Page 6 of Damaged Protector
“I wear them to feel a connection with her. She passed away a few years ago. I have about twenty of them in different colors.”
The professor's hand rested lightly on the back of my neck, and I bit my bottom lip because something didn’t feel right.
“It’s beautifully done, and I like the sentiment. A connection.” He tugged my bun until my face was tilted up toward him. “Connections are very important, don’t you think, Mallori?”
His voice was lower, his brown eyes hooded, as he rolled his thumb over my bottom lip. Oh shit! Not good.
Swallowing the fear that was building in my throat, I turned my head to the side, away from his blunt thumb. “I need to get home before my mother worries,” I said, my voice reedy and unsteady.
“Oh, I don’t think she will mind you staying a little late,” he crooned. His other hand was still gripping my hair, and he forced my head back until my neck strained. “We were talking about connections. Would you like to have a connection with me, Mallori?”
“A very professional student-teacher connection?” I asked pointedly, my hands bunching into fists.
This could not be fucking happening to me. I’d looked forward to having this man as my professor for three years, and now I was questioning whether I ever wanted to see him again.
When his hand went to his belt and began unfastening it, the answer became a resounding fuck no.
“I think we can do better than that, Miss Fitz.” He made a low humming sound in the back of his throat when his hand slid into his brown tweed pants, moving up and down, and I was pretty sure I was about to puke.
Forcing some steel into my voice, I placed one foot on the ground and said, “I’m leaving now, Professor.” But his other hand was still tightly gripping my hair and kept me from rising. “Let go of me, please.”
Don’t cry. Don’t freaking cry. Be strong!
“This is your career we’re talking about, Mallori. Don’t throw it all away over—”
Whatever he was going to say was cut off when I grabbed the hand holding my hair and twisted it backward before driving my right fist directly into Moreau’s nose.
With a howl of pain, he fell backward as I pushed to my feet. I heard a thunk but didn’t even look back.
I ran. It wasn’t until I was outside the dance building I’d called home for the past three years that I realized I’d left my bag inside. With my cell phone in it. And my keys.
Great.
No freaking way I’m going back in there, I thought, whipping my head from side to side. My eyes fell on the building to my right, and I stumbled in that direction. I was still wearing my pointe shoes, not the easiest things to run in.
Entering the library, I remembered that I couldn’t get into the main part without my student identification card. Which was in my damn bag. In the damn ballet studio. Where that damn man was, hopefully still on the floor with a bloody nose.
That almost made me smile as I thought about my older cousin, Cam. He’d been in the military and had taught me a few things when I was a teenager.
Camden Fitz was super protective of me, and I was pretty sure he’d be proud when I told him how I’d handled the handsy professor.
I didn’t need my ID to go into the restroom just inside the library entrance, so I pushed open the door and made my way to the line of sinks. My face was blotchy with tears I didn’t remember crying, and my hair was a wretched mess.
Turning on the sink, I cupped my hands and splashed some water onto my face. My mind was going a million miles a minute as I tried to think of what to do. I needed to report this, but I didn’t have my phone. The librarian would probably let me use the phone inside if I told her I’d been attacked.
Or… Or I could go straight to Dean Kotov’s house. He was the Dean of Performing Arts and lived in a house on campus with his wife, Katrina. As a former dancer himself, he’d taken a special interest in me as soon as I arrived on campus.
Not special interest like that douchebag Moreau but a genuine interest in the new “prodigy” in the program. He and Katrina had been very kind to me, and I’d even babysat their granddaughter, Emily, a few times when she came to visit one summer.
Pressing my hand to my chest, I counted my breaths. They were too fast and had a harsh, prickly quality that I needed to get hold of quickly. I was not great at conflict; in fact, I pretty much sucked at it, so I employed a technique I learned in my meditation class freshman year.
With my thumbs gently pressing the cartilage in front of my ears, I draped my fingers over my eyelids, nose, and lips as I inhaled the deepest breath I could muster. Then I released it with a slow, low humming sound that simulated the black bumblebee of India.
When I ran out of breath, I inhaled again and repeated the buzzing exhale. After five rounds, I dropped my hands, opened my eyes, and noticed a female student peeking out of the stall behind me, her lips parted. I hadn’t even heard her come in.
“Sorry. Meditation,” I explained, and she gave me a tentative smile.
“Are you okay?”