"But—" His voice rose at the end, making it sound more like a plea.
One that I'd rather hear under a much more inappropriate circumstance.
I quickened my pace. It might have been rude, but I needed space between me and this student. I wasn't thinking clearly in his presence. In any given moment while outside, I needed to pay attention to the vibrations of my cane and the sound of the tip sliding over the terrain, as well as all the other surrounding sounds, since each gave me more information about the world around me. But at that moment, I could hear only him, smell only him. It was disorientating. Literally.
"If you'll excuse me, I have a meeting with the dean," I said to explain my sudden hasty exit.
He didn't say any more, and I should have counted that as a blessing. Instead, I missed his voice.
How could I miss something I'd only just realized existed? I ripped my focus from the alluring student and onto my surroundings. I didn't want any more accidents. I'd already be attending a meeting with coffee on the bottom of my trousers.
I counted my steps to the crossroads in the path, taking the left route toward the registration building. Soon enough, my cane tip bounced off the beginning of the steps, and I ascended them, noting the change in light. I could perceive when my surroundings went from bright to dark. But also, the changes in sounds, smells, and temperature were all clues letting me know I was on the right path.
It used to be Andrew Boothe who waited for me in the dean's office. His field of study had been strictly human psychology, whereas I studied where animal met man. But our fields had been similar enough that he understood how important my research was, even if it wasn't popular with the general public.
However, Mr. Grub, the once interim and now full-time dean of Morningwood University, didn't see things the same way. He'd already cut my funding in half and had talked about reducing the number of Animal Psychology classes offered until each section had filled within minutes when registration opened.
I knocked on his office door, but the door was already open and swung inward under my fist.
"Professor Crawford, there you are. I was just heading out."
I clenched my teeth. He was acting like I'd shown up extremely late, rather than the two minutes it actually was. "I won't take up your time." Except that was for me. I didn't enjoy being around Dean Grub. More than most shifters, I'd learned to home in on scents to gather information. Most of the scents coming from Dean Grub were unpleasant. The man loved his sauerkraut.
Dean Grub sighed loudly. His chair creaked under his weight. "Okay, I guess I can spare a moment. The chair is just to your—"
"I know where the chair is, thank you." Not only had I memorized the furniture in his room, I'd already located it with my cane. If I were meeting with the old dean, I would've jumped right into the specifics of what I needed, but I doubted Dean Grub had remembered the details of my research, so I started at the beginning. "Next week, I'm beginning the preliminary stages for my research into the effects of scent masking on the shifter psyche. Specifically, I want to evaluate firsthand reactions, both recorded and in person, of shifters who have masked their scent, their reasons for doing so, and the reaction of those around them. I believe that we can really explore what scent means to a shifter, and not just that, but come to a point in our society where shifters are given the choice to decide if they want their scents to be detectable."
So much about shifter culture was decided by smell. Mates recognized each other via scent. Upon a shifter's first sexual experience, they discovered whether they were alpha or omega by smell. Arousal, anger, deception—all of it was detectable to some extent by scent. I wasn't trying to help shifters become more deceitful, but I did want to give shifters the choice of what sort of information they passively put out into the world. And to do that, I needed to start first by understanding the issue more clearly, learning what decision-making factors had gone into those shifters who had already used the various tricks that existed for scent masking despite the stigma.
"That all sounds interesting, but this school has been funding your research for years, without anything to show for it. We make a fraction of the money we need to run this school from student tuitions. The rest is all donations and grants. If you could change your topic of research to something that would draw a larger crowd... This scent masking business, it makes people uncomfortable."
Dean Grub spoke as if he'd been in charge for that whole time, despite having gotten his position less than a year ago. He also clearly didn't understand one key factor. The university did survive mostly on donations from alumni and other sources, but what Grub didn't know was that the single largest yearly donation the university received came from me. I'd been donating to the university for longer than I'd taught there and would continue to do so anonymously.
Before devoting most of my time to teaching and research, I'd worked in the normie market. Currently, I was a silent partner in several Fortune 500 companies, most of them having to do with odor-eliminating compounds and devices. I didn't want for money and could easily afford to fund my own research. That wasn't the point here. I needed the university's name. Shifters were untrusting in general. Those feelings only compounded when it came to the type of animal I was, a puff adder. Add to that the fact that I was blind—a second unusual trait in shifters—and every shifter I attempted to contact would be too wary to speak to me, unless I was able to attach the Morningwood name to my greeting.
"I have no interest in changing my studies at this time," I responded coolly. "All I want to confirm in this meeting is that I am continuing with the preliminary stages. I've already been given access to the funding associated with this stage of my research, including a stipend for a student assistant. I only mention that to highlight the fact that I'm operating under budget, and if you look back at Dean Boothe's records, you'll see that operating under budget is something I have been able to achieve consistently. My research may not be popular with your other investors, but it is important." I was wasting my breath trying to get Dean Grub to care. He didn't need to care. He only needed to stay out of my way. "Do we understand each other?" I didn't growl, but only just barely.
"Perfectly," Dean Grub replied stiffly.
My instincts told me this wasn't over, that he was going to continue to disrupt my research moving forward, but I wasn't a psychic. Until he became a problem, I wouldn't respond as though he were one.
If only I could push Shiloh Formes out of my mind as easily as I did Dean Grub.
Chapter Three
Shiloh
I furiously wiped at the tears streaming down my face. Crying. On campus.
Professor Crawford had been right about me. I was too young and immature for university. I'd had no business trying to weasel my way into his class. Just like I'd had no business going back home and blubbing about it to Seamus. He'd gone to the school directly after our conversation and had tried to burn it down.
Now, he was up in the woods somewhere living with the rabbits while he tried to rebuild what he'd destroyed in order to stay out of jail.
And it was all my fault.
I knew he had a hard time controlling his impulses, just like I knew he was protective of me to the point that he saw my battles as his battles. Still, I'd been more than willing to complain to him, while crying. And now, I didn't know when I'd see him again.