Kept Read online

  Kept

  PET BOOK ONE

  Cate Corvin

  Vivia Press

  Kept

  CATE CORVIN

  All Rights Reserved © 2020 Cate Corvin. First Printing: 2020

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means with the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Author's Note: All characters in this story are 18 years of age and older, and all sexual acts are consensual. This book is a work of fiction and liberties may be taken with people, places, and historical events.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  If Bourdillon University was a puzzle, I was a piece from another box that didn’t fit in the grand scheme of it.

  My tour guide, who probably looked like Clark Kent on his worst day, and better than Superman on his best, made that painfully clear just by breathing the same air.

  “We’re so pleased to have you with us, Miss Fawkes. Your essay was impressive- it went up to the Dean of Students. Not many can say that.”

  I trailed half a step behind him, trying not to make googly eyes at the ribbed cathedral ceiling and cut-crystal chandeliers. There was an actual Matisse hanging on the wall.

  And this was just the foyer.

  “Thank you.” My voice echoed through the massive space. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am to be here.”

  Gabriel Spears looked at me over his shoulder, his eyes as blue as the hottest flame. His three-piece suit was tailor-made for him, showing off broad shoulders. Even the professors here were gorgeous, like they were hand-picked to show off the perfection that was both offered and expected at the university.

  “The Hall of Art is just ahead. I hold my classes there- anytime you need to find me, this is where I’ll be. Unless I’m giving tours. The campus is enormous, but I’m at your service if you ever need a guide.” There was a dimple in his left cheek even when he wasn’t smiling. I bet that just slayed the ladies, especially when his blue-black hair was just the tiniest bit rumpled like it was now. I wondered if he ripped his shirt open right now if I’d see a big red S covering what was probably a mouthwatering chest.

  Professor Spears wasn’t just an art professor, but the Scholarship Committee Chairman for Bourdillon. He looked the part, in a bespoke suit and tie, towering over me.

  But for all his nice words, he was like a sculpted work of art, beautiful to look at but as cold as the marble he’d been carved from. He surveyed me up and down when he thought I wasn’t looking. I couldn’t bring myself to meet his gaze afterwards, wondering if I’d see disgust there.

  I was glad I’d at least attempted to dress up for the tour, wearing my one nice dress (secondhand) with a cardigan (Mom’s closet) to hide the lack of sleeves and hole cut in the back, and a pair of black pumps (Wal-Mart). Didn’t stop me from feeling like something scraped out from a dumpster, though. Not when everything in Bourdillon screamed money and Spears dripped haughtiness.

  The building was over a hundred years old, a glittering monstrosity of granite and marble with scowling grotesques topping every wall. Usually, you needed two things to step foot within Bourdillon’s walls: a name everyone knew, and the kind of money that made winning the lottery seem gauche.

  I had neither, and that meant I was going to have to spend what little money I had left after bills on clothes that made me seem less like a scholarship charity case and more like someone who belonged here. The fact that I was an older student- twenty-four now- and finishing a degree started in a community college already painted a large enough target on my back.

  One essay had changed my entire life. I went from college drop-out to Second-Chance Scholarship winner two months ago. The scholarship, part of Bourdillon’s philanthropy initiative and headed by Professor Spears, was designed to take students who’d fallen off the path to success and redirect them back onto it.

  In essence, I was a charity project to make rich kids feel good about themselves.

  But I never could have afforded Bourdillon’s tuition fees myself, and just sniffing the admissions envelope probably would’ve drained my meager bank account. The essay my mother had convinced me to submit had saved our asses.

  My library science degree that’d fallen to the wayside was back on track to be finished this year. With a degree from Bourdillon, no one would turn me down for an archival job. The scholarship came with stipulations, of course; it wasn’t entirely a free ride, but I wasn’t going to sneeze at the opportunity to be here.

  “I’ll be working in the library after hours; is it near the Hall of Art?”

  “It’s just up ahead. You’ll be right down the hall from me. I’m usually here after hours as well, so you’ll never be alone, Jane.”

  Instead of reassuring me, there was something vaguely ominous about his words. Bourdillon was massive, but I hadn’t been afraid to get a little lost in it until he said that. It made me feel like there’d be eyes on my back no matter where I went.

  I forced myself to give him a tight smile, hoping my nervousness wasn’t written all over my face. I’d always been a mouse, but Bourdillon seemed like the kind of place that chewed mice up and spit them back out, leaving them to wonder what the hell had happened. “Thanks. I’m sure I’ll memorize the layout in a few days.”

  He seemed like he was about to say something else, perfectly-carved lips framed around a silent word- he was giving me serious Galatea vibes, like a master artist had just sculpted him yesterday and fired him to life in an oversized kiln- but he swallowed whatever he was going to say when we reached a broad set of doors with Tiffany windows.

  “Here it is,” he said, pulling a huge oak handle. “Mrs. Clarke is the head librarian and your new boss. She’ll make you feel right at home.”

