“Russian literature, as you’re likely aware, probes into the complexities and depths of the human soul. And since we are dealing with matters of the soul, I will tolerate no disruptions.” Professor Kroft’s entirely too attractive voice was the only sound in the room. “Let me be clear before we begin. If you are late, you will be locked out. If you leave, you will be locked out. The doors, which are now closed, are locked.”

He held us captivated with his arresting gaze as it scanned the hall, peering at all of us and none of us at once.

I ducked, my heart in my throat, my face flushed.

Oh my God.

It’s him.

It’s Mr. Leather-warehouse.

I forced myself to breathe, not meeting Taylor’s gaze as she inspected me. My hands were shaking. I gripped the desk.

What is wrong with me?

It was the shock. That’s what it was. That’s why I was behaving like a loon. Again. The temporary insanity had returned. I was overreacting. I just needed to . . . leave.

Leave!

But I couldn’t, not yet. He was speaking. If I left then I’d draw attention to myself.

Stay until the end of class, then leave!

Yes. Much better plan.

And act normal.

Impossible.

“What?” Taylor whispered at my side.

I frowned at her and whispered in return, “What what?”

“What’s impossible?”

Gah! I’d spoken aloud again without realizing.

I shook my head. “Sorry. Nothing. Ignore me.”

“You’re weird.” She giggled.

“Shhh.”

“Do you talk to yourself often?”

“Be quiet.”

“Ladies . . .?”

I stiffened, my blood pressure skyrocketing.

Oh no.

OH NO!

He was looking at us. He’d stopped lecturing and was looking right at us. His hands were on his narrow hips, one of his eyebrows was cocked in displeasure. Also, he was wearing a bowtie.

What the what?

A bowtie?

And yes, he looked hot in a bowtie. How was that even possible?

“Is there something you’d like to share with the rest of the class?”

“Sorry, Professor. We were just debating the finer details of . . .” Taylor glanced at the title of my book, “Eugene Onegin. It won’t happen again.” Taylor grinned and preened under the singular weight of his attention.

Meanwhile, I sunk lower in my chair, brought my hand to my forehead to obscure my face as much as possible without completely covering it, and shook my head quickly.

The silence that followed was deafening. I didn’t dare look up. I was still in the throes of my overreaction and I was sure my cheeks were on fire.

Professor Kroft broke the silence. “Your debate is timely, as Yevgeniy Onegin is the first book we’ll be discussing.”

I closed my eyes; his voice, the words he’d spoken hitting me square in the abdomen, driving the air from my lungs. He’d used the Russian pronunciation of Eugene. Life was not fair. Not only did he look good in leather pants, fabulous in a suit with a bowtie, was a world expert on Russian literature, but also he apparently spoke Russian. Flawlessly.

Flee! He is temptation incarnate! He will steal your soul with sexiness.

“Uh.” Taylor’s eyes darted around the room and finally, finally she shrank back.

“Tell me, Miss . . .?” He paused and I opened one eye, attempting to discern if he was waiting for me or Taylor to provide a last name. Thankfully, his steady gaze was locked on my classmate.

“Taylor Garrison,” she supplied, her voice cracking with nerves.

I wanted to shake my head at her in disgust, or shake some sense into her for volunteering a boldfaced lie. Instead, I kept my head down, hoping against hope he’d continue to target bigmouth Taylor.

“And Miss . . .?”

DAMMIT, DOSTOYEVSKY! Why did you have to be so tragic and compelling?

I said nothing, but I might have moaned in mental anguish.

“Miss?” he prompted again, an edge of harassed impatience stealing into the word.

I gathered a large bracing breath—because what else could I do?—and blurted, “Anna Harris.”

I waited, but he was silent again. This time the silence stretched much, much longer. It stretched for such a substantial length of time that most of the class turned in their seats to give me the once-over. After they gave me the once-over, they looked between the professor and me, then gave me a twice-over, and a thrice-over.

“Miss Harris,” he said finally, like he’d discovered something wonderful for him, and terrible for me.

I opened both my eyes, met the force of his, and grimaced. Yet I managed to choke out, “Professor Kroft.”

