Page 2 of Muse (The Forbidden Hearts #1)

SOPHIE

H eavy metal doors slam shut behind me, the sound ricocheting off brick walls like a warning shot. I flinch.

God, I hate this place.

The aura of teenage angst hits me like a tidal wave as I step into the school entryway, the overpowering scent of cheap perfume, old gum, and hormones percolating in the air.

Lockers rattle, teenagers laugh and shout, and someone drops a textbook loud enough to make half the hallway jump.

I press my lips together and exhale sharply, willing myself not to turn around and walk right back out.

It’s my final semester of high school. Four more months and I’ll be free.

I should be excited. Instead, I feel like my freedom is being dangled in front of me, just out of reach. The universe is laughing at me, dragging this torture out as long as possible.

It’s not even supposed to be this way. I should’ve graduated already. If my parents hadn’t insisted on holding me back in elementary school for “emotional maturity,” I’d be long gone by now, but no. I’m eighteen and still stuck under the heavy weight of my parent’s rules and disappointment.

I can vote. I can join the military. But I can’t be myself, can’t express my true feelings, or even stay out past ten most nights without them calling it a rebellion.

My parents thrive on control, so until I leave their home, I’ll be forced to submit to their ridiculous rules and ideals of who and what I should be.

So I smile when I’m supposed to. I play the part, trying my best to be the perfect daughter. As far as they’re aware, I follow the rules. But I’m drowning under the weight of it all, fighting to break through for a breath of fresh air.

I'm quite jaded, you could say, especially for my age.

Being the oldest daughter comes with soul-crushing responsibilities.

Ones that grip any sense of childhood by the neck and squeeze until said innocence is dead.

Younger siblings, on the other hand, can do no wrong. My sister is a perfect example.

I honestly think my little sister could kill someone and my parents would be right there, cleaning up the mess and handing her an alibi.

I don’t blame her. It’s not her fault. But the difference in how we’re treated is impossible to ignore.

Some days, it feels like we were raised by completely different people.

Same names and faces, but entirely different rules and expectations.

I don’t hold it against her, but I can’t lie and say it never bothers me. I see it. I feel the difference.

I shift my backpack strap higher on my shoulder and begin weaving through the crowded hallway, searching for my best friend. Sal is hard to miss—stunning brunette with pouty lips, tanned skin, and legs that belong on a runway.

More importantly, though, she's the most positive person I've ever met. Her liveliness feeds my soul in a way that nothing else does. Her jokes keep me from teetering over the edge when I get too close. I'm forever grateful for her friendship .

She also seems to be late, as usual. Nowhere to be found. Neither of us are known for being punctual. I pull out my phone and shoot off a quick text.

Sophie : I'll meet you in class! Please don't leave me hanging today. I've been dying without you.

I slip my phone back into my jeans pocket, grateful for the newly fashionable wide-leg style and their huge pockets.

They’re so comfortable and flattering, too.

I weave through the halls, now packed with hormone-ridden bodies and make my way to my first period class, English.

It’s the only class Sal and I have together, which makes it almost enjoyable.

The room’s half full when I get there. I head straight for my usual seat in the back, toss my bag in the one next to it to save it for Sal, and slide down low enough to avoid eye contact with literally anyone.

Students quickly fill the classroom, each one not sparing even a glance my way.

Fine by me. I’m an introvert and I keep my circle small, and by that, I mean it’s just Sal and me.

She has other friends, but none come before me.

I, on the other hand, am more than happy to spend my free time curled up in bed binge-watching TV or at my drawing table, charcoal pencil in hand.

I open my sketchbook and start dragging a pencil across the page, not drawing anything specific. Just lines and movement. It keeps my hands busy, keeps my brain from short-circuiting.

By the time the bell rings, there is still no teacher, which surprises me. Mrs. Whitsell usually harps on us all about the importance of being on time. Sal finally slips in with five seconds to spare, looking effortlessly perfect in a skirt I couldn’t pull off even in my dreams.

“Babe,” she breathes out before blowing me a kiss as she drops into her seat. “Sorry I'm late. I've missed you.”

“I missed you too. Even though you ditched me for croissants and hot French guys. ”

“I brought you fancy chocolate! Forgive me?”

I roll my eyes, though my mouth begins watering. “That depends. What kind of chocolate?”

“The expensive kind.” She winks.

I raise an eyebrow. “You live to spoil me.”

She grins and bumps her shoulder into mine. “We’ll chat all about it at lunch. I want a full winter break recap. Don’t leave anything out.”

“You mean my thrilling schedule of avoiding my parents, sleeping, and trying not to spiral into an existential crisis? So exciting.”

Before she can respond, the door opens.

And just like that, the room tilts and my stomach drops like I’ve just stepped off a cliff. Because walking in, looking deliciously tall, dark, and handsome, is him . A man I thought I’d never see again.

I rub my eyes, thinking I must not be seeing clearly. It can’t be.

But yeah, it’s him.

