Claiming Caroline (Claimed 3)

I'm so tightly wound, my hands shake as I storm through the English building, looking for Jared's office. I don't know what game he's playing, but not even the fact that I've been miserable without him is enough to calm me down any at all. First, he criticizes Kennedy for the entire semester. And then he suddenly offers to write her a recommendation?

If this is some new form of torture he's invented for her, I'm going to strangle him.

I keep telling myself that's the only reason I'm coming to see him.

I think it's a lie though. Because I'm as excited as I am upset.

His office door is only partially closed. The name plaque on it lists him as Professor J. Kingston. I guess I might have known that if I'd spent any time in this building over the last four years, but I haven't. I finished my basic credits my senior year of high school, so all of my classes are on the other side of campus, in the science buildings. And Kennedy forbade me from coming here after I threatened to shiv King the first time his blunt criticism hurt her.

I push his door open without knocking. It bangs against the wall, making me cringe.

His office is nice. Bookcases line the far wall, crammed full of neatly ordered books. A leather sofa, an armchair, and an end table rest against the west wall. His massive oak desk and wingback chair dominates the rest of the space.

My heart and mind war as soon as I catch sight of him sitting behind the desk with his dark head bent as he reads from a sheaf of papers. Dressed in a button up with the sleeves rolled up to expose his golden-brown forearms, he's so damn handsome my heart actually aches.

I don't let that sway me.

Nor do I let the relief in his mossy eyes sway me when he looks up and realizes I'm the one who just burst into his office so rudely.

"Caroline," he whispers. "Princess. Thank God."

Lord, I love the way he says my name as if it's a sensory experience for him. It's no wonder so many freshman girls decide to enroll in his workshop despite his reputation. He's gorgeous with an incredible voice to match.

Focus, I remind myself. I'm not a freshman with a crush, but a sister on a mission.

"What are you playing at?" I demand, slamming my hands down on my hips to glare at him. Part of me—a huge part of me—wants to catapult myself over the desk into his arms. The other part of me refuses to budge. Maybe I've been thinking about him nonstop since Halloween night, but no one hurts my baby sister and gets away with it.

"You didn't show up yesterday," he says, rising to his feet. He plants his hands on his desk. His forearms strain as if he's physically forcing himself to stay where he's at. His gaze runs all across me as if he's starving for the sight of me. Part of me is thrilled by the way his eyes darken as he looks at me. It's the same part that took the time to put on mascara and a good bra before coming here. "I was worried about you, sweet baby."

My righteous indignation pours from me like water through a sieve, leaving me feeling deflated, thrilled, and guilty at the same time. "You were worried about me?"

"Frantic, princess."

"I'm sorry," I whisper, my heart fluttering at the thought that he cares enough to have been worried. And I can tell by the look in his eyes that he's not just telling me what he thinks I want to hear. He really was worried about me. "I didn't mean to worry you."

"I thought something might have happened to you."

"No, I just…"

His expression turns grim when I don't finish the sentence. "You learned who I am."

"Yes. No." I take a deep breath, trying to get my thoughts in order. I don't remember feeling this out of sorts and off balance with him the other night. Everything was so simple between us, like breathing. I guess that's what happens when you spend a magical night hiding out at Ball with a prince though, huh? You start to believe in magic and fairytales.

"I know who you are," I admit, crossing my arms as if that's going to make me any more likely to stand firm here. "I just don't know what game you're playing. Are you intentionally torturing my sister?"

His brows furrow, genuine confusion in his mossy eyes. "Your sister?"

"Kennedy."

His eyes widen, his expression morphing from confusion to dismay. "Kennedy Thorne?"

"My sister," I confirm.