The only thing worse than being a demon is being a Valari. Being both means I get to hear every whisper in the room as I make my way into the lecture hall and past clusters of students.
“That’s Kara Valari.”
“Why does she even bother?”
“They’re like the worst people.”
I find their faces as I go, not breaking my stride. Sometimes looking people in the eye is the only way to shut them up. They avert their gazes, one by one.
Whispers are easy to hide behind. So are the salacious remarks that no one can hear except me and the guys who’ve uttered them under their breath. I don’t even have to look at them to know I’m not interested. In their case, eye contact might just confuse the issue.
For the sake of everyone’s education, I climb the stairs to find a spot in the back of the hall so people will hopefully forget I’m here. As I take my seat, a blonde in front of me pretends to take a selfie. I’m definitely in the background. I can’t wait to read the caption.
I’ve been at Alameda University for three years, but for some, the novelty of sharing a class with anyone above D-list celebrity status never seems to wear off. The beginning of a new term is always the worst. My tolerance after any extended time off campus is dangerously low, and chances are high the Valari name is twisted up with some fresh Hollywood gossip, no less damaging for its brevity in the trash-news cycle.
Of course, I’m not the only one here who was born into a famous family. My grandfather was one of the most renowned screenwriters of his generation. The award statues on his mantel have been long forgotten. Now our family finds the spotlight more often than most, but for far less commendable reasons. Our reputation follows me around everywhere I go, as inescapable as my biology.
I fumble in my expensive leather backpack for a notebook and pen, exhaling a tense breath. I silently reach for a degree of self-control that doesn’t come naturally, as raw emotion tries to claw its way past my cool exterior.
I lift my head at the sound of a door slamming, which silences the whispers.
Even from my elevated vantage, I’m fascinated by the towering height of the man who paces into the lecture hall. His expression is hidden with his downward gaze. His mouth is obscured by a golden beard that matches hair tamed in a knot at his nape. Though I expect it’s coming, the man needs no introduction.
Within seconds of his arrival, the silence gives way to a hushed hiss, the prolonged echo of his name on students’ lips, where mine was moments ago.
Maximus.
Professor Maximus Kane reaches the broad wooden podium at the front of the room in a few long strides. There he carefully deposits a stack of materials from his arms. A familiar shiver of intrigue ribbons through me. I saved this course for my senior year, delaying both the best and worst for last. The best being the highlight of my foray into academia. The worst being the very different life that’ll begin the moment I graduate—a life that will be anything but enlightened.
Towering over the podium, he clears his throat loudly, silencing the last of the hushed whispers. Still, his gaze is cast downward toward his notes, affording his audience a moment more to take in his impressive physique. I nip at the inside of my lip because I’m not immune. The only things professorial about Professor Kane are his dark-rimmed glasses and boring sweater-vest, which can’t be anything but wildly sexy stretched over his white collared shirt that looks like it might give at the seams if he moved too suddenly.
“Welcome to Advanced Studies in Medieval Literature,” he begins, his voice deep and void of humor. “If you’re here, you should have completed all the prerequisites for an in-depth reading of Dante’s Divine Comedy, which is where we’ll be spending the majority of our time. If you’ve managed to get this far in your major by skimming, you should reconsider whether this is the course for you. My expectations of your effort here are commensurate with any other senior seminar. Don’t waste my time, and I won’t waste yours.”
I clip the flesh between my teeth a little harder, creating a distracting throb of pain. I’ve never shied away from hard-ass professors. In fact, I’ve sought them out, eager for the challenge. Topping the class and