Chapter 12

Tobias

I was a fucking idiot.

My head ached so badly that my entire skull was throbbing. You'd think I'd let Brett and Niko use my head as a punching bag last night rather than get me drunk after the mess I'd caused.

I rolled over on the floor of Brett's room, squinting up at the digital clock on his nightstand as the glowing red numbers came in and out of focus. I was pretty sure it said eleven-thirty-four, but as I was looking at it upside-down, it looked like it spelled the word "hell"—a perfect omen for my life.

I hoisted myself up on my palms and looked around the room as it spun for a moment. Niko was still passed out on the floor next to me, and Brett was drooling onto his pillow with his mouth wide open.

I knew I needed to eat to make myself feel better, but I was in no mood to suffer the company of other students in the dining hall. I especially didn't want to run into Arya. Even if every fiber of my being was urging me to go to her.

Why had I acted like that? I didn't have to freak out on her like that. I could've just explained to her that we needed to slow down or literally anything other than cut her off.

But I had panicked. I'd felt too strongly for her, had wanted her too powerfully, and I got scared. In that moment, all my certainty that I could separate my heart from my cock had shattered, and I'd done the only thing I could think of to protect myself.

And I'd hurt her, and myself, in the process. Because being apart from her physically hurt. And not even the alcohol had been able to numb that pain. So I kept drinking and drinking, trying to drown it out. And here I was, hungover on the floor and cursing myself for every stupid mistake I'd made.

I bent my knees up and wiped my hands down my face, their dragon heat doing nothing to soothe the burning of my skull.

I couldn't keep doing this. To her. To myself. I had to find some solution to this trap, this vicious cycle of wanting her and knowing I couldn't have her.

A selfish voice whispered in my foggy mind, and it sounded eerily like my father's. If you make her fall in love with you first, you'll be free .

I considered that for a moment. If I could woo her like Arthur wanted, the curse would take root in her. I'd be free from the risk of ever falling in love with her, and thanks to the imprint, I'd be forced to still crave her company, to protect her and stay by her side. Would that be so horrible?

My own hand whipped across my face before I knew what I was doing, rocking my equilibrium with far more force than I'd intended.

I could never do that to someone. Not after seeing the heartbroken look on my mother's face every time she looked at Arthur my entire life. Arthur stayed with her because they were married and had children together, and sure, he went through the motions by sleeping with her and buying expensive things.

But that wasn't love. Those hollow gestures would never be enough for my poor, sweet mom, and they were certainly worse than Arya deserved. I wouldn't put Arya through that despair.

I climbed to my feet with pathetic effort, nearly stumbling over Niko's unconscious form in the process and catching myself against the corner of Brett's desk. I held myself there for a moment, staring down at the papers on the top as I tried to gain some semblance of balance.

My eyes skimmed across the title of one of the pages in front of me. A History of Imprinting. I'd almost forgotten that Arya and Brett were working on that assignment.

I scoffed. If only I could find a way to break the imprint, then I'd be fine.

Shock bolted through my body as inspiration took me captive. What if I could break the imprint?

This was a scientific problem. Surely it could be reversed. Or treated, at the very least. Maybe there was some supplement I could take to replace Arya. Hell, maybe even some form of naga hypnosis would work!

Luckily, the foremost expert on imprinting in the world was right under this roof.

With new purpose and fresh determination, I shoved into Brett's bathroom and took a shower, depending on the scalding water to help sober me. Then I brushed my teeth with his toothbrush—sorry, bro—and threw on some of his clothes—sorry, again—before jetting out the door and leaving the two of them to snore in stereo.

As it was Saturday, there was no guarantee that any of the teachers would be on campus, but I made my way to the faculty dorms anyway. I'd sit outside her room all weekend waiting if I had to.

It wasn't until I knocked on the door that I felt like a schmuck, and when I heard footsteps approaching inside, I had to fight the urge to cut and run. This couldn't wait till Monday. If I could solve this problem immediately, I had to try.

The door opened and Mrs. Sharp peered out at me, a question mark forming in her expression as she recognized me.

"Mister Dracul?" she asked, then looked down either side of the hallway as if she'd find a reason for my intrusion there.

"Good morning, Mrs. Sharp," I greeted, hoping Brett's toothpaste was enough to mask the stale scent of liquor on my breath. "I'm sorry for coming to you on the weekend, but I have an urgent matter that needs your help."

