Blood of Zeus (Blood of Zeus #1) - Meredith Wild Page 0,13

clears his throat and begins to speak.

“So Virgil and Dante are at the gates of hell. Charon is ready to ferry the souls of the damned across the river. Yet Virgil claims they all pass eagerly. Why is that?”

I twist my fingers together until I’ve wrung the blood from them. The urge to speak and have his eyes on me goes to war with attracting everyone else’s attention. That and I’ve already decided that interacting with the professor, even from the back row, is more dangerous than his passion for the text. I’m far too intrigued by him.

As if he can hear my unspoken thoughts, he finally meets my eyes in the crowd. I think he purposefully cast his stare out for mine, lingering long enough to make my blood rush. My nerve endings tingle. My senses careen.

“Kara?”

My name from his mouth shouldn’t affect me the way it does in the wake of his reading. Still, my heart slams against my ribs. Once, twice, before I find my voice in my suddenly arid throat.

“Well…Virgil is explaining that hell isn’t a punishment. It’s what the souls of the damned truly long for. It’s a deliberate choice.” I swallow hard before continuing. “Which is why the damned don’t deserve Dante’s sympathy.”

I’ve lingered on the passage since I read it days ago. Hearing it pass through Maximus’s lips—lips I’ve spent too much time thinking about lately—almost turns it into an accusation. Except there’s no way for him to know how the topic affects me. Snide remarks from my classmates aside, he could never understand my own turmoil about the choices I’m going to make. Choices I’m expected to make.

He nods briefly. “Very well put.”

I exhale a breath, enjoying a surge of satisfaction as he goes on to wrap up the lecture, noting the next set of reading assignments.

“If anyone has any questions, or if you’d like to begin exploring themes for the first term paper that’s due in a few weeks, I will have office hours immediately after this class on Mondays and Wednesdays, as well as Tuesday afternoons. I’m on the fourth floor of the Archer Building.”

He dismisses the class, and as much as I want to disappear as swiftly as I can, the traffic jam makes it impossible. I wait impatiently as every hot-blooded human takes their time filing out of the hall. As I finally rise to leave, Maximus’s voice carries through the hall.

“Kara. Wait a minute. Please.”

I turn, practically compelled to the action by the rough vibration of his last word. The door closes behind the last student leaving, but I hardly notice. I try not to blatantly gawk at Maximus, propped against the edge of his desk. His long legs are bent, straining the khaki fabric containing them. A few strands of hair fall loose around his face from the messy knot at his nape. So casual and imposing all at once, except his hands, which he uses to clutch the desk tightly like he might fall.

I carry myself down the steps, slowly, enjoying the view. “What is it?” I ask almost breathlessly.

“Why do you always sit in the back?” His voice is restrained, like there are a hundred questions resting beneath that one.

I think a moment about which version of the truth I should give him. Or which lie.

“People like to take pictures of me. You’ve already seen firsthand that having me in class can be a distraction. I stay in the back so it’s less disruptive. I can’t help who I am, but I’d rather it not get in the way of my education.”

He taps the toe of his leather shoe twice. “You are a distraction.”

I wince. “What exactly are you trying to say?”

He shakes his head slightly. “I mean… I can see how it could be worse. It’s just a shame. I think you’re one of the only students really engaged in the class, and it’s hard to have intelligent discourse with you when people are more interested in…”

“Selfies? Shouting insults?”

“Yes. And I’ve seen the way people look at you.”

We share a long stare. The moment drags until every air molecule in the room feels like a nuclear-charged atom. His eyes and their potent blue fires only fuel my impression. Instantly I realize he’s not just talking about the hecklers. The attention I attract isn’t always made of spite.

“Like the way you look at me?”

I don’t know why I say it, except maybe I need to know how to interpret these interactions between us. Do