Phoebe walked in a daze behind the secretary, a Mrs. Lintz or Luds or something, as she showed Phoebe to her quarters. Most of the teaching staff stayed on campus in rooms similar to the dorm during term. It was tradition, droned on Mrs. L-something as she chatted about Phoebe needing to fill out some final paperwork and made more pronouncements on tradition and the way things were done at the school.

Phoebe barely missed crashing into the woman’s back when she stopped in front of a heavy wooden door, with a worn brass handle.

“Here you are, Professor Pringle.”

“Call me Phoebe, please.”

“No. It’s tradition to call staff by their formal titles, Professor Pringle.”

“Thank you, Mrs.…” said Phoebe genially as she held out her hand.

“Mrs. Ludtz,” responded the woman crisply as she disdainfully ignored Phoebe’s outstretched hand.

“Thank you, Mrs. Ludtz.”

Phoebe took the woman’s measure. Her severe demeanor and abrupt, judgmental way of talking gave you the impression she was much older. Yet, upon closer inspection, Phoebe wouldn’t put the woman at being over forty-five years old. Of course, the tight bun, bulky cardigan and serviceable shoes didn’t help, thought Phoebe. Perhaps if the woman warmed to her, she would recommend a fun makeover. Phoebe always felt that a fabulous pair of shoes and the right shade of lipstick did wonders for a girl’s outlook on life.

Mrs. Ludtz’s sharp voice interrupted Phoebe’s musings. “I have left a copy of your schedule and a map of the school grounds on your desk for you. Classes are over for the day but begin promptly at 8:00 am tomorrow. You have a meeting with the English Department head at 7:00 am. Most of the female staff are more mature and married, so, of course, they live off campus, so you are the only one dormed here for the moment.” The censorship in the woman’s voice was unmistakable.

It was with relief that Phoebe closed the door behind the disagreeable woman and leaned on it. Kicking off her high heels, she took two steps and face-planted onto the small, neatly-made twin bed. After a moment, she turned on her back and stared, sightlessly up at the ceiling.

What the hell had just happened?

Never in her life had she been spoken to that way. She honestly didn’t think men still spoke to women like…like…that!

Good god!

The worse part of it all was instead of it causing a call to arms from her inner feminine warrior it had made her feel…well…warm. Hot, really.

Good god!

And the way the man looked. She honestly didn’t think men looked like…like…that!

He was a marble statue of a Roman centurion come to life. All chiseled jaw and harsh, beautiful angles. Those strong shoulders! The way he looked in his blue uniform. There were so many medals on his chest, she got dizzy from staring at all the flashes of color as she tried to memorize their pattern so she could look them up later. His short haircut only emphasized his high cheekbones and beautiful, deep blue eyes. And when he spoke, his voice was dark and commanding, as if he was used to everyone in the room standing there just waiting to obey his every utterance.

He was arrogant. Condescending. An ass. A sexist…Marine.

He was also tall. And handsome. And…sexy as fuck. The kind of man who grabbed you by the hair to tilt your head back for a kiss. Who took what he wanted without asking.

Good god. She was fucked.

Phoebe gave herself another mental shake. No. She had an assignment to complete. The owner of the newspaper was watching her on this one. She needed to stay focused. She needed to remember why she was here.

She needed to stay far away from Lieutenant Colonel Michael Lawson…Commander.

* * *

Phoebe surveyed the room. She had interviewed people in prison who had a cozier cell than this. The room was spartan to say the least, containing only the bare necessities. The room looked to be as old as the university itself, even the windows had that distorted wobble of turn-of-the century glass. Apparently, even the teachers were subjected to rigid, military conditions.

Ah, well. At least it had a private bathroom and shower and it was only for a week or two, enough time for her to poke around and see what she could learn about the suspicious deaths without rousing suspicion herself.

Now that she had passed the first crucial test and was accepted as an assistant professor, it was time to tackle the gruesome task of looking through the files Henry had provided. They contained information and photos of the women as well as the autopsy report and photos. Phoebe had delayed doing this necessary part until she was certain she could infiltrate the school. No point in upsetting herself if in the end she couldn’t write the story.

Sitting cross-legged on the bed, Phoebe opened her laptop and took out the two files on the murdered women.

Opening the first one, she was startled to see a striking resemblance…to herself.

Ms. Annie Porter had dark hair and favored red lipstick judging by both her photo in the file as well as the social media profile that was still up and that Phoebe was flipping through. She’d been only twenty-years old and the girlfriend of one of the midshipmen when she was found naked and strangled. According to the autopsy report, there was nothing sexual about her murder. As Phoebe continued to read, her hand flew to her mouth in shock. Oh god!

