Blood of Zeus (Blood of Zeus #1) - Meredith Wild Page 0,2
noise.
The boy laughs awkwardly. “I’m just joking around.”
“I don’t care. Get out.”
He opens his mouth to argue when the professor points to the door.
“I won’t ask again. Get the hell out of my classroom.”
The fear is back, filling up the few tense minutes the boy takes to gather his things and walk out of the room with wounded confidence. The professor flashes a look my way that feels too intense to be an apology and makes me wonder if the smartass comment unnerved him even more than me.
The moment the door slams with the boy’s retreat, the professor doesn’t skip a beat. He launches into the life and times of Dante and the historical context of his works. I take notes and try to concentrate on his insights about the outcast from Florence who was, in some ways, like the professor himself. Deeper than he looked and willing to commit to the journey. At least that’s the overwhelming aura I get from our instructor. As I keep trying to decipher his intense looks, I worry I’m no different than every other undergrad here who’s fallen under his spell.
An hour later, when he rattles off the reading assignment and dismisses us, I’m almost relieved. I wait for the rows to empty before rising to leave. His back is turned as he erases his notes from the whiteboard. I’m nearly at the door when he says my name.
“Miss Valari.”
I turn.
“A moment of your time?”
I walk back to him, clutching the handle of my bag tightly. “Professor Kane.”
“Maximus,” he corrects. “That’s what everyone ends up calling me anyway.”
He leans against the desk beside the podium. A plastic Thor key chain dangles from the half-zipped pocket on the front of his soft-sided satchel. The bauble looks nothing like the man in front of me, but I can appreciate that he probably can’t escape the association following him everywhere he goes. Why fight it?
I answer with a small smile. “Okay.”
“Sitting in on this seminar requires approval. Forgive me, but I don’t remember approving you.”
My smile tightens. The memory of charming his TA to sign off on my registration request even though I lacked the prerequisites is still quite fresh in my mind.
“Matthew did. You were out of the office. He assured me everything was in order.”
He regards me thoughtfully for a moment. This close, I can appreciate his eyes, a true cerulean so vibrant, one might almost miss their shadows. Shadows are almost always made of secrets, I’ve learned. Shadows don’t scare me, but I rarely seek them out. But something makes me wish I knew what his were made of.
“I teach lower-level lit courses as well,” he says, interrupting my wandering thoughts. “How come I haven’t seen you before?”
“I’m a classics major.”
He nods quietly, looking me over once before averting his gaze quickly. “Sorry for putting you on the spot earlier. I didn’t realize who you were.”
“Thank you for defending me, I guess. I don’t need special treatment, though. My mom isn’t going to call the dean or anything.”
“That’s not why I did it. I don’t tolerate bullying in my classes. It’s remarkable how often I have to enforce it.”
I believe him and respect him even more for it.
“Thank you. Again.”
He leans forward and hands me a stapled stack of papers. “Don’t forget the syllabus.”
When I reach for it, our fingers graze. It’s so brief, I wonder if the contact even happened except for the sharp sensation racing up my arm. An odd kind of energy I haven’t experienced before—at least not from humans.
I widen my eyes and step back, pressing the syllabus against my chest. Our gazes lock, and for a minute I worry he’s felt it too. I swallow hard and try to think of something to say, but his wordless stare renders me speechless.
“See you Wednesday, Miss Valari.”
Chapter Two
Maximus
“Kane!”
Despite the crashing waves, the screeching seagulls, and the blaring rock music along Venice Beach this afternoon, my best friend’s shout is clear across Muscle Beach Gym’s weight pen. I look up from the machine I’ve been working for the last five minutes, crunching a frown as Jesse waves good-naturedly at the regulars taking turns on a punching bag.
“Mr. North,” I call back. “You’re late.”
“And your point is what?” Jesse adds a smirk to his drawl while rolling over in the wheelchair that’s practically an extension of him. At least to most around here. Not to me, the guy who remembers him without it.