The guy from the bar. The one with the messy, dark curls and those perfect dimples on his ridiculously handsome face. The one with whom I’d danced the night away, before it abruptly ended and I never even got his name.

And now he’s here, in my high school classroom, striding toward the desk at the front of the room. My entire body is frozen still, my pulse pounding in my ears.

No fucking way.

I take him in fully, here, under the bright fluorescent lights.

I carefully take in every detail I missed that night.

He’s just as handsome now, maybe even more so.

He has to be over six feet tall, with dark hair and even darker eyes that look like pools of midnight.

His body is muscular yet lean, just the right amount without being bulky.

I feel my jaw dropping just in time to snap it shut again .

He takes his spot in the front of the room, placing his brown leather satchel and clearly loved coffee mug on the bare desk.

I narrow my eyes, trying to make out the words on the thermos.

From where I’m sitting, I swear it says “Worst Teacher Ever,” and I stifle a laugh before it can breach my lips.

He stands to face us and spends a moment taking us all in. I’m almost positive this is the quietest this class, or any class, has ever been. He has captured our full attention without speaking even one word. Quite the accomplishment.

He scans the room, taking in each of us, and then his eyes land on mine.

And I see it. The recognition. His gaze zeros in on me, his brow furrowing in concentration. I watch as the wheels turn in his mind as he tries to place me. And I can tell the moment he does, the moment he realizes.

He knows it’s me.

Then, with a shake of his head, he schools his expression and clears his throat, tearing his eyes from mine.

“Good morning,” he says, his voice deep and familiar in a way that makes my stomach flip. “My name is Mr. Hayes. I’ll be taking over for Mrs. Whitsell this semester.”

I can’t breathe. Mr. Hayes.

Of course that’s his name. Of course the guy I’d spent the last four months fantasizing about, hoping I’d run into again one day, would turn out to be a teacher. My teacher.

“I recently moved here,” he continues, his voice casual like he didn’t just drop a bomb into my reality. “This job opened up at the perfect time, so here I am. I’m still settling in, but I’m looking forward to getting to know you all.”

I can’t tear my eyes from him. My eyes track every movement he makes, even the most minuscule. The tension in his jaw and shoulders makes it obvious he’s just as rattled as I am. Either that, or he’s got first-day nerves.

He grabs a sheet of paper from his desk and begins to call roll. I brace myself to hear my name.

“Sophie Wilson?”

The sound of my name on his lips is almost my undoing. I forget how to speak.

“Here,” I choke out, the word barely audible. I clear my throat and try again. “Here.”

His eyes lift from the paper and meet mine. The air between us is charged with tension so thick I could cut it with a knife.

He blinks, holding eye contact for just a moment longer, then looks away, moving on. Or trying to, at least.

Sal turns back to me, eyebrows raised in question. “Okay, what the hell was that about?”

“What was what?” I say, flipping my sketchbook closed. I keep my voice low.

“You practically short-circuited when he said your name,” she whispers.

“I did not.”

“You so did. And he looked at you like you’re a ghost or something. Do you know him?”

“No.”

She stares at me, her eyes drilling holes into the side of my face. “I call BS.”

I stare at the desk in front of me like it’ll offer up salvation. My body feels both hot and cold all at once. All I can hear is his voice, speaking my name, on repeat in my head. It was a beautiful sound.

He finishes roll call and sets the list on his new desk, clapping his hands to get our attention. Though he already has mine.

“Alright, class. We are starting with Romeo and Juliet . There is a box of copies at the front.” I can’t help but notice the way his throat bobs as he speaks, my gaze fixed on him. “I want you to read the first act today and take notes. We’ll discuss tomorrow.”

He leans back against the desk and crosses one leg in front of the other, looking effortlessly cool. He lifts his coffee mug to his lips, taking one slow, tantalizing sip. His eyes meet mine again, and the weight of his gaze has me squirming in my seat.

Students start rising from their seats and Sal grabs my arm. “Let’s go, Juliet.”

“I swear to god,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“What? He’s hot and bothered, and you’re two seconds away from drooling on the desk. I’m just doing the math.”

“Stop it,” I quip. I laugh, though, knowing she’s just teasing me.

We head to the front of the classroom and I reach into the box, my fingers brushing against someone else’s.

His.

I yank my hand back like I’ve been burned. He pauses, eyes searching mine, then picks up a copy and holds it out to me. I take it, being careful to avoid touching him again, and whisper a quick “thanks.”

I scurry back to my seat, falling into it with a sigh, and flip open the book to page one.

Two households, both alike in dignity…

I stare at the page like it might give me the answers I seek, help me make sense of this situation. That he is really here and is going to be teaching me.

Sal clears her throat, grabbing my attention. “You gonna tell me what’s up?”

“Later.”

She smirks, “Good. I’m so here for this. Hot teacher crush it is.”

I try to focus for the rest of class, but my brain has turned to actual mush. All I can think of is the way he held me as we danced, the way his hands felt on my hips .

I’ve searched for him on social media, hoping to run into him again one day. In all my fantasizing, I never imagined seeing him here. Like this.