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desk and did his best to ignore the garment s presence, to ignore the scent that reminded him
with every passing second he should be with his mate.
Three hours later, Arslan frowned across his desk, his mind once more wandering away
from the history student sitting in front of him to a math student who could be anywhere by then.
His mate had obviously had something to say to him. Ryland wasn t yet acquainted with
the ways of a pride. Arslan couldn t be sure he knew he could bring his worries to the leader of
his pride, no matter how things stood between them, no matter if he didn t have the courage to
accept a formal place in the pride.
Whatever his pet wanted to say to him, it had to have been important. As the last
undergraduate in his appointment book left his office, Arslan made his decision. Two minutes
later, he was out of the history building and walking up to the information desk in the lobby of
the math department building opposite.
 I m looking for Ryland Gilford. I believe he has an office here?
The man behind the desk was familiar. Arslan was sure he d seen him in some of his
lectures. The receptionist glanced up from the computer and met his eyes. Yes, Arslan placed the
face. Not a bad student, but a very bad speaker when called upon to answer questions in a
tutorial. Far too many ums and ahs to be considered adequately understandable.
 Room four-two-seven, sir.
 Thank you.
The professor heard the student give a little sigh of relief as he walked away from his
desk. He smiled slightly to himself. It was wonderful what the fear of Arslan could do for a
young man s education. If the student-receptionist continued with that sort of improvement, he
might actually yet become capable of an entirely articulate sentence by the time he graduated.
A knock on the door to room four-two-seven yielded no reply. Arslan didn t get the sense
that anyone was in there ignoring the knock. Ryland s scent clung to the space on the other side
of the door, but it was the trace of someone who had been there rather than someone who was
there right then.
When the professor tried the handle, the door swung open with a quiet creak. The
cluttered little room was as unoccupied as he d expected, but a steaming cup of tea on one side
of the desk hinted that its owner intended to return soon.
Closing the door behind him and switching on the light to make up for the absence of
windows in the poky little space, Arslan moved an apparently random collection of note books
and text books off the chair in front of the desk and sat down to wait.
There was barely room to fit his shoulders between an overloaded bookcase and a pile of
books balanced precariously on the edge of Ryland s desk. If he stretched his legs out, the door
wouldn t have room to open. Pacing was out of the question. Arslan looked around the room
instead.
There were math books shoved into one corner that had to be relics from Ryland s
undergraduate days. Arslan could make sense of the titles. Those that seemed to be in current use
were way beyond him. Smart boy, he mused, a smile touching the corners of his lips.
He turned his attention to the work on the desk. At least the scribblings in the notebook
Ryland had left open looked simple enough. The handwriting was appalling, but Arslan could
just about make out the numbers. It looked like straightforward arithmetic, as if someone was
checking the same series of calculations over and over again in the mistaken hope that the
answer might change at some point.
Arslan sighed and tried to be patient. As he rolled his shoulders and tried to work some of
the tension out of his muscles without knocking anything over, a familiar looking book caught
his attention. Closer inspection revealed that the shelf was full of very familiar books the entire
recommended reading list for his undergraduate course on Medieval History. A battered folder
was wedged in between the books. Arslan reached across and extracted it from between two
well-thumbed reference texts.
A quick flick through the file showed it to be full of hand written reports. Arslan scanned
the first page. It was the beginnings of a history essay, one of those he d assigned to those
students who were actually supposed to attend the lectures that Ryland seemed so fond of sitting
in on. A more detailed inspection of the file s contents showed that all the essays he d assigned
on that course so far were tucked away in there.
Arslan looked at his watch and across at the cup of tea. Steam no longer curled above it.
With a silent sigh, he settled as comfortably as possible into the undersized chair and turned his
attention to the first essay.
An hour later, he was well into the third essay when he finally heard someone fumble
with the handle on the other side of the door. Arslan pulled his feet out of the way to give it room
to swing back. The door still faltered half way. Arslan could almost hear the warning flag go up
in Ryland s brain as he remembered that he hadn t left the light on when he left the room.
 Your tea s gone cold.
Ryland pushed the door open a little further and peeped into the room. He seemed to
consider his options very carefully before he stepped inside and elbowed the door closed behind
him. He was weighed down under a huge pile of paperwork.
Arslan stayed where he was, waiting to see what his new pet would do next. Ryland
merely stood there, just inside the door, as if waiting for permission, for an order, for anything
his master might be willing to offer him.
 Picking up some extra cash? Arslan asked.
The blood drained out of Ryland s face.
 Sit! Arslan ordered.
Ryland just stared back at him as if he d seen a ghost. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]