Samot had seen a lot in his time as a demon.

Born into a world recovering from the Great Depression, it was easy to find people willing to sell their soul for a better life. Destitution and despair reduced the American people to a sad husk of their former selves and prompted many to pursue a life of crime and corruption. Those that came begging and pleading, kissing the very soles of Samot's shoes, were already covered in the filth of human depravity. It made taking their souls easy, but also left a foul taste in Samot's mouth.

With the coming war and the economic expansion that followed, Samot had his fill of preying on the villainous masses and instead set his sights on more righteous souls. With his history in the underbelly of American society, he had firsthand experience with the country's understanding of law and order. That knowledge helped him ease into the role of Dr. Damien Voss, who focused on ancient political philosophies and how they should be reflected in the new American dream of the 1950s.

The people were eager to reclaim and reshape America after the beating they took in the 1930s, and Samot was more than happy to help them prosper. It was a new kind of villainy that he encountered, but it was coated in the facade of good and moral intentions, which somehow made the souls just a bit more appetizing.

Humans, he found, only ever dared to sell their soul for their own advancement. He couldn't recall a time when someone forfeited their soul because they had reached a point of extreme desperation and sorrow over the injustices against their fellow humans. Never had the contract been signed for the sake of another. Perhaps it was because those few precious humans capable of feeling empathy, actually understood the value of a soul to begin with.

His time amongst mortals made Samot well versed in the immoralities of the human spirit. Which was why virtuous souls like Sophia Miller's were an absolute enigma.

"Good evening, professor."

Samot looked up from his laptop and found his student standing just outside the threshold of his office with an uncertain twist of her ruby red lips.

Have they always been that color, he wondered, his brow furrowing as he shifted through his memories. I don't think I've ever seen her hair that large either. Well, maybe not large. Perhaps, flowy? If that's even a word.

He grit his teeth in thought, his face pinching and pulling with frustration.

"Uh, may I come in, professor?"

Her words, soft and sweet, pulled his attention back to the door. Whatever her hair was at that moment, it was unlike her typical mane. Usually she tied it up at the back of her head or left it hanging flat around her shoulders. That evening, however, she arrived at his office with her long caramel strands twisted into loose curls. The hair around her forehead and near her ears was pulled back to reveal her bright eyes and blushing cheeks. A silvery clip that looked like the mouth of a Venus flytrap kept that hair back, though a few strands slipped free to curl around her jawline or brush her long lashes. Despite his usual disinterest in his student's appearance, he was captivated by the elegance in the curls of her hair and artistic expression in the sweeps of color above her eyes.

He wondered why she never looked that way in class.

"Of course. Please shut the door on your way in. I wouldn't want the bustle in the hallway to distract from your studies."

She followed his instructions, slipping into the office and shutting the door with a careful pull. Despite the formal invitation into his space, she still stood next to the doorway with her back pressed against his bookshelf.

What is she up to, he wondered. This is far too timid for her. She's nearly bitten my head off a few times now, yet she can't even look me in the eye.

He followed her gaze to see what had her so enthralled when she was supposed to be there studying with him. After a moment or two of assessing her appearance, he thought he'd found the point of interest—though he had no idea why.

With her eyes downcast, it was hard to pinpoint where she focused her attention, but her hands provided some clarity. He'd seen many a human come to him with nervous desperation quaking in their hands. Many took to playing with their hair, touching their face, or rubbing their clothes. As for Ms. Miller, it appeared her comfort of choice was to grip the very bottom of her skirt. It seemed like an odd place to direct her fingers considering her skirt sat particularly high upon her thigh, which meant her arms had to bend to keep their hold on the tight, shimmering fabric. Perhaps that was why she appeared so intent on tugging the hem down further on her legs.

"Ms. Miller, could you pull the seat around to this side of the desk? I have a few of my slides up on my laptop. I've picked out some topics that I think you could particularly benefit from."

She looked at him for a moment without a word of understanding or confusion upon her luscious red lips—which Samot struggled to look away from. Then, with a shake of her head—which bounced her soft, golden curls in a pleasing dance—she grabbed the chair and tugged it over to his side of the desk.

She spent a few seconds fidgeting in the seat with her hands desperately pulling at her skirt which had only risen higher by sitting. However, once she was settled, Samot drew her attention to the slideshow on his computer. After withdrawing a small pad of paper from her bag, she began taking notes.

I can't believe how fortunate I am, he thought to himself while his lips continued the lecture he's taught for nearly a century. She has so much skin showing. If I wasn't so afraid of stoking her distrust with my touches, I could probably figure out who had branded her in a matter of seconds.

The mark of a demon was only visible when another demon touched the point of extraction. If Zeni tried to pull from Kyle, she would find Samot's mark upon the tip of Kyle's finger—right where he had pricked it with his knife. Samot knew Zeni had a preference for drawing from the patch of skin right behind her prey's ear. Despite her status as a soul eater instead of a cubus, she did have a sensual edge to her harvesting techniques and her point of extraction spoke of the way she often whispered sweet, tantalizing promises into their ears.

However, without knowing the demon, he was at a loss over where to begin. The mark would not show without making direct contact with it and despite the ease of access, he couldn't just start pawing all over Sophia's body.

He sighed with acceptance, recognizing that he'd likely have to waste this opportunity out of necessity to protect himself from further stoking Sophia's wrath. That, however, didn't mean he wouldn't make do with a few preliminary touches here and there.

