Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 147801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
The PowerPoint slides turn on and he starts the lecture, his voice making my headache pound harder, more persistently that my vision blurs. My wound pulses in annoying frequency, and I suppress the urge to rip the fucking stitches out and dig my knife into it.
The longer he talks in that smooth, slightly austere tone, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world, the more murderous I turn.
How dare he show up in front of me?
How can he be so damn…detached?
I slide my pen on the paper back and forth, back and forth.
As if I’m summoning a demon.
The whole class hangs on his every word, falling over each other to answer any questions he asks.
Bunch of fucking fools.
They’re all charmed by his looks, his eloquent manner of speaking, and the commanding way he carries himself. But none of them seems to see the monster lurking within.
Then again, I do use my looks as well, so I’m in no position to judge, but come on. The fucker is a literal criminal who’s teaching criminal law.
Usually, I’d answer all questions and impress the professor, but I’ve just been sliding the pen on my notebook while keeping him in my sight the entire time.
There’s this unfathomable itch beneath my skin, a nonsensical thought, that if I don’t pay attention, he might jump me again.
Even if we’re in a class full of people.
My head hurts worse the more I watch him moving effortlessly, speaking confidently.
Being all put together.
I want to ruin that.
Ruin him.
Break him the fuck up.
“Now, when we talk about actus reus, the physical act of committing a crime, it’s important to remember that it's not just about the action itself, but the context in which it happens.” He walks the length of the podium, speaking in a monotone voice. “Was there intent? Did the defendant have the necessary mens rea, the guilty mind? Without both elements, you don’t have a crime. Let’s take rape, for example.”
My pen screeches to a halt on the notebook as he continues to address the class.
“The act of sexual penetration is clearly the physical component, but it’s the mental state that determines the severity and nature of the charge. Consent—or lack thereof—is crucial here. If the accused knew, or should have known, that consent was absent, the question becomes: was there willful disregard for the victim’s autonomy? Was there an intent to dominate, to exert power?
“Rape as a crime isn’t just about physical violence; it’s about the control, the manipulation, and the disregard for the victim’s agency. And this is where it becomes complex, because consent, and whether it was freely given, is often a matter of perception, a gray area that must be examined carefully. We need to ask ourselves: did the defendant act in a way that violates the very essence of someone else’s bodily autonomy?”
The pen breaks in my hand, and I let it fall on the notebook as his eyes flash toward me, deep mockery lying within.
He’s enjoying this.
The prick is having the best time of his life reminding me of the only humiliation I’ve ever experienced.
He’s rubbing it in, ripping open the stitches Kill sutured and thrusting his fingers inside the wound, toying and making me feel every move.
The lecture is a damn hassle. My head feels like it’ll explode even after he moves on to another subject.
So when it ends, I’m ready to leave.
To gather information, form a bulletproof plan, and come back to face him in better physical and mental capacity.
Notebook in hand, I trail after my other classmates, listening to the girls giggling and whispering amongst each other about the ‘hot-as-fuck’ professor.
And I want to bash their heads in.
Stupid fucking idiots with no sense of recognizing danger or predators—
“Stay behind, Carson.”
My spine prickles at the disturbingly calm voice. He’s not even looking at me, his attention on his laptop, and I consider ignoring him.
I’m not in the mood for a face-off, and I’m certainly having more murderous urges this fine morning.
But then again, Gareth Carson would never ignore a professor. And I never pull away from a challenge.
With a sigh, I step to the side, letting the others filter past me.
Some of my classmates give me a fleeting look, many of them smiling inside at seeing the resident golden boy being hated by the hotshot new professor. People don’t really like it when you hog the attention, especially if they’re incompetent fools who could’ve never reached that height.
So they wish for your downfall—they fantasize about it.
As the last of the students leave, silence fills the vast lecture hall, along with the pounding in my head.
A constant fucking pressure that’s clouding my vision.
Kayden doesn’t move to close the door—protocol for sure. He wouldn’t do anything that would get him fucked all the way to Sunday at such a prestigious university.