I’ve read the same sentence five times.

“Unlike the lesser incubi, a true succubus can alter not just perception, but desire itself—elevating her victims’ lust in order to feed on their life force.”

The words blur. My vision swims. My head dips forward—

Crack.

My forehead slams into my tumbler. Ice and coffee flood my desk, soaking my notes and an ancient text on Infernal Species. I gasp, fumbling to stop the spill, but it’s too late. Laughter erupts around me.

“Gods, she really is feral,” someone says.

“Nice one, Carlisle. Try staying awake next time, Quasimodo.”

Madame Griselle, the librarian, arrives with a scowl and a mop. She tosses a towel at me.

“Clean it up. Being parentless is no excuse for such an appalling lack of decorum.”

“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—I've just been studying—”

“No excuses. As the Academy’s only ward, the least you can do is show these facilities the respect they deserve. These books are now on your tab. I’ll be taking this to the Dean.”

By the time I clean up, my clothes smell like burnt espresso and humiliation. I bolt for the exit, but not before passing their table—Cressida Cole and half the senior student council. They look like royalty, and some of them probably are. At the very least, they’ve got bank accounts fit for the aristocracy, and the attitudes to match.

“Have fun in Class F with the rest of the charity cases, orphan bitch,” Cressida calls.

I don’t react. I just walk.

By the time I reach the astronomical clock tower I call home, my chest aches from keeping the mortification at bay. I climb the stairs in silence, past the unused observatory and abandoned archives, the rhythmic ticking of the tower growing louder with each step. It’s the only sound that comforts me anymore.

My room is tucked beneath the highest spire, just behind the intricate clock face. My sanctuary, even if it is the reason why people call me Quasimodo, despite the fact that he lives in a bell tower.

I’ve lived here since I was twelve, when the incident occurred. After the lawsuit had  settled, it was decided that I’d benefit from an “independent living environment.”

The joke’s on them—I love my room.

I toss my ruined bag down, kick off my shoes, and collapse onto my bed.

Then I focus on nothing

Only silence.

---

My eyes fly open as a hand slides around my waist.

Immediately upon opening my eyes, I know that I don’t recognize this place. It has the Academy’s Italian Gothic architecture, but it’s not any hall I’ve been to before. The entire ceiling is painted with a beautifully detailed hemispherical star map.

The hand around my waist moves, sliding possessively beneath my blouse until a large palm cups my right breast, kneading the supple mound.

I jump in surprise, turning to face the stranger, only to be met with one of the most handsome men I’ve ever seen in my life. He stands over me, so close I can smell whatever cologne clings to his skin—sea salt and smoke. He wears a tailored black cashmere suit that fits like a second skin. Inky black coils brush broad shoulders, and his angular jaw is dusted with neatly trimmed scruff. And his eyes… they’re the color of the Aegean sea, so blue that a girl could happily drown in them.

Who is this man?

Before I can ask, he makes his move.

His head dips low, capturing my lips in a sultry, domineering kiss. His tongue plunges into my mouth, tasting and caressing mine. The instant his lips touch mine, my mind goes fuzzy, every thought falling away to his deliciously dextrous tongue. I've never been kissed like this. I've never been kissed. But I know that it can't get any better than this.

His teeth bite down, tugging at my bottom lip as he pulls away and begins pressing soft, insistent kisses down my jaw. He moans a name against my throat. "Eleanor."

I blink. Eleanor?

The name immediately rings a bell, but....

Eleanor Alistair is Widdershins royalty—literally, or so the rumors say. She's in the senior class and one of the school's top students. As far as I know, everyone loves her, and she's graced the cover of the academy's magazine more than once. She's great. Even so, I've never spared her a second thought and have no idea why she'd come up in my dream—

The sound of ripping fabric interrupts my train of thought, and when I look down, the little grey silk shift I'm wearing is torn in two... hanging in tatters on a body that definitely isn't mine.

His mouth closes on a pert, rosy nipple, and his tongue darts out, lapping at the peak. My back arches, offering him better access, and he takes full advantage, sucking and flicking the sensitive skin with his tongue until I'm gasping and squirming.

I let out a moan, and the voice is so much huskier than my own.

He dips a hand between my thighs, brushing his fingers lightly against my slick, aching slit. I gasp, throwing my head back, only to see long, copper curls dance across my shoulders. Not. Mine.

But I know who does have a sexpot voice and long red hair: Princess Eleanor Alistair.

What the hell is going on? I think, just before those long fingers of his dip into my pussy and make stop caring. It doesn't matter whose body I'm in as long as he... keeps... doing... oh, gods!

"I've wanted you for so long, Eleanor," he groans as his fingers plunge deep inside my body, curling up to hit a spot I didn't even know existed. My legs quiver and shake around him as he finger fucks me with slow, purposeful strokes. His thumb rubs lazy circles on my clit, and I can feel a fire beginning to grow within my belly.

"Then take me," I whisper.

With a few decisive gestures, his cock is free, and seconds later the tip of his cock presses up against my entrance, pushing my folds apart to tease the entrance to my cunt.

He grabs my ass and yanks me forward, pulling me onto his waiting shaft. I moan, loving the feeling of his hands on my ass and his cock buried deep inside me.

His hips withdraw, and he pulls his cock out. Only the head remains nestled at my entrance. Then he drives back into my channel, sheathing himself in the tight, wet heat of my pussy.

I scream as pleasure courses through me, a white-hot current that sets every nerve ending ablaze.

"Again," I beg, my voice hoarse with desire.

He smiles a wicked, feline grin and complies.

It's like nothing I've ever felt before, and it's a thousand times better than I could have imagined.

He's pounding into me now, setting a punishing pace. I'm rocking and writhing and thrusting my hips to meet his, taking every inch of him.

With one hand, he cups the back of my head, pulling me forward into a heated, passionate kiss. With the other, he reaches between us and starts rubbing slow, languid circles over my clit.

The pressure is building, coiling up in my belly and threatening to explode. I feel like I'm on fire, as I teeter on the brink of release.

"Please," I beg. "Please, don't stop."

I'm so close, so close, so close.

He thrusts his cock into me again, his shaft brushing up against my G-spot.

The dam bursts, and—

---

I wake up shouting, my body convulsing with the aftershocks of what feels an awful lot like a very real orgasm. A really good one.

What the hell was that?

It was a dream. A weird, hyper-realistic, too-much-caffeine-and-stress kind of dream. I’ve been studying infernal beings for days. My brain is probably trying to rebel.

Still, a lucid dream’s never made me do that before. I settle under the covers, feeling more relaxed than I have in weeks, and decide that I can’t complain.

---

Days later, I arrive for the placement exam. My assigned testing room is on the North Wing, one of the older halls that doesn’t get much traffic. I check the number twice. My palms are sweating.

I step inside and am hit with a strong case of deja vu.

I look around and… it’s the ceiling, with its intricately detailed depiction of a star map. I can’t recall where, but I know I’ve seen it somewhere before.

Cut it out, you need to focus.

I shake off the odd feeling and take my seat near the back, fingers clenched so tight around my pencil that I nearly snap it in half.

Then, the door opens.

The room falls into a hush as the proctor strides in.

I look up… and I stop breathing.

It’s him.

“Good morning. My name is Professor Caspian Bellamy,” he introduces himself. “For the next three hours… consider me you’re overseer.”