The Rejected daughter chosen by the Alpha (Maya and Atila) novel Chapter 87

Chapter 87

MAYA

I told myself to breathe.

He was just a professor.

That’s it. Nothing more.

Mr. Volkov finished writing his name on the board in clean, deliberate strokes.

Átila Volkov.

Even his name had presence.

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He turned to face us, one hand braced against the desk. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled with almost offensive precision, exposing strong forearms dusted with dark hair.

Yeah. He was absolutely my type.

If I even had one.

Apparently, I did now.

“As I was saying,” he continued evenly, “Professor Hale was dismissed yesterday. I reviewed the syllabus last night. You have an oral assessment scheduled for today.”

A collective groan rippled through the room.

He didn’t smile.

“I see no reason to postpone it.”

Of course

you

don’t.

My stomach dropped.

A guy in the back raised his hand. “Sir, with all due respect… you just got here.”

Volkov’s gaze slid to him. It wasn’t harsh. Just steady. Unmovable.

“Does the hippocampus shut down when a new professor walks in?”

Silence.

“Neural pathways don’t reorganize because someone changed jobs,” he added. “Either you or you didn’t.”

studied,

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Chapter 87

A few nervous laughs.

He opened his folder. “We’ll proceed as planned. One at a time. I’ll call your names.”

My pulse started climbing.

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I knew the material. Biological Psychology was my thing. Synapses. Neurotransmitters. Trauma responses. I could talk about it for hours.

But when it was my turn?

My brain liked to betray me.

“Let’s begin.”

The first student went up.

Volkov didn’t sit. He stayed standing, arms loosely crossed, listening. His expression gave nothing away.

No encouragement. No judgment.

Just assessment.

When the student stumbled through an explanation of the amygdala’s role in fear conditioning, Volkov tilted his head slightly.

“Breathe. Your brain works better when you do.”

The guy tried again.

Still wrong.

“The amygdala isn’t optional in fear processing” Volkov said calmly. “It’s central. Remove it, and what happens?”

“Uh… reduced fear response?”

“Reduced,” he repeated. “Not eliminated. Be precise.”

God, he was demanding.

And somehow… that made him even hotter.

What is wrong

with me?

He called a few more names. Efficient. Direct. No public humiliation. Just professionalism.

Then-

“Maya Melrose.”

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Chapter 87

My heart kicked hard against my ribs.

I stood, slipped off my coat, and left it on my chair. On the outside, I was calm.

Inside? Absolute chaos.

I walked to the front.

Up close, he was worse.

Or better.

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Tall. Very tall. Broad shoulders stretching his white shirt in a way that felt borderline inappropriate for an academic setting. Dark hair, slightly disheveled, like he’d run a hand through it one too many times. Light stubble shadowing his jaw, giving him that rough, almost feral edge.

He glanced at the file in his hand. “Second-year Psychology.”

“Yes.”

“Let’s start simple. Explain the neurobiological relationship between trauma and memory fragmentation.”

Of course he would start there.

My throat tightened for a split second.

“When the brain perceives an extreme threat,” I began, “the amygdala becomes hyperactive while the prefrontal cortex-responsible for rational processing-can be suppressed. Elevated cortisol interferes with hippocampal consolidation, which leads to fragmented or incomplete memories.”

His eyes sharpened.

“Go on.”

“In other words, the brain prioritizes survival over narrative coherence. The person remembers sensations. Smells. Sounds. But not necessarily the sequence of events.”

Smoke.

Fire.

My pulse skipped.

“And what are the clinical implications?” he asked.

“That survivors can experience flashbacks without context. The body reacts before the mind understands why.”

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Silence.

He didn’t look away.

“Can those memories return?”

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“Yes. Sometimes spontaneously. Sometimes through therapy. Sometimes triggered by sensory

cues.”

His jaw tightened slightly.

“Is it advisable to force recall?”

“No.”

It came out firmer than I expected.

“Why?”

“Because the brain suppressed it for a reason. Forcing it can retraumatize. Stability comes first. Safety.”

Something shifted in his expression.

Not academic.

Personal.

“Interesting,” he murmured.

He stepped closer. Not inappropriate. Just close enough that I felt it.

‘What’s the difference between memory loss from physical injury and psychological suppression?”

I swallowed.

“Physical injury directly damages neural structures. Psychological suppression leaves the structures intact but alters access. The memory exists. It’s just… blocked.”

“Blocked,” he repeated.

“Yes.”

“Which is more dangerous?”

“Neither is inherently more dangerous. But the unknown can be more frightening.”

Our eyes locked.

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Chapter 87

My heart pounded the same way it had that morning when I woke up in that bed.

He stepped back.

“You’re dismissed.”

“My grade?” I asked before I could stop myself.

A few quiet snickers behind me.

“A,” he said. “With precision.”

Heat rushed to my face.

“Thank you.”

I was halfway back to my seat when he said, “Miss Melrose.”

I froze.

“Yes?”

“Be careful not to intellectualize everything.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Understanding trauma academically isn’t the same as understanding it personally.”

That hit deeper than it should have.

“I know that.”

Our eyes met again.

A spark.

Not soft.

Electric.

“Good,” he said quietly.

I walked back to my seat on unsteady legs.