He smiled—teeth and everything—as he leaned backward onto the table behind him. He tilted his head to the side, crossed his arms, and pinned me with his stare. Rather, he paralyzed me with the twin-blue laser beams of sadism pointed at my soul.

Yep.

He recognized me.

And it was obvious he didn’t like me very much.

Perhaps he was merely irritated that he’d been interrupted on the first day of class, or perhaps he hadn’t liked my hurried departure all those months ago. I couldn’t figure out which of my regrettable actions were the culprit.

Either way, whatever the reason, I was in trouble.

“Tell me, Miss Harris, is Pushkin a precursor to the realism later found in the legendary Russian prose novels?”

“Uh,” my attention flickered to the side, to Taylor, who was watching me with a please-don’t-murder-me expression. She was terrified. For some reason, her terror lessened mine.

“I’m waiting, Miss Harris,” he said, demanding my attention once more, in a harsh tone that sent goosebumps racing up my arms and over my chest. “And I don’t like to be kept waiting.” This last part struck me as meaningful, because I had kept him waiting. I’d kept him waiting last February for twenty minutes before he’d given up and left.

But this wasn’t February and this room wasn’t a restaurant. I needed to answer, because everyone was waiting. Shaking my head, I blinked rapidly, endeavoring to clear the riot of flailing cobwebs from my mind, and repeated his question silently.

Is Pushkin a precursor to the realism later found in the legendary Russian prose novels?

Yes.

Yes, he is.

I nodded.

He frowned.

I flinched.

Say something. Answer him. You can do this. You love discussing this stuff.

“Um, so, realism. Yes.” I nodded again, my mind finally engaging. “Yes, Pushkin is a precursor to the realism found later in prose novels.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Why?” I parroted, my voice cracking.

His gaze grew hooded, his jaw slid to the side, his teeth scraping together. “Yes. Why?” The question was now a harsh staccato. Exacting. Punishing.

I answered without allowing myself to overthink, sensing that haste in responding was the only thing keeping me from being tossed out in abject humiliation. “Because he described the differences in social classes during his time. And not just easily discernible differences. He described their lives, everything from high society, to lower gentry, to peasants in the countryside. He displayed a proto-realist attitude later adopted by other authors.”

The last syllable of my last word seemed to echo in the room. Or maybe it echoed in my head. Once again, silence stretched.

Professor Kroft’s features had arranged themselves into a stoic mask as he continued to stare at me through half-lidded eyes. I was holding my breath. It might have been my imagination, but I was pretty sure half the class was as well.

Finally, he announced, “That is correct.”

His gaze shifted from mine, releasing me from the purgatory of his austere attention. “We may find examples of this attention to detail in his tour through Petersburg high-society life with Yevgeniy in the first chapter, and the bucolic descriptions of the provincial nobility,” he continued.

I took the opportunity to breathe.

My heart was still racing, but heady relief pumped through my veins. He could still toss me out. He could eject me from the class. He could ridicule and embarrass me.

But I didn’t think he would. At least, not today. My heart began a slow descent to the floor as I watched him pace in front of the class, waxing poetic about quotidian elements.

I had to drop the course.

I’d read the reality in his eyes when he’d challenged me. They’d glowed with a keen, sinister attentiveness. If I stayed, if I tried to finish the semester, he would make my life extremely unpleasant.

Embrace the wretchedness, Anna. Embrace it.

I’d just resigned myself to embracing wretchedness when I felt eyes on me again. I looked up from the sad faces I’d been doodling in my notebook and discovered I was, once again, the focus of the entire class and Professor Kroft.

“Miss Harris?” His tone was studiously polite. The politeness struck me as infinitely more dangerous than his palpable exasperation earlier.

“Yes?” I croaked, gripping the desk again, hoping he wasn’t about to toss me out of the lecture hall.

He held my gaze, and I swear one side of his mouth inched slightly upward with a knowing smirk, though his expression hadn’t altered.

“Please stay after class, Miss Harris.”

A low murmur rumbled through the hall at the professor’s demand framed as a request. Instinctively, I sunk lower in my seat, shying away from the multitude of eyes pointed at me, and gritted my teeth.

Great. Just . . . great.

Not even embracing the wretchedness could cheer me up.

Dammit, Dostoyevsky. Damn you to heck.