HunterPrey

POV: Lilah

I traced my thumb down the crisp cream colored page, pinching it between my fingertips and letting out a sharp exhale as I stared down at the words.

Anything to keep from looking at my professor’s face.

“I am Heathcliff! He’s always, always in my mind—not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being.”

Oh how I longed to relate to that line. To a line from Wuthering Heights written by the ultimate gothic romantic, Emily Bronte.

However, my life was far from filled with intense pleasure—or longing—or romantic toxicity. Of any kind.

My breath quickened as I saw a shadow pass by me and stilled in front of me.

And when I looked up, I gasped. Yes, literally gasped—loud and unexpected.

Because standing right in front of me—in all of his beautiful glory—was Professor Lockwood. The exact man I was trying to avoid.

And it wasn’t because he was creepy or weird or anything like that—it was because he was so painfully beautiful that it caused my cheeks to flush, my pulse to quicken, and my mind to wander.

I quickly closed the book and glanced up at him with my mouth parted and my eyes wide as saucers.

He had an unmistakable smirk on his lips. “Miss. Cross?”

I cleared my throat, trying to hide behind my long blonde hair. “Yes, professor?”

Yes, professor? God I sounded like some adolescent school girl, not a woman at the last stage of her master’s program and a few months away from graduating.

His eyes darkened, yes literally darkened, as they narrowed upon me and a sly smirk formed on his lips. “Quite absorbed, are we? Do enlighten us, Miss Cross—what is it in that book that has captured your attention so completely?”

I bit my lip, fixing my gaze on the closed book—my shaky hands—anything but on him.

But he only made it worse. “Miss. Cross?”

“Hmm?” I looked up, biting my lip still, and watching as his gaze flickered lower—to my lips. “We’re waiting with bated breath, Miss. Cross.”

My cheeks flushed crimson. And the worst part was that I was so pale that it had to have been noticeable to the entire class. “I was just thinking of what to write for my thesis.”

“Oh, do tell,” he smirked.

I doomed myself then.

Because I knew he wouldn’t stop there.

Professor Lockwood—or rather, Dr Lockwood, as he preferred—had little tolerance for attention straying elsewhere. Even for a moment.

And my preoccupation with my book—instead of on him—made him want to regain control.

But just looking at him for more than a few minutes was intolerable.

Because he was just that….gorgeous.

And I wasn’t above describing a man as gorgeous, which he was in that whole british, GQ, James Bond, even Bridgerton, like way. And by the way, he actually lived up to the comparison—because he was in fact British, with a perfect ‘Queens English’ British accent and a diploma from Cambridge University to boot. But he wasn’t only skilled at proper English and over qualified to teach at an American University, he was gorgeous in the literal sense. So gorgeous that he had hazel eyes, actual hazel eyes not that off-brand brown or green color, and he was muscular—like he works out twice a day muscular, and his hair—he had a full, thick, brown mane and was the perfect height for a man in his prime—6 foot 2 inches, at least. But I think the worst part wasn’t how perfect he was on paper or in person but because he oozed seduction—and it wasn’t like he was trying hard to be smooth or sexy, he actually was. And he knew it.

“Miss. Cross, we’re waiting.”

I jumped a half of an inch in my seat, before my gaze drew back to his and I heaved in a deep breath of confidence.

“Sorry, um, well—” I bit my lip again before starting, “I wanted to explore themes of pursuit, obsession, and erotic power in 19th century compared to 21st Century literature.”

He cocked an eyebrow, his face flashing with curiosity. “Go on, Miss. Cross.”

Go on?

I really dug myself into a hole now.

“Um—,” I drew my gaze from his, looking over the cover of the book and finding the words, “I would argue that Gothic heroines often choose the danger they appear to flee—that they aren’t victims.”

“They aren’t?” he asked, humor in his tone.

I felt his gaze on mine but kept it downwards. “No.”

“Then enlighten us, Miss. Cross. What does victimhood mean to you? What does it symbolize?”

My hands were practically shaking but I forced the words out anyways. “I’m sorry, Professor—Dr. Lockwood, I know I shouldn’t be thinking of my thesis in this class. And I know I shouldn’t be reading a book during your lecture…I…”

He cut me off, his tone sharp and blunt. “I asked you a question, Miss. Cross. Please answer.”

Fuck my life.

Here I was in a gothic literature class taught by a man who literally resembled and behaved like Emily Bronte’s, Heathcliff himself and I’m babbling on like an idiot.

I looked up at him, his gaze searing mine and sending a mixture of fright and elation through my body.

The words nearly fell out of my mouth, “Victimhood is rarely just mere helplessness, and even then, victims aren’t truly innately helpless. Victimhood is symbolic—to the writer—to the reader—to the victim in question. The notion itself is where power, desire, fear, and identity collide. As one.”

His eyes narrowed on mine—slowly, as if he was trying to read my mind. “And you believe that the victim is in control?”

I glanced up at him, my gaze not wavering. “Yes.”

He smiled then—broad and domineering—his lips curving into an expression that seemed less like a smile and more like a threat. “Control,” he said, his lips twitching slightly, “is most powerful when one believes they’ve surrendered it.”

And I swear my mouth dropped open from his response.

I recovered as quickly as I could but it wasn’t fast enough.

He’d already seen it all over my face. Shock. Surprise. Maybe even excitement?

“Well,” he said, turning away from me, clasping his hands behind his back coolly, and stalking around the room, “I believe that will finish class for today. Have a lovely afternoon.”

I collected my belongings without speaking, shoving my laptop, notebook, pen and copy of Wuthering Heights into my backpack then scrambling to my feet, my arms were still shaking and my legs felt wobbly from the flush of adrenaline that surged inside of me, but I didn’t dare look at him. I couldn’t.

But just as I was about to ascend up the steps towards the exit, his voice stopped me dead in my tracks. “Miss. Cross?”

My body felt like it was frozen. I turned slightly, my gaze meeting his, “Yes, Dr. Lockwood?”

His smile widened as his eyes followed mine and stepped forward, like a predator stalking his prey. “Victimhood belongs to the innocent. But it is created by an antagonist. There will always be a hunter, and there will always be prey. I look forward to reading your thesis.”

I gulped, struggling to breathe as I stared back at him.

His words looped in my mind, and finally, after considerable strength, I forced my gaze away from his and quickly walked towards the exit.

For weeks I had kept my distance from Dr. Lockwood, striving to remain unseen—silent, unobtrusive.

But now it seemed as if I was in his eyesight. And as if he was the hunter and I was the prey.