"Wait. You wrote that down wrong."

He reached his hand out and took gentle hold of her right hand to pause her scribbling. He felt the way her whole body tensed with the contact and once he felt confident that there was no mark hiding on the back of her hands or fingers, he withdrew his touch, making sure to brush a patch of her forearm on his way.

"I, uh, sorry, professor."

Again his brow knitted with confusion. Her voice lacked the biting edge it had when telling him off. Instead, it came out wispy and rattling with a repressed shudder. He wondered if she was ill and took advantage of her weakened state while he had the chance.

"Are you okay?"

He reached his arm around to touch the shoulder furthest from him. He hoped it came off as caring and concerned, which a small part of him was.

Why is she wearing a sleeveless blouse at this time of the year? Aren't humans typically cold in this weather? She did shiver when I grazed her shoulder. What an odd clothing choice to make.

After giving her a reassuring squeeze, he drew his hand across the length of her back, making sure his fingertips hooked beneath the loose hem around her arm so he could test her shoulder blades. He then paused his progress at her spine. He'd really like to check there as he knew many demons that enjoyed the conviction a human would need to allow a blade to slice into their delicate back, but he wasn't getting access to that anytime soon—if he ever did at all. He really hoped the mark wasn't back there.

"Ms. Miller, I'm concerned. You look cold and you're shaking. Do you have a fever? Do you feel ill in any way? I hope you haven't let stress get the better of you. The whole point of this is to ease up some of that anxiety."

As he bent over to get a better view of her bowed expression, his hand ran a couple reassuring circles around her upper back. In so doing, he brushed her delightfully silky hair away from the back of her neck and rubbed the skin found there. It was another popular spot for a mark, but the only thing he found was the prick of risen hairs and the bumps of prickling flesh.

"Professor."

Was that actually a word or was I hearing things? It sounded more like a breath than anything else.

He drew in closer, his body hunched to match hers, and his eyes sharp and searching as he sought her hazel gaze. He caught the sharp intake of her breath and the fearful bite of her lower lip. The way her teeth tugged at the plump, bright red lip, reminded him a juicy strawberry and he failed to stop himself from involuntarily licking his lips.

"I don't think this is a good idea, professor."

Shit. What's not a good idea? The tutoring sessions? I went too far too fast, didn't I? I cannot fuck this up with impatience.

He removed his hand from where it had been massaging the back of her neck and found his own fingertips oddly chilled once they left the warm caress of her hair. He managed a quick brush over her other shoulder and confirmed that neither had a mark hiding beneath the skin.

"What's wrong? Is it studying together that bothers you? Would you prefer I put together a study group that I oversaw?"

He didn't like that option in the slightest as it would seriously hamper his attempts to seduce Sophia. However, she already didn't like him nor trusted him, so if having to bring others into the fold was necessary to keep her from running away, then he would do what he must. Of course, that doesn't mean he'd go down without a fight.

"I'm happy to do that, if you still think something happened that day a few weeks ago. I want you to succeed, it's just that you would likely benefit more from a crash course in a one-on-one setting than wading through all the various needs of other students as well."

He considered reaching out and placing his hand on her knee in a sign of sympathetic compassion, but he knew better than to do that when she was already skittish.

"No," she said, turning to face him with wide eyes, which Samot realized were enhanced by a thin brush of black along the edges of her eyelids and a sweep of bronze just above that. "I just..."

She trailed off without further explanation, but that didn't matter to Samot. To his surprise, his own breath caught when Sophia reached out and took one of his hands inside both of hers. There was an earnestness in the way she enveloped his hand. It felt much like a vigorous handshake might.

"No, thank you, professor. I really appreciate you doing this for me. I'm just getting lost in my own head, I think. I just get so easily distracted in your class and apparently I do here too." She bowed and hunched, looking over the way her hands warmed his. For a moment, her fingers splayed and tested the spaces between Samot's. However, it lasted for only the space of a breath, and then she pulled her hands away as if his skin was liquid fire. "Excuse me, I'm sorry. Let's, um, just forget it. I'm fine. Really, I am. I think it's just because I was in a hurry to get here and forgot my coat. I'm just chilly, that's all."

As if she needed to prove that fact, her whole frame rippled from her toes to the top of her head. She shoved her hands beneath her mostly bare thighs and sat on them with her arms stiff at her sides.

"I'm ready to continue now. We were on social contract theory, I think."

Samot glanced down at her buried hands and then looked to the pen and paper balanced on the edge of his desk. Deciding it was better to let Sophia determine when she did or didn't need to write notes, he looked back to the computer screen and continued to discuss the modern evolution of the theory born during the Age of Enlightenment.

And that's how he continued during the remainder of their hour together. He took consolation in the fact he thoroughly checked her hands and surveyed her shoulders along with the back of her neck. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

When the clock tolled the six o'clock hour, Samot arranged for them to meet again on the following Monday. To his relief she didn't protest, though she did scoop up her things and scurry out of the office without so much of a glance in his direction.

Sitting alone in his office once again, he leaned back in his chair and brushed his lip in thought.

I was prepared to deal with a feisty young woman who would only allow me a careless brush here and there. But she wasn't like anything I'd seen before. What game is she playing at?

He thought upon this question for a few minutes before deciding it was a waste of mental energy. Instead, he shut down his computer and locked up his office for the weekend. He doubted Zeni and Vaden would be particularly helpful in assessing the matter, but he did know it would be far more pleasant to think about it over a beer.