  I felt a little like Belle being given the gift of her heart, but instead of being blindfolded and led by a Beast, I was ushered in by Professor Spears, who rested his hand in the small of my back as he nudged me inside. His palm was warm, burning like a brand through the dress.

  He seemed like the kind of guy who gave those accidentally-on-purpose touches to women because he knew what it did to them, which strengthened my resolve to keep my breathing steady and not so much as twitch.

  Unfortunately, my breath did hitch in my throat, but that was because the library was a fucking Wonder of the World, and not because Spears’ hand was only inches from my ass.

  Or so I told myself.

  “How big is it?” I blurted out. The entire north wall was windows, surrounded on both sides by three stories of books. A spiral staircase was nestled comfortably in the corner of the room, and the stacks were glorious. I could climb those bad boys all day, just breathing in the smells of paper, glue, and ink. I took a surreptitious deep breath, wanting to taste the scent of a real library again, but got…

  Heady woods, juniper, and a tinge of charcoal. Spears smelled as good as he looked.

  He hadn’t taken his hand off my back.

  “This is mostly fiction and reference,” he said. “The archives are belowground, but Mrs. Clarke will be responsible for showing you those. Speak of the devil.”

  She didn’t look like a devil, but an older woman with silver hair scraped back i
n a tight chignon and a pair of reading glasses hanging on a jeweled chain around her neck.

  “Brontë!” she snapped, pointing to a bookshelf to my left. “Professor Headley requested Wuthering Heights.”

  It took me a second to realize that she knew exactly who I was and what I was there for, and I’d just been given my first assignment.

  Professor Spears drifted over to her as I stepped into the stacks, holding back a squeal of excitement and missing the warmth of his palm against me as I found the Bs, with Charlotte Brontë’s books just a step too high to reach myself. The worn spine was just a few inches out of reach, and I glanced down the row. The shelves were so big they had rolling ladders. It was a fucking dream come true.

  I rolled it down to the Bs on a well-oiled track and stepped up, sliding Wuthering Heights from its place on the shelf, and dropped back down.

  My heel caught the carpet and I wobbled, losing my balance. I clutched the book to my chest, one arm flailing out to regain my stability as my face flushed hot.

  I thought I was in the clear until my elbow hit something hard. I heard the unmistakable exhalation of breath, the slosh of very hot liquid spilling from its container, and the thump of several items hitting the floor.

  With my face bypassing tomato red and going straight to beet purple, I took in the results of my clumsiness. Books, a briefcase, and a travel mug littered the floor, the lid missing, and coffee seeping into the undoubtedly priceless rug. My gaze moved to the liquid-splashed shoes and up to the ruined shirt.

  I finally looked up into dark brown eyes that were boring into me with laser-like intensity.

  This professor was older than Spears, black hair touched with pepper against deep olive skin, a square jaw framed with a beard, and his once flawlessly-white shirt was now also brown. His sleeves had been rolled up to expose tan, muscular forearms, which were beaded with coffee as well.

  Good job, mouse. Great first impression.

  My throat seized as I searched uselessly for something to mop it up with. Maybe my brain fell out of my head when his coffee spilled, but my only solution was to drop the book, whip off my cardigan, and start dabbing at the stain on his shirt.

  “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, sir,” I said, as I pressed the cardigan to the stain again and again, though it was accomplishing nothing. At any other time, I might’ve been aware that the body under the shirt was hard as a rock and just as enviable as Professor Superman’s, but my panic overruled my hormones. He jerked a little under my touch. “I wasn’t looking, I didn’t mean to-”

  He grasped my hand, pulling it away from his stomach. “That’ll do. The shirt is already ruined, Miss…”

  Good god, I was going to curl into a ball and die. It was one simple task, and I’d already fucked up. “Jane. Jane Fawkes. Please, I can replace it, I feel awful-”

  He held up a hand, cutting me off mid-sentence. “Never mind the shirt. I’m more concerned about the first-edition Twain that soaked up half my cup. Are you sure you can replace that, Miss Fawkes?”

  Now shame joined the embarrassment still coloring my face. There was no way I would ever be able to replace that, not by a long shot. “Not… not now, but if you let me pay you back over time…”

  The professor who made me feel like I’d shrunk to the size of an ant looked me over, his eyes lingering on my bare shoulders, the wisps of blonde hair that had escaped the French twist I’d barely managed to pin it into, the coffee-stained cardigan clutched in my hands.

  “What sort of payment plan do you have in mind, Miss Fawkes?”

  The silky way he said it sent a not-unpleasant shiver through me, because for a moment, it didn’t sound like he was talking about money at all.

  “I’ll be working here,” I said quietly, wishing I could sink right through the floor. “You could garnish my wages.”

  I couldn’t bring myself to meet his eyes. Maybe I’d been wrong about Bourdillon being a godsend. His scrutiny seemed to go on forever.

  “Garnish your wages… hmm. There are more elegant ways for you to repay your debt than that. In the meantime, learn to control your flailing. You wouldn’t want to rack up more considerable debt.”

  For a moment I felt like he’d punched me in the gut. How’d he know how much debt I was in?

