Page 71 of Twisted Proposal

"He's never touched me," I said. "He's just a dick that likes to put down students he sees as beneath him to feel good about himself. He's a bully and an asshole, and after the semester ends, I'm never going to see him again."

I waved it away like it was no problem at all and just a minor inconvenience, though the professor's words still stung like salt in an open wound.

Artem didn't see it that way.

Anger radiated off of him like heat from a furnace. His face was still completely neutral, but there was something in his eyes that was terrifying.

A darkness.

A promise of violence that had my stomach clenching with both fear and, shamefully, excitement.

"What's his name?" he asked and immediately I knew how much I had messed up. His fingers tightened around mine, not painful, but inescapable.

The server came to deliver our food and refill our drinks. She was quick, efficient, and practically ran from our table as quickly as possible, her shoes squeaking against the marble floor.

Part of me wanted to call after her and tell her to take me with her.

Instead, I was stuck. Unless I wanted my professor to get one hell of a beating and know it was my fault, and then regret making everything so much worse, I had to change the subject.

"This looks great. Do you come here often?" I asked, batting my eyelashes, a desperate attempt at distraction. I leaned forward, letting my breasts press against the edge of the table.

Artem didn't move. His face was still an unreadable mask, but his eyes burned with an intensity that scorched me from within. His jaw clenched, a muscle there twitching beneath taut skin.

"I asked you a question, Viktoria. We've been over this." His voice was a deadly whisper. "When I ask you a question, I expect an answer."

So much for that.

He stared at me unblinkingly and for a moment, I met his challenge and stared back.

I kept my expression neutral, but I didn't blink.

He didn't get to win every single argument; he didn't get to solve all of my problems just to make more.

The same server came to deliver another plate. Her arm was outstretched to place the plate down when it slipped from her fingers as she mumbled something about a gift from the kitchen. The plate dropped and fell to the floor, shattering. Some kind of butter-sauced dish splattered across the dark marble surface.

The poor girl stared up in horror and looked like she was about to cry, her lips trembling, eyes glistening with unshed tears.

To my surprise, Artem gave her a gentle smile and said, "Don't worry about it. Those plates are heavy. I'm sure it happens to everyone."

Then he waved over the maître d', whose face was white as a ghost as his jowls trembled, sweat beading on his forehead.

The server opened her mouth to say something when the manager came and rushed her away and a team of four busboys were there to immediately clean up the mess. They really were terrified of him, and now he wanted my professor's name.

"Viktoria," he said as a warning, the single word a lash of command. "I won't ask again."

If I gave it to him, then whatever happened to the professor would be my fault. What was going to happen to me if I didn't? Would I end up over Artem's knee again, his palm reddening my flesh until tears streamed down my face and shameful pleasure bloomed between my thighs?

He wouldn't drop it.

I knew that much.

Would he try to figure out who it was?

Would I be responsible for the pain and suffering of other professors?

"Viktoria." My name on his tongue was low, barely a hiss, the sound a snake produced before it struck.

"Professor Stevens," I said with a sigh, defeat settling in my stomach like a stone. "Artem, please, let me handle this. If you try to scare him or something, it will only make things worse."