longer the slayer I was trained to be. No longer the hunter. I was the hunted and I was his prey and I was happy about it.
But then all sense came back to me, followed by panic. He didn’t see past my glamor, did he? Does he know that I’m a witch, does he know who I truly am?
How the fuck am I going to do my job when he has me wanting to bend over for him the very first time we make eye contact?
I swallow those thoughts down and try my best to disappear into my role. Luckily if he’s paying attention to me, which I am sure he is, I could easily chalk up my fast heart rate and flushed cheeks to being nervous on my first day of school.