Phoebe quickly grabbed the other file. Again noticing a strong resemblance to her own features, she flipped to the autopsy report for Mary Bruen, the professor she had just replaced. It had the same horrible note.

Both women had been strangled.

Both were found naked with a strange somewhat satanic symbol carved into their chests.

Neither was sexually assaulted.

Both had their livers removed…the organ was not recovered at the scene.

Phoebe shuddered as images of every Jack the Ripper documentary she had ever seen plagued her.

It was one thing to report on a murder.

It was another when both women bore an uncomfortable resemblance to yourself, but it was quite another when it was assumed the murderer carved out and ate each woman’s liver!

She needed a break…and a stiff drink.

Putting aside her own research for the night, Phoebe looked over her schedule and started to jot down some notes for a lesson plan. She would have to play the game of being Professor Pringle if she wanted to last long enough to find out the truth about the deaths of those two poor women! And the thought that word would get back to Michael about what an amazing, competent teacher she was didn’t even cross her mind…nope…not even once.

* * *

After working late into the night, Phoebe stripped off her clothes and finally fell on top of the bed, dressed only in her panties, too exhausted to put on pajamas. Sleep did not come easily though. Visions of a tall, uniformed Marine, forcing her to bend over his desk, swam before her eyes. She bit her lip and moaned as she imagined him tearing her skirt off and kicking her feet wide to position his own hips behind her. She could hear the sound of him lowering his zipper as if he were really in the room. Her hand drifted across her flat stomach to rest between her thighs. Dipping her fingers beneath the edge of her panties, she raised her knees up. She imagined the scrape from the fabric of his uniform against her soft skin as he stepped closer. The feel of his large, warm hands on her lower back as he held her down. Could feel the press of his cock against her pussy.

Phoebe’s fingers moved in swift circles over her clit. Faster and faster. Increasing the pressure. Her hips rising off the bed.

He thrust forward. Impaling her. So thick and big she cries out from the pain of the intrusion.

Phoebe clenched her eyes closed as she let out a soft keen in the silent room. Coming to the thought of Michael forcing himself on her.

Lowering her hips, she haphazardly tossed a corner of the blanket over her body, thoughts of an arrogant Marine lulling her into a restive sleep.

* * *

Phoebe sat up in bed, looking about the quiet, unfamiliar room, unsure of what just woke her.

She stopped to listen.

Nothing.

Conscious of her undressed state, she reached over to her open suitcase and grabbed a pair of yoga pants and a t-shirt. Slipping them on, feeling more secure, she turned to burrow under the covers.

There it was again.

The sound of approaching footsteps just outside her door. A heavy footfall. She glanced at her phone. Three am. She could see through the shaft of light under the door that someone was standing just outside.

Waiting.

Phoebe held her breath.

Her eyes grew wide as the doorknob slowly turned. Then stopped.

Thank god she had remembered to lock the door.

The footsteps paced away…only to return again.

This time whoever it was rattled the door knob angrily. The door itself shook.

Phoebe covered her mouth to prevent a scream from escaping.

Who the hell was trying to get into her room? Mrs. Ludtz had made it clear she was the only person down this particular hallway. After studying the map, she learned the male students were dormed in a completely different building across campus.

Could it be Michael, she thought wildly.

Fantasy was one thing, but she wasn’t prepared for matching wits and…other things…with him just now.

Just as she was about to risk yelling ‘go away’, the person stormed off.

Phoebe wrapped the thin blanket from the bed around her shoulders and sat against the headboard.

So much for sleeping she thought as her eyes stayed focused on the door.

Standing up on shaking legs, she slowly made her way to the door. She stopped and unplugged the bedside lamp and held it up like a weapon. Stepping closer, she pressed her ear to the wood panel and listened intently. There wasn’t a sound. Unclenching her left fist, she reached for the door knob. Twisting the lock, she threw open the door quickly while taking a defensive step back, raising the lamp high and at the ready.

The hallway was empty.

Placing her hand on the door to steady her shaking limbs, she poked her head out and looked left and right. Nothing.

It was then she became aware her hand was sticky and wet. Pulling it off the door, she looked down.

Her hand was covered in what looked like…blood.

Crying out, she fell back against the wall. Holding her hand up to the light in the hallway, she examined it more closely. The sticky substance on her palm was a bright red. Phoebe sniffed the air.

It was blood.

