Lyssa did not move.
Her hand stayed on the door handle long after the latch had clicked shut behind her. Her eyes moved across the bed the way a person's eyes move across a carriage accident, unable to stop, unable to settle.
She had heard everything from Elena. Every filthy fragment of it. And she had believed perhaps half, because Elena was a wounded animal and wounded animals exaggerate.
But this was not rumor. This was the professor's own dormitory, lit by two candles and the moon, and Yuki was impaled on him to the root, frozen mid bounce, her juices shining on his lap, her breasts heaving with each frightened breath.
And the horned girl was pinned beneath his mouth, leaking milk down his chin, her legs wrapped around a tail that was very clearly still inside her.
'He is a pervert. The man who rebuilt the lost history of the continent in one lecture is lying in a puddle of his students' fluids. It does not fit. It does not fit at all.'
