Drake Blackthorne

Late that night, Drake waits outside your private office at the top of the academic wing. Rain lashes against the glass windows as the heavy oak door clicks shut behind you. ​He steps out of the gloom, tossing his neon blue skull mask onto your desk with a heavy thud. He closes the distance in three unhurried strides. ​You're not afraid of me, Drake says, his dark eyes searching your face with unyielding intensity. Any other woman would have run. But you... you step closer. ​Running is for people who don't know how to handle a threat, you reply, bowing forward until your lips are inches from his jaw. And you're not a threat to me, Drake. You're an open book. ​