7. Tempest Prize

CHAPTER SEVEN

Tempest Prize

T he Beckinsale Library of Natural Science looms ahead, its grandeur a testament to its breadth of knowledge. I pause, taking in the sight of the iconic elephant statue standing guard at the entrance. Its dark copper surface has been rubbed to a bright shine on its toes, a tradition among the students who touch it for luck before exams or important projects.

I take some comfort in the ritual as I rub the bumps.

Daisy shakes her head. "Don't tell me you believe that?"

"Umm, hello, nice to meet you, Shakespeare person here. We believe in all portends, prophecies, and amulets."

"Remind me again why his stuff isn't stored in the English Literature library. Oh wait, that's because you don't have one."

"Shut up." This is a sore spot for lit majors .

Beckinsale was an old guy who loved hunting shit in Africa, and he had a lot of money. So in thanks for his generous donation, it was given his name along with the term natural science. It houses most of the literature material, as well as sciences. Along with engineering, since they don't take up much space, preferring to keep things digital whenever possible.

It makes sense to me that books about Alan Turing would be shelved near Lewis Caroll, who was also a math professor. That Ada Lovelace would be shelved near Lord Byron, who was her father. The sciences and art have always danced together.

But I'm not about to tell her that.

Lit majors have a chip on our shoulder about this. It's practically a requirement.

We push through the heavy doors and step into the hushed interior of the library. The scent of old books and polished wood fills my senses, a familiar aroma that always seems to settle my nerves.

"Where are you headed?" she asks.

I check the meeting assignment on my phone. "Sixth floor."

"I'm heading to the basement. Have fun."

I take the elevator up. An extremely old, yellowed piece of paper has been taped to the wall since I got here. Shhhhhhh, it says, a glasses-wearing owl holding its feathered wing to its beak.

Always a surprise to see him there.

Seems like someone would take him down or at least draw something offensive over the top of it in Sharpie, but somehow he's still there every time, growing slightly older.

Will I know the teaching assistant who's assigned to mentor me?

I've met some of them, of course, since I'm on the tail end of my junior year, but not all of them. It's a large school. I can't help but feel a twinge of jealousy towards Matteo. He's smart, but he didn't need the extra help to win.

But I don't need Thorne's help to win the Tempest Prize.

I can do it on my own merits.

And whoever my mentor turns out to be, whatever teacher's assistant got assigned to me, they'll still be from one of the most renowned humanities departments in the country.

I can learn from anyone.

The elevator dings. The doors slide open.

And I step forward, prepared to enter Denmark.

The sixth floor of the library feels like a hidden sanctuary, deserted except for the soft hum of overhead lights. I pass towering shelves stuffed with well-worn tomes. The spines whisper stories as I run my fingers over them, the texture of leather and paper grounding me.

Wandering deeper into the stacks, I let the scent of aging paper and ink wash over me. Each step feels deliberate, almost reverent, as I navigate the labyrinth of literature. I reach the clearing of tables at the far end of the room, and my heart skips a beat.

Professor Stratford sits alone, surrounded by a spread of open books, his brow furrowed in concentration as he jots notes on a notepad. His dark hair, tousled and slightly curling at the ends, frames his face perfectly. The stubble on his jaw adds a rugged edge to his handsome features, making him look both scholarly and sexy as hell.

The ordinary library chair looks like a throne, the books his subjects beneath a powerful regard. He wears a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal toned forearms. Everything about him exudes confidence, from the way he holds his pen to the slight tilt of his head as he reads.

Worst of all, he's the only person here, which means that he must be my assigned mentor. Surprise rushes through me, tinged with an uncomfortable amount of pleasure.

Damn it.

And also—of course. The universe seems determined to tempt me.

The silence wraps around me, almost suffocating, as I take a step closer. I still remember him touching me at the hotel, me touching him on the cab ride. My blood heats. Then there was what he did to me on the bed in my dorm. Am I really ready to face him after that? Of course I am. I'll be cool and confident and cosmopolitan.

I force myself to keep my voice steady. "So, I guess…you're my mentor?"

He glances up, his coffee-colored eyes unsurprised. "You didn't think you could avoid me forever, did you?"

The words come back to me in shocking vividness. I'm a predator, and you're the prey. Stay away from me. Push me away if you want to save yourself, because the next time I see you I'm fucking that beautiful mouth.

"I thought you were going to be a TA."

"I'm not."

Wariness feels like an extra-caffeinated soda, tickling my nose. "Did you arrange this?"

"Arranged what, exactly?" he asks, toying with the pen in his hand .

"Being my mentor. Did you ask them to assign me to you?"

"Yes," he says, his tone mocking. "I've been panting after you, unable to sleep or eat or do anything because I'm so desperate to fuck you again. Except, of course, that you're the one with your nipples hard, your cheeks flushed."

