Crimsonridge Academy smelled like old money and sterilized control.
It wasn't the kind of place you breathed in, it choked you with polished marble floors, lacquered mahogany walls, and the low hum of a thousand secrets whispered behind silk ties and crisp uniforms. Elias didn't belong here. He never had. But he moved through the corridors like shadowed mist, carefully unreadable.
Every morning, he wore the same muted palette: ash-grey blazer, sleeves rolled to his forearms, black slacks tailored to fit but never draw attention, and that damn scent blocker patch behind his left ear faintly citrus, sterilized. Beta-registered. Safe.
Nobody noticed him. That was the point.
Today, though… today the air was wrong. It shimmered with something. A quiet static that made the hair on his arms stand and his heart thump twice before it should've.
"Have you heard the rumors?" Maren leaned in across the desk beside him, green curls bouncing against her shoulder. Omega, open, pretty, and blessed with a rich family name to shield her. "They're bringing in a new professor. Transferred from Riegan University. Like, the Riegan."
Elias didn't look up from his notebook. "Sounds like a nightmare."
Maren grinned. "Only if he's ugly."
From behind them, Alec snorted. Alpha. Loud. Always smelling faintly of tobacco and peppermint gum. "They don't transfer legends unless something went wrong. I bet he fucked a student."
The professor hadn't arrived yet. The classroom buzzed with low murmurs and the occasional click of polished boots on marble. Sunlight spilled in through stained glass windows in geometric color patterns that danced across their desks. Even in shadow, Crimsonridge dripped with prestige. They called it an academy, but everyone knew it was a finishing school for the elite. Future alphas, selected omegas, a few well-connected betas.
Elias was none of the above.
When the door finally creaked open, it was like the whole room paused to inhale.
Black boots. Sharp, immaculately shined. Then trousers tailored, black, hugging long legs like a lover. A dark button-down shirt tucked in flawlessly, sleeves rolled to reveal sinewy forearms with veined tension, and a long, heavy trenchcoat deep navy with silver accents—settling like armor on wide shoulders.
Then the face.
Elias blinked once. Forgot to breathe.
The man was… inhumanly beautiful. Clean jawline with the faintest stubble, lips full and cruel, like they'd never learned softness. Skin pale like moonstone but dusted with warmth under the eyes—eyes that were golden, yes, golden, not hazel or amber but ancient gold, lit from within like smoldering coals. He swept his gaze over the class slowly, predator stillness beneath perfect posture. Some students leaned in unconsciously. A few visibly gulped.
Those eyes brushed over Elias for exactly one second.
And Elias' entire chest stilled.
"Good morning," the man said, voice deep and smooth, but sharp around the edges like glass. "I'm Professor Lucien Thorne. Advanced Sociological Theory. And, for some of you, your new personal nightmare."
Nervous laughter flickered around the room. Elias didn't laugh.
Lucien set a leather-bound folder on the desk, slow and precise. "I don't tolerate lateness. I don't accept excuses. I don't repeat myself." His eyes glinted. "If that's a problem, the door's right behind you."
Alec whispered under his breath, "Alpha energy for days."
"Shut up," Elias hissed without looking at him.
Lucien started to pace. Every step was measured, fluid, controlled.
"Now. Let's begin with a discussion." He flicked his eyes toward the front row. "You. Define power."
The student stumbled. "Uh… influence?"
"Wrong." He turned to another. "You."
"Control?"
"Cute," Lucien said. "Still wrong."
The room went cold.
Lucien stopped moving. "Power," he said softly, "is knowing you don't have to raise your voice to make people fear you."
Silence.
Elias couldn't look away. Something in him a dull, long-dead ache flinched awake. Lucien hadn't looked at him again, not directly, but Elias could feel it. That awful, skin-prickling awareness, like he was being seen beneath the surface.
Was his scent blocker working?
His fingers twitched against the edge of the desk.
"Elias Rivers," Lucien said suddenly.
Elias blinked. His name. On that tongue.
"Yes, sir?" His voice came out flat, too soft.
Lucien's eyes cut into him. "You've been staring. Tell me—what do you think power is?"
There were a dozen right answers. Academic ones. Sociological theory. Power as a construct. Power in resource control. He knew them all. But Elias was staring into eyes that had seen more than theory.
"Survival," Elias said, voice barely above a whisper. "Power is surviving when no one wants you to."
The class went quiet. Maren turned slightly, brows raised.
Lucien didn't smile. But something flickered behind his gaze.
"Well," he said. "At least one of you is not brain-dead."
He moved on. The lesson continued. But something had shifted. Tension curled under Elias' skin like smoke trapped in glass.
By the end of the hour, his hands were clammy and his pulse had forgotten how to be calm. Lucien didn't call on him again, but Elias could feel the weight of that attention, heavy and deliberate.
When the bell rang, the class exhaled in relief.
As students shuffled out, Elias stayed seated. Composed. Waiting for the pressure in his chest to ease. Maren leaned down beside him.
"God, he's hot," she whispered. "And terrifying. I think I peed a little."
"Romantic," Elias muttered, grabbing his books.
He didn't look up as he walked past Lucien's desk.
But Lucien looked at him.
And his gaze didn't move until Elias was gone.