Extraits

"Don't…don't touch me." I'm grateful when my voice doesn't wobble.

Rule number three: Don't show fear.

“We're just having a conversation,” he says lightly as his hand climbs higher and higher, lightly caressing my panties. Rage consumes me, coating my vision like a bucket of spilled red paint, and I grip his wrist, wrenching his hand from between my legs. He releases a pained wheeze, eyes widening in horror, as I grip his fingers and twist them to the side. The resonating crack is music to my ears.

"I said…don't touch me," I repeat, my voice low and deadly. At that moment, I’m not the sweet college student the rest of the world sees me as. I'm not the friendly, smiling, laughing schoolgirl. I'm a predator, and this man has just become my prey.

When fat tears begin to streak down his cheeks from the pain, I release his hand with a huff of disgust.

"I'm so sorry that you tripped and broke your fingers," I say with mock sympathy. "It's a real shame, isn't it?" His mouth opens, closes, and then opens again, eyes continually spewing disbelief and raw, animalistic hatred. "Goodbye, Professor Whitmore. I'll make sure to have my next essay ready for you by next week."