I feel my cheeks burn, and I regret ever having let him touch me. I'm mortified that he knows how much I wanted him, how much I still want him. "Listen, I'm not sure this is going to work out, considering our…history. I'll go get a different mentor."

"They already have their own assignments. They're too busy to take on someone else. But I suppose if you want to bother everyone, go ahead."

I open my mouth to argue, but I realize he's right. Complaining will just cause stress. And it will make me look like an absolute idiot to turn down one of the best Shakespeare scholars in the country. Anyone would kill for this opportunity. He has more experience, more publications, more renown than Professor Thorne.

So…this is a good thing. I swallow hard, trying to regain my composure. He can help me with my submission. It doesn't have to mean an ything.

Nothing has to happen.

"Maybe you're worried because you want me to kiss you again," he says.

"Absolutely not."

His laugh is husky. "Or maybe you want me to make you come again. The sounds you make are so sweet…but then again, the library doesn't allow moans or whimpers or screaming my name, no matter how hard they make me."

Why is that so hot? "This is about the Tempest Prize," I say, my voice firm. "Not about whatever…personal business was between us."

His lips quirk. "Ah yes, the prestigious Tempest Prize. I bet Isolde talked it up quite a bit. Gave you a nice song and dance about how it would help your academic careers, the grand honor, et cetera, et cetera."

I flush, feeling the heat creeping up my neck. "Professor Thorne told us the truth about it," I say, my voice steady. "And she deserves your respect. So back off, or I will go to the Dean."

Surprise. I can see calculations in his eyes, but he shrugs. "So, are we going to talk about your Hamlet analysis or should I continue my own work?"

I pull out my notes, trying to ignore the way my palms are sweating. I can do this. I can separate my personal feelings from my academic pursuits.

William listens intently as I explain my ideas. We don't have to focus on Ophelia's madness, of course. I already know that Tyler's planning an analysis of the sexual undertones of Hamlet's affection for his best friend, Horatio. I'm inspired by Professor Thorne's question about Ophelia's madness, about connecting it to new research on complex PTSD.

He listens intently, his whiskey-colored eyes never leaving mine.

It's unnerving, and enervating, but I push through.

"We see evidence of dissociation, isolation, depression, rage, impulsivity—even aggressiveness. Her death, which has often been attributed to suicide, could be part of the C-PTSD. But it also could be caused by other documented symptoms, including dizziness, chronic fatigue, and even tinnitus."

"Interesting." He considers my words, really mulling them over, which I find more gratifying than I should. "How did you learn so much about C-PTSD?"

My lips turn numb, which is also a symptom .

I am the way I learned so much about it.

The campus health center lets you see a therapist once a month, though it's often randomly assigned. Seeing a new person and starting over each time is exhausting on its own. But one of them mentioned the term to me, and I looked it up.

More people know about PTSD, which is centered around a specific event or series of events. Which means it also has specific triggers. It was understood and described long before it actually made it into the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.

Whereas C-PTSD is caused by long-term abuse or neglect, often in childhood. The symptoms are far more wide-ranging—and less understood.

"Complex PSTD is newer," I say, answering his question without really answering it. "Which means it's less likely to have been covered in other papers. There's a lot of important research coming out now that I believe will give us new tools for analyzing Ophelia's characters."

He studies me, as if he's looking right through my careful words, as if he's looking right through me to the person who feels permanently damaged, fundamentally different from everyone else, who struggles to form friendships. Knowing those things come from C-PTSD helps understand, but it doesn't actually make them go away.

It's like I'm made of soggy notepaper, thin and translucent.

He'd tear through me with a single touch of his pen.

Instead, he grabs a book and searches through the pages. " She stammers, gets upset, takes offense easily… Gertrude says this about her. What if that's emotional lability?"

My eyebrows raise. It's clear he knows about C-PTSD already.

I step closer, immersing myself in the beauty of words. As we discuss the text, I can feel the tension between us, a constant hum beneath our conversation. It's distracting, but I can't deny that it's also exhilarating.

Somehow I find myself leaning closer, my shoulder brushing against his. His breath catches, and I know he feels it too. It's a dangerous game we're playing.

We continue like this, our voices low, our bodies close. It's a dance, a dance of academia and attraction. And I'm not sure which one is winning.

A loud beep echoes through the library, breaking the spell. The broadcast system announced that the library will be closing soon. Time passed quickly. I have to admit that he's wildly insightful. Compelling. Smart. And this was the most fun I've had…maybe ever.

Stratford glances at his watch. "I had no idea it was so late."

"Thank you for your help. Seriously."

I have pages of notes that I'll work on putting together, formalizing them into a coherent draft that we can then strengthen and revise.

"You're welcome," he says, turning towards me. It's then that I realize I'm only inches away from him. I'm looking at his mouth. And when I glance up, he's looking at mine. "Though I can think of something you can do to repay me."