She then turned her attention to the door. The image was smeared, probably because it was painted in haste, but unmistakable. It was a satanic symbol. The same image that had been carved into the chests of both murdered women. A crude, simplistic image of a goat over a pentagram.

It was an unmistakable warning.

Swallowing the bile in her throat, Phoebe quickly wet a towel and cleaned off the symbol. She couldn’t risk raising an alarm on campus. The commander already wanted her gone. This would give him the perfect excuse to force her to leave. No, she would tell no one. This only proved she was on to something. Phoebe was determined to see her investigation through.

When she was finished, she closed the door, this time throwing the small deadbolt lock as well.

* * *

Undaunted, Phoebe walked into her classroom at a quarter to eight the next morning. It was a pleasant, cozy room. Something straight out of Dead Poet’s Society with its lattice window overlooking a slightly overgrown courtyard and dusty old bookshelves. She loved it. It made her feel like she should be wearing tweed and smoking a pipe.

The meeting with the department head had gone surprisingly well. Professor Jones was a short, pleasant man who was shockingly candid.

“Listen. They are here to learn about the Navy. That is all they care about. And all the Navy cares about is that they learn about the Navy…and perhaps some math. English is fairly low on everyone’s priority list. I need you to make sure they know the basics. Shakespeare, Dickens, Hemingway. Just enough culture befitting an officer. Got it?” said Professor Jones as he shoved papers into a worn leather satchel. Phoebe followed him down the hall as he shuffled along to his first class.

“What have they learned so far this year?” she asked as she tried to keep up in her platform heels.

“Nothing. The last teacher we hired quit less than a week in, unable to…well there was some unpleasantness and since then the class has been a quiet study hall. Good luck, Professor Pringle. Your classroom is right down this hall, third door on the left.”

Knowing he had just given her the perfect in, Phoebe asked, “What sort of unpleasantness? I hope it had nothing to do with cheating or plagiarism?” she prevaricated.

Professor Jones stopped mid-shuffle and turned to her. Without looking up, and nervously adjusting the buckle on his satchel, he said, “No, no, no. Nothing like that. They have an honor code here and they take it very seriously. It was…well…a few weeks ago…two lovely young women were…well they were found murdered in the forest that borders the school.”

Phoebe laid a consoling hand on his upper arm. “That is terrible. I’m so sorry. Did you know the women?”

“One of them was a teacher in my department. The other was a girlfriend of one of the men on campus. The boy was cleared of course. He was training on a boat out in the bay at the time of the murder.”

At that, Professor Jones seemed to come back to himself, giving Phoebe a startled look as if in his reminiscences he had forgotten she was standing there.

“I’ve said too much. It was probably some vagrant passing through. Don’t believe what they say about it being someone on campus. That’s just speculation from the locals.”

“You mean they didn’t catch the murderer?” Phoebe, of course, knew they had not, but she always felt it was best to plead ignorance when ferreting out information.

“Don’t let any of it frighten you away, Miss Pringle. I’m sure the school is safe despite the strange circumstances…well…yes…I’m sure we are all safe.” And then he was gone.

Turns out Henry and Jimmy were right, there was a story here and this school was so frazzled and distracted no one seemed to care if she could spell Shakespeare let alone teach it.

Phoebe couldn’t wait to get back to her room to start her research. There was more to these murders than just the sensational aspects. She was sure of it.

* * *

Laying out her lesson plan notes, she leaned against the desk and waited for the first bell. Her first class of the day was with third class students. She wasn’t sure if that meant they were sophomores or juniors but she would read up on that later. She hadn’t really had time to learn the ins and out of military academy life.

At precisely 7:55 am, they began to quietly file in. Phoebe had expected a little more noise and chaos typical of college students. These men were calm and orderly as they took their seats and patiently waited for her to begin. Inherently realizing that exact timing was probably important on this campus, she nervously watched the clock hands till it was precisely 8:00 am before beginning.

Standing upright, she addressed the class, “Good morning, students!”

Several hands immediately shot up.

What the hell, thought Phoebe. What could I have possibly gotten wrong so quickly?

She nodded her head towards the student closest to her.

“With all due respect, ma’am. We are midshipmen, not students.”

At her confused look, another voice chimed in. “We are considered ensigns in the Navy, ma’am. A low ranking officer,” he clarified. “So we are technically midshipmen in the Navy, not just college students.”

“Shut up! That is so freakin cool!” she exclaimed.

The whole class laughed and the tension eased.

She introduced herself and then asked the class to one by one stand and introduce themselves. After the greetings were finished, she announced they would be studying Shakespeare. There was a small, but perceptible, groan.

