Chapter 6 The Room, The Wolves, And Him

• I hadn’t planned to go. Not really.
• The invitation had been tucked between a syllabus handout and my annotated poetry text. Typed. No signature. Just an official university header and a date:
• Thursday, 7:00 p.m. – Faculty Literary Society Dinner. Formal Attire Required.
• It felt like a mistake. But my name was there. Clear as breath in cold air.
• So I went.
• I wore black. Not because it was flattering. Because it made me feel hidden, cloaked. It was sleeveless—something my mother would’ve called desperate. But the neckline was modest. I told myself it was appropriate.
• When I arrived, the room buzzed with polished conversation and high-stemmed wine glasses. Chandeliers flickered above us, too elegant for their own light. Everyone seemed to know each other. Names fell from tongues like secrets traded too often.
• And then I saw him.
• Professor Voss.
• He was dressed in black, of course. No tie. Just a perfectly tailored jacket that made him look devastatingly composed. Detached. His collarbone peeked slightly beneath his open collar. No one else noticed. Or maybe they did—and pretended not to.
• He wasn’t speaking. Just listening. Watching.
• And when our eyes met from across the room, the rest of the world receded.
• A man—another professor—approached me before I could move. Dr. Harlan, I think. Literature, mid-forties, smile too wide.
• “You’re Eleanor Sinclair, right?” he said. “Voss’s latest protégée?”
• I froze.
• He offered me a glass of wine. I took it out of politeness.
• “I taught him,” Harlan said. “Before he became… whatever he is now.”
• I tried to smile.
• “He’s brilliant,” I murmured.
• “He’s dangerous,” Harlan corrected. But he said it like a compliment. Like admiration wrapped in envy.
• Then he leaned in. Too close.
• “You’ve got the look,” he said. “Quiet. Curious. Just his type.”
• I stepped back. “Excuse me—”
• But his hand grazed my elbow. Barely a touch. Still—it felt like a mark.
• “Careful,” someone said.
• Not Harlan.
• Him.
• Voss stood behind me now, his voice low, unreadable.
• “Sinclair’s appetite for literature doesn’t extend to recycled anecdotes,” he added.
• Dr. Harlan laughed awkwardly. “Of course. Just… reminiscing.”
• He left. Quickly.
• Julian didn’t look at me.
• Just handed me something.
• A small envelope.
• No words.
• Then he turned and walked away.
• It took me three hours to open it.
• Inside was a key. Heavy, brass, old. On a white card, a handwritten number:
• 318. Midnight.
• That’s all.
• Not a word more.
• At 11:52, I stood outside a door I’d never noticed before—third floor of the old humanities building. It looked abandoned. Dusty plaque. Faded lock.
• I hesitated.
• Then slid the key into the hole.
• It turned with a soft click.
• The room smelled like paper and cold.
• It wasn’t a classroom. No windows. Just one desk, one chair, one overhead lamp already on. The light buzzed softly. On the desk was a single envelope.
• It read: Miss Sinclair.
• I sat.
• My hands trembled as I opened it.
• Inside: a manuscript. Printed, bound with a black cord. No title.
• I flipped the first page.
• And I read.
• The story was fiction.
• But it was me.
• She was shy. Clever. Afraid of herself more than of anyone else. A girl who followed rules until someone gave her permission not to.
• Each paragraph bled with longing. The kind you don’t name. The kind you obey.
• She didn’t submit because he asked. She submitted because it gave her freedom.
• My heart pounded with every word.
• The way he described her mouth. Her silence. Her secret ache to be undone—not by force, but by attention.
• I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until the door clicked shut behind me.
• I froze.
• He was there.
• Julian Voss.
• Leaning against the wall.
• Watching.
• He said nothing.
• I didn’t turn around.
• I just kept reading.
• His story spoke in echoes of things I hadn’t said aloud. The girl in the pages wanted to be guided. Shaped. Broken down into truth and rebuilt with precision.
• It wasn’t porn.
• It was worship.
• It was control.
• And it was an invitation.
• I stood, slowly. My knees almost gave out.
• I turned to face him.
• “I don’t know what this is,” I whispered.
• He stepped closer. Not close enough to touch. But close enough that the air changed.
• “It’s a beginning,” he said.
• I swallowed.
• “You wrote that for me?”
• “I wrote it because of you.”
• I couldn’t look away. My body was screaming with stillness. Every nerve straining toward him.
• “I don’t know what you want from me,” I breathed.
• His eyes softened—barely.
• “I want you,” he said. “But only if you want to give yourself.”
• The word hit like lightning.
• “Give?” I echoed.
• “I don’t take, Elle.”
• Silence.
• Then he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. He placed it on the desk, beside the manuscript.
• “I’m not your professor in that room,” he said. “Not if you sign.”
• I stared at the paper.
• Black ink. Clean lines. No legal names.
• Just one title:
• AGREEMENT: A Study in Obedience