I can't believe I'm back in this position with Professor Stratford, but my body betrays me with a flash of heat. The public place should provide some shield, but we're tucked away in a secluded corner, the stacks form a private alcove. The rational part of my brain is screaming at me to run as fast as I can.

The heat inside me is louder, more insistent.

"You're supposed to be mentoring me."

The curve of his lips is pure sex. "I love mentoring you. "

"This isn't happening."

My heart pounds in my chest as he corners me against the bookshelves, the scent of old leather and ink enveloping us. His words are like a lash, each one stinging more than the last. "I told you what would happen next time I was in the same room with you," he says, his voice low and husky. "I warned you."

My breath hitches as he leans in closer, his eyes dark with desire. "I don't want this," I say, but no one believes me. Not him, not me, not even the books.

"You don't?" he murmurs, his gaze dropping to my lips. "Your body tells a different story. I think it's been hoping for this. You would have gotten a new mentor or done without one if you didn't want this. You wouldn't still be here."

"You're delusional."

"You've touched yourself thinking of me, haven't you? I bet it's the only way you can come, imagining me in your tiny little bed."

I want to deny it, to push him away and storm out of here with my dignity intact.

But ever since that night, he's invaded my thoughts. Even in Hathaway's communal showers, with the steam rising around me, it's his hands I imagined on my skin, his voice whispering filthy things in my ear.

"Go to hell."

A soft, taunting laugh. "Dear Anne."

My heartbeat pounds. Dear Ophelia. That's what Claudius said to her after hearing some of her wild thoughts. How long has she been like this?

Too long, wanting, needing. Forever.

He presses me against the bookshelves, uneven book spines pressing against my back. Books I might have held or read or cherished now made the witnesses to my debasement. His hand slips into my jeans, his fingers tracing the line of my panties before dipping beneath the fabric.

I gasp, my body arching into his touch instinctively. The sensation of his hand on me, the thrill of doing something so forbidden in such a public place, sends a jolt of arousal coursing through me.

His lips find mine, kissing me with a hunger that matches my own. I surrender to the moment, letting him claim my mouth, my body. His fingers work their magic, stroking and teasing until I'm clinging to him, my moans muffled by his kiss.

His fingers are deft, skilled in a way that makes it impossible to deny the effect he has on me. He's whispering in my ear, his words a mix of Shakespearean prose and filthy promises. I'm caught between the academic part of me that respects him as a mentor and the primal part of me that craves his touch.

Tension coils tighter and tighter, each stroke of his fingers pushing me closer to the edge. He knows exactly what he's doing, how to draw out my pleasure until I'm vibrating with need. I'm trying to stay quiet, to not draw attention to us, but it's a losing battle. Each moan that escapes my lips is a testament to his control over my body.

He watches my face, his eyes alight. " Sadness, illness, suffering, even Hell itself ," he murmurs, " she makes them beautiful. "

I want to argue, to fight back.

I'm not Ophelia. No. Not mad. Not destined to die.

He's relentless, his fingers moving with a rhythm that leaves me no choice but to surrender to the waves of terrible pleasure crashing over me, trying to drown me.

Orgasm rips through me, breath-taking and soul stealing, leaving me panting in its wake. I'm clutching at his shoulders, my nails digging into the warm fabric of his shirt, the hard muscles beneath them as I shatter.

As I come down from the high, the reality of the situation starts to sink in. What have I done? I've let myself get swept up in the moment, in the intoxicating mix of dazzling intellect and illicit desire that is Professor William Stratford. I know I should feel ashamed, but all I can seem to muster is a forbidden sense of satisfaction.

"This isn't right," I say, my voice hoarse from sounds I never should have made in a library of all places.

"You can't tell me you didn't want that," he says, a stern expression on his face, the handsome angles made unforgiving by lust. I'm acutely aware that this is the third time he's made me come without any relief for himself.

Yes, I wanted it. The evidence is the way my body still trembles from the aftershocks of my orgasm. And the worst part? I want more. Push me away if you want to save yourself, because the next time I see you I'm fucking that beautiful mouth. I want to remind him what he said, want him to push himself inside me, selfish and crude.

I can't meet his gaze, too embarrassed. "It can't happen again."

"Of course not," he says, though he doesn't believe that. And if I'm being honest, neither do I. "Now, head back to your dorm before they come upstairs to sweep for any lingering students getting finger fucked behind the stacks."

The harsh words are enough to straighten my back. It's pride that has me shove my books into my bag and toss it over my shoulder without a backward glance. But even as I leave, her song is stuck in my head…

A maid came to his window

To be his Valentine.

He got up, put on his clothes,

And opened the bedroom door,

He let in the maid, but she wasn't a maid

When she departed.