“What? Are you remembering the Shakespeare plays you were forced to read in high school? Romeo and Juliet. Hamlet. You don’t think Shakespeare applies to your military career? That a few men strutting around in tights have nothing in common with you?” asked Phoebe, her hands on her hips.

“With all due respect, ma’am, yes,” someone from the back of the classroom responded.

Perhaps it was the Dead Poets Society vibe, but she felt compelled to inspire these men. Pulling out the wooden, straight-back chair from behind her desk, she hitched her skirt up and stepped onto the seat. Raising her arm up high, she shouted, “Cowards die but many deaths, the valiant taste of death but once!”

“Hooyah!” erupted the whole class, reciting the naval battle cry in unison.

“Cry ‘havoc’ and let slip the dogs of war!” she growled with aplomb.

“Hooyah!” They all cried out with enthusiasm as they beat their fists on their desks.

“Yes! Yes!” she clapped. “Those are from Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar! Now let me see, oh! I have a good one.” Lowering her voice to sound more masculine, she cried out, “From now until the end of the world, we and it shall be remembered. We few, we Band of Brothers. For he…”

Phoebe broke off with a start as Michael strolled into the room, looking like the embodiment of authority and command in his dress blue uniform.

“I ah…I…”

“Finish the quote, Professor Pringle, you’re on a roll!” called out one of the midshipmen.

“Yes, please, Professor Pringle, finish what you were doing,” said Michael. His dark gaze direct and scrutinizing.

At the sound of his voice, the whole classroom stood at attention.

“At ease, men.”

The students…that is the midshipmen, all sat.

All the while, Phoebe was desperately trying to see how she could get down from her chair with any dignity. In her excitement to rally the men she hadn’t really thought her plan through. Her red skirt wasn’t so much tight as it was form fitting. While only having to hitch it up to mid-calf to step onto the chair, Phoebe was afraid she would have to hike it up a great deal higher to get off the chair. And there was no way she was going to be able to do it and keep her heels on. Carefully, she slipped out of one shoe, grimacing when it made a sound as it fell to the floor. She quickly slipped out of the other. She lost several inches of tactical height in the maneuver, but she had no choice.

Michael strolled down the aisle between the desks. “Professor Pringle, please don’t let me interrupt your lesson.” He moved to lean against the wall directly to her right.

Recovering some of her dignity, Phoebe swallowed hard and tried to remember the line. “We few, we Band of Brothers. For he who sheds his blood with me shall be my brother.”

Casting a nervous glance towards, Michael, she asked, “Who can tell me what play that is from? Anyone?”

After a long pause, Michael chimed in.

“I think I can answer for my men, King Henry the Fifth,” said Michael with a knowing smile.

The bell rang before Phoebe could reply. Saved by the bell, she thought. Trying to act like she meant to be standing on a chair shouting like a banshee, she called, out, “Read the first Act of Henry the Fifth for class on Wednesday.”

The men all filed out with respectful nods towards Michael and murmured ‘Good afternoon, Commander’ as they went.

Soon the classroom was empty.

Save for Michael.

Leaning against the wall.

And her.

Standing on her chair.

Phoebe kept her eyes forward, hoping, as if by sheer will, she could make him leave. She could hear the rustle of his uniform coat as he straightened up from the wall. Then the sound of his booted heel on the hardwood floor.

One step. Another.

Memories of her sleepless night came back to her. The heavy footfall outside her door. Had it been him?

He was standing to her side. Even up on the chair, her five-feet-four inches without her heels was nothing compared to his obviously over six-feet frame.

“Phoebe.”

“Yes,” she whispered, looking down at her nervously twitching fingers. She wished she knew how this man could make her feel like an errant school girl. Strike that…she knew why.

“Yes, what?” he ground out.

At that she turned her head to look at him, they were almost eye-level with the help of the chair. With a start, she realized he was angry. The polite nonchalance he had shown to the class was just a veneer. It was there in the set of his jaw. The rigid line of his brow. The cold look in his blue eyes.

“I asked you a question and I expect an answer.” Each word was clipped as if his sharp teeth were biting them off at the ends.

Flustered, Phoebe demurred. “Yes…sir?” Holding her breath to see if that was the right answer. In her very short acquaintance with this man, it was clear he was not a man to be crossed or angered.

Or lied to she thought with a flush.

Good god! She briefly wondered if New York being only a couple hundred miles away from Buzzards Bay was far enough to run when he learned of her true purpose here.

“Do you mind telling me what you thought you were doing climbing up on this chair? In high heels no less?”