  Then I realized he was just talking about the book. Christ, I couldn’t imagine the fortune it cost. He’d have to garnish my wages for the rest of my life.

  And he was a major asshole. I hadn’t meant to trip; like he’d never made a mistake in his life!

  “It was an accident,” I said as I knelt to pick up one of the reference books he’d dropped among the Twain, but my voice came out in a whisper. We reached for a book at the same time, and when I withdrew like he’d burned me, he picked it up and stared directly at my face like he was trying to memorize every feature.

  Despite his meanness, his brown eyes were rich and warm, impossible to break away from even though he looked like he was carved from the same granite that made up Bourdillon’s walls. My spine prickled uncomfortably, and I felt distinctly how a deer must feel when it sees those inescapable headlights blaze towards it.

  Then the universe put a cherry on top of the shit sundae of my life. A new voice rang from behind me, masculine and smooth. “Jane Fawkes?”

  The way that voice said my name was as intimate as fingers gliding along my spine. It was also very familiar.

  I stood up and turned, ice flash-freezing through my veins as I gazed right back into pale blue eyes I hadn’t seen in years. Since high school, to be exact. When I’d been the gawky freshman with braces, and Rhett Harlow had been the tall, self-assured recent grad with messy brown hair who tutored the Creative Writing kids.

  The height and hair hadn’t changed, and the spark of fire in his eyes was still there. But the lanky teen body in sweats was gone, replaced by a solid, muscular physique hidden under a crisp blue shirt and jacket with a tie, and his hair was a little less casually rumpled now.

  “I knew I heard your name,” he said with satisfaction. He gave me a once-over that lit up my nerves despite my embarrassment, bringing me back to the fire I’d felt when I was a teen and head over heels for the older guy who’d pored over my immature writing with the gravity and dignity owed to an adult.

  Maybe that was why I’d adored him so much.

  “Rhett,” I breathed, clutching my cardigan and Wuthering Heights to my chest like a shield. “What are you doing here?”

  He raised an eyebrow and gave me a sardonic little smile. “I teach here.”

  “He doesn’t just teach here, he’s the head of the English department.” The professor whose day I’d ruined had straightened himself out, but his gaze still sliced through me like a diamond-bit drill cutting through glass. “Professor Harlow, to you.”

  Somehow, I thought I could find it in myself to hate this unknown professor who seemed to want to crush me underfoot.

  “What happened here?” Rhett- Professor Harlow- asked, eyeing the man’s stained shirt and my too-bright eyes. I blinked hard once and tried on a shaky smile.

  “Miss Fawkes was just doing her best impersonation of a rodeo clown.” He shifted his briefcase and turned away. “Have the last meeting’s minutes on my desk this afternoon, Rhett.”

  Rhett inclined his head once, casually leaning against the bookshelf as the man walked away, without another word. I realized I’d never learned who he was, but I prayed I’d never see him again.

  “Who is he?” I asked, keeping myself to a whisper.

  “You just spilled coffee on the Dean of Students, Professor Thayer. Most of us wait until the third quarter to do that.” Rhett said, not bothering to lower his voice. “You won the scholarship, I take it?”

  He gave me the sort of grin that had raised butterflies in my stomach when I was younger but was now panty-melting. I was still withering from embarrassment inside, but surprise finally permeated it. I’d known his family was well-off, but he was teaching here…

&nb
sp; And he said ‘scholarship’ so easily I couldn’t tell if he was poking fun at me or not. A few of the ‘congratulations’ extended my way had carried thinly-veiled disdain, but Rhett sounded… genuinely happy for me.

  “I did. I guess it’s a little less surprising, given I had you for a tutor. My writing would never have improved without your work on it.” My fading blush immediately roared back to life. Could I sound like any more of a kiss-ass?

  Rhett leaned in closer, the tobacco and cedar scent of his cologne washing over me. It wasn’t fair that they all smelled delicious, and when he was my tutor, he’d never given me the sort of up-down perusal like he gave me now, drinking me in from head to toe. The feeling left me breathless and quivery in a way that had nothing to do with mortification.

  Knock it off, Plain Jane.

  “Lucky girl,” he murmured, his gaze lingering on my loosening hair. “I should’ve known you’d be the one to win.”

  My god, could he be any prettier when he smiled like that?

  “I’m sure there were plenty of other deserving students,” I said, hoping to deflect the warm glow of happiness that bubbled up in me. He’d read my horrific fourteen-year-old writing, for god’s sake. You’d think a decade would be enough to quash that fluttery adolescent infatuation.

  Not so, it turned out.

  “Of all the students I tutored, there’s only one who stood out above the others.” His smile widened when I shifted in place, clearly uncomfortable under his stare. “What do you say we catch up for old time’s sake? I can give you the low-down on Bourdillon before classes start, and you can tell me what you’ve been up to the last decade.”

  I really shouldn’t. The words were right there on my lips. He was a professor, my past tutor, and I was… a scholarship student with a mountain of debt. Worlds below him.