Academy's Pervert in the D Class

Lor's eyes lingered, a familiar heat stirring in his core despite the weight of their conversation.

She bent slightly to smooth the skirt, giving him a fleeting glimpse of her pale thighs, the shadow between them bare before the cloth sealed it away, a teasing reminder of what he'd claimed.

Her blouse followed, each button sliding shut with trembling fingers, the fabric clinging to her flushed breasts, the material barely containing her curves.

Every button seemed a struggle, the blouse straining as she tucked herself back in, her nipples still faintly visible through the thin fabric.

She slipped her jacket over her shoulders last, smoothing it with hands that shook, her glasses sliding back onto her nose, the mask of Miss Silvia settling into place.

But her blush—vivid and unyielding—betrayed the woman beneath, the witch who'd unraveled in his hands.

Lor smirked faintly, saying nothing as he watched her fumble with the final button, her fingers clumsy in her lingering shame.

The air between them was heavy.

Neither spoke again as they left the room together, their footsteps soft on the creaking stairs.

Downstairs, Mira was waiting, her warm smile a stark contrast to the tension they carried.

The dining table was set, a pot steaming with the rich aroma of roasted meat and herbs, the scent filling the air with a comforting normalcy that felt almost surreal.

"You're late," Mira teased, her voice fond as she ladled stew into bowls, the steam curling upward like a gentle caress.

"But it's hot and waiting for you."

Silvia bowed slightly, her composure fragile but intact, her glasses glinting in the lamplight.

"Thank you, Mrs.Mira," she said, her voice steady but soft, the polite mask of the teacher firmly in place.

Lor pulled out his chair, the scrape of wood against the floor grounding him as he sat.

He was hungry, but didn't feel like eating.

.

.

The house was quiet after dinner, the kind of silence that made every creak in the wood sound like a secret trying to crawl out.

Miss Silvia had left with her polite smile, Mira humming happily as she cleared the dishes, and Lor retreating upstairs with the weight of the day pressing into his bones.

Lor lay sprawled on his bed, staring at the cracked ceiling, its faint lines illuminated by the sliver of moonlight creeping through the window.

The pillow was soft beneath his head, the blanket warm around his shoulders, but his chest refused to relax, a tight knot of tension coiling beneath his ribs.

His mind churned, replaying Silvia's confession in vivid detail.

Kiara.

Her name cut through him like a blade, sharp and cold.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block it out, but her face lingered—those icy-blue eyes, fierce and hungry, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders, her teasing smirk that could unravel him in seconds.

Was she really just using him?

The thought carved a hollow space in his chest, raw and aching.

He'd heard whispers in the market today, carried on the lips of vendors and passersby as he passed through the bustling stalls.

A nobleman had fallen to his death the night before, his body found crumpled at the base of a tower, no witnesses, no explanation.

The murmurs spoke of no accident—poisoned wine, a pushed ledge, a shadow moving in the dark.

Lor, sitting on the edge of his bed now, knees pulled up to his chest, guessed the truth with a sickening certainty.

That noble should have been one of the men who'd pelted stones at Lira, Kiara's mother, in the square.

And last night, Kiara must have found him.

His gut clenched, a cold sweat prickling his skin.

It fit too well.

Her insistence that he not suppress his lust, that she wanted it pouring through him into her—was that love, or fuel for her vengeance?

Did she see him as a partner, or a tool to sharpen her blade?

Lor pressed his palm against his chest, breathing deep, trying to steady the storm in his mind.

He remembered her kisses, hot and teasing, the way her soft gasps filled his ear when they tangled together, the bright peal of her laughter when she dragged Olivia into his web with that wicked grin.

She'd given him everything—her body, her heart, her cunning ideas, her fierce protection.

He wanted to believe it was love, that the warmth in her touch was real, that the way she looked at him meant something deeper.

But maybe… maybe it was both.

"Damn it…" he whispered into the dark, his voice barely audible, swallowed by the silence of the room.

The window clicked, a soft sound that snapped his head up.

A rush of cool night air brushed his face, carrying the faint scent of dew and iron.

He turned, his heart lurching.

Kiara stepped in, her silhouette framed by the moonlight, her presence filling the room like a spark igniting dry tinder.

She was still in her casual clothes, but on her, nothing ever looked casual.

Her black top clung to her toned form, the neckline plunging just enough to tease the swell of her breasts, the fabric hugging her curves like a second skin.

Her trousers were tight, leather straps crossing her thighs in accents, her boots silent on the floorboards despite their sturdy soles.

Her icy-blue eyes found him immediately, glowing faintly in the dim light, sharp and searching, a predator's gaze softened by something warmer.

"Lor," she greeted, her voice carrying a warmth beneath its sharp, teasing edge, like a blade wrapped in velvet.

He forced a smile, his lips twitching upward despite the weight in his chest.

"Hey."

She cocked her head, her dark hair spilling over one shoulder, catching the moonlight in glossy waves.

"Why didn't you come? I was waiting by Viora and Myra's place." Her lips curved into a playful smirk, her tone light but laced with mischief.

Lor rubbed the back of his neck, his fingers lingering there as he avoided her gaze.

"Changed my mind," he said, his voice heavier than he intended, the words carrying the weight of his doubts.