There it was again. It was something in his tone. The harsh school master. Each question only missing the ‘young lady’ tacked onto the end.

Unbidden, almost against her will, she looked at the desk in front of them. Phoebe imagined herself bent over it. The worn wood cool beneath her fingertips. Dressed in a school girl’s uniform, he easily flips up her short, plaid skirt, exposing the creamy skin of her ass and her hot pink thong. Pacing around the desk, Michael methodically slaps a long, wooden ruler against his palm as he repeats a litany of the rules she has broken. She bounces up on her toes as her anxiety increases, knowing the punishment will be severe. She can feel him behind her. A warm hand cups the curve of her right buttock. He warns her the punishment will be painful, moments before the ruler strikes high on her cheeks. She cries out in pain but he doesn’t stop. One strike for every broken rule. The thin strip of wood warms her skin. Stinging hot pin pricks run over her ass to the top of her thighs. Her stomach clenches in between each punishing blow. Finally, he places the ruler on the desk. It’s time for your real punishment, he says as he frees his thick cock.

“Phoebe, once again, I have asked you a question you have failed to promptly answer.”

Phoebe blinked as she brought Michael back into focus, the school girl fantasy still whispering through her mind. Her cheeks flushed as she realized her nipples were tight with arousal.

“I…ah…well…it was a Dead Poet’s thing,” she stammered, as she pivoted to see if she could somehow step down and put some distance between herself and him.

“Stop fidgeting. You are going to fall.”

He wrapped his arm around her hips, just below her ass and lifted her off the chair. Phoebe had no choice but to put her hands on his shoulders as she murmured protests and complaints.

Slowly. Impossibly slowly.

He slid her down the length of his front till her stockinged feet touched the ground. Without her heels, the top of her head barely reached his shoulder. She could smell the musky spice of his cologne. Feel the strength of muscle across his chest. He radiated heat and energy. Even the brass buttons on his uniform felt warm beneath her fingers.

Her cheeks flamed, hoping the heavy wool of his coat would prevent him from feeling the evidence of her own arousal as her breasts brushed his front.

She was robbed of speech. Keeping her eyes trained forward, she waited for him to remove his hand from her lower back. Instead, he pressed her forward slightly. It was a light but masterful touch. Just enough to have her stomach brush the hard ridge of his cock. He placed a finger under her chin and forced her to meet his gaze.

“Among the many lovely things, that make the magic of her face. Among the beauties, black and rose, that make her body’s charm and grace.” He spoke soft and low.

Baudelaire. He was reciting Baudelaire’s The Temptation to her.

Here he was this big, scary Marine reciting a love poem. Phoebe felt lightheaded.

His presence. His anger. Her fantasy. Her lies.

It was all spinning about her head like fluttering butterflies on fast forward.

“You ever…ever…get up on a chair like that again. Perching dangerously on the seat in high heels. Displaying this delicious little body of yours to my men…”

Phoebe started to object but the press of his hand against her lower back silenced her.

“Displaying your body to my men,” he repeated. “I really will bend you over this desk and tan that magnificent ass of yours with my belt till you cry for mercy.”

Here he was this big, scary Marine who recites poetry…and reads minds!

Phoebe just knew her cheeks were flushed a bright scarlet.

Boldly, she admonished, “I don’t think you are allowed to say such things to me.”

“I did anyway,” he responded as a single fingertip ran down the curve of her heated cheek. “Change your mind about leaving yet?”

Phoebe stubbornly raised her chin as her eyes narrowed on him assessingly. “Nope.”

There was a clamoring in the hall as the next class of midshipmen began to enter.

Michael stepped back. Phoebe felt oddly bereft without the support of his hand on her back.

She watched almost in slow motion as he leaned forward, his head tilted down towards her face.

In one, crazy, wanton moment she thought he was going to kiss her…right here in the middle of the classroom, in front of the students…er…midshipmen.

Instead his lips grazed her ear as he whispered, “I suggest you put your shoes back on.”

And with that he was gone.

Phoebe stood there for a moment. Trying to come to terms with what was reality and what was fantasy. He disappeared so quickly she could almost believe she had imagined the whole thing. As she numbly turned to put on her shoes, she recalled the poem he recited. The Temptation.

With a start, she recalled the opening lines, The Demon, in my chamber high. This morning came to visit me. And, thinking he would find some fault, He whispered, “I would know of thee”.

Had it been Michael at her door last night? Was it Michael who put the satanic symbol on her door as a warning to leave?

Phoebe shivered despite the warmth of the classroom.