"Oh?" She hugged the robe she wore tighter around her, and shame washed over me once more. "What could I possibly help you with?"

I gritted my teeth, wondering how much I should divulge. Then again, I was disturbing her leisure time with my selfish bullshit, so…

"Imprinting," I admitted.

She arched a curious eyebrow as she regarded me for a few seconds, then pulled the door open.

"Have a seat while I make myself presentable." She gestured to the couch in the living room before disappearing behind an adjacent door.

I'd never seen the inside of one of the faculty dorms, but this was far more modest than I'd imagined. The space reminded me of a cabin on a cruise ship. The main room was small and served as a living room, with a couch, a coffee table, and a TV hanging on the wall opposite them. Along the far wall were cabinets above a counter, upon which sat a microwave, coffee pot, and sink, and beneath which was a built-in mini fridge.

I hadn't seen into the single bedroom attached—and thank fuck because I did not want to see Mr. Sharp's hairy ursa balls—but I imagined it was even more cramped.

Why didn't they have rooms as big as our dorms? Just because they were teachers didn't mean they had to live like monks cloistered in hovels. How did Mr. Sharp even walk around in here with his massive form? The man was built like a bear, even without shifting.

I did as I was told and sat on the couch, momentarily tempted to pour myself a cup of coffee both to fight the hangover and to hide the booze smell. But before I could make a move in that direction, the bedroom door opened, and Mrs. Sharp stepped out.

She joined me on the couch, and I scooted over to make what I felt was an appropriate space between us.

"So, what exactly is this issue you need help with?" she asked, braiding her fingers in her lap.

"Is it possible to break an imprint?" Figured I might as well get straight to the point.

She frowned at me curiously. "Why would you ask such a thing?"

"Or if not break it, can you at least nullify its effects?" I went on. "Maybe there's a procedure or something to turn off that part of the brain."

Her brows puckered behind her glasses, and I didn't like the sympathy I found in her expression. "Who have you imprinted on?"

I looked away from her knowing gaze. "It doesn't matter. I just need it gone."

Her hand landed on my shoulder, and I flinched at the uninvited contact. "My dear boy, there's no way that we know of to break an imprint."

My heart hardened into stone, refusing to hear her.

"There has to be," I insisted. "Haven't there been any strides in research to keep the survivors of an imprint alive after their mates die? Or do you all just let them die, too?"

She lowered her hand back down to her lap. "Well, there have been several studies to help them cope and survive as long as they can, of course, but none of them have ever proved fruitful. The chemical changes that occur in the body and especially the brain after an imprint just can't be reversed, and there's no substitute for the pheromones of the mate."

I shook my head repeatedly, desperation morphing to anger inside me. "You're supposed to be the expert. What good are you if you can't help a student with this shit?"

My chest squeezed with regret as soon as I'd thrown those words at her, but when I chanced a glance at her, she didn't look insulted. Instead, there was only pity in her eyes, making my anger cool into steam.

"Can I ask why you're fighting your imprint?" Her voice was soft and motherly, so like my own mom's, compelling me to lower my walls.

And so I told her the one thing I'd never told another living soul. "There's a curse placed on my bloodline. If we fall in love with anyone, they will never love us back, and vice versa."

She didn't say anything to that. What was there to say? We both knew that an imprint was the worst thing that could happen to the bearer of such a curse.

"Now you understand why I have to undo this," I said after a long silence.

She nodded and sighed. "An imprint is a beautiful bond. It's one of the most compelling things in the shifter world. And while it comes with its costs to every shifter it affects, there has never been anyone willing to experiment with breaking it. So I don't know how to help you."

I straightened and looked at her. "Then use me."

"What?" She cocked her head at me.

"Experiment on me," I asserted. " I don't want it, and I'm willing to risk just about anything to break the bond. Use me as your guinea pig, and we could save dozens of imprinted shifters who lose their mates."

She shook her head adamantly. "No. You are the general's son, and a student no less. I will not use you as a test subject."

I stood up off the couch. "Fine. Then I'll do it myself. I'll let you know what I come up with."

I stormed out of her cabin before she could say another word.

I didn't know how, but I had to find a cure to this illness. That's what it was. It made me physically sick to be away from Arya, and yet I couldn't be with her. So, I had to do whatever it took to break this damned bond.