Page 163 of Damsel in Disguise

By the time I arrive at Oxford, taking my usual seat in his lecture hall ten minutes early, the feeling hasn’t faded.

If anything, it’s worsening.

The image of the blood and regeneration and him forcing the Synthète into malfunction with his bare hands mid-sex refuses to leave me alone.

The next minute Alistair Hertley kissed me beside that specific corpse. Then together we cleaned the mess afterward like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And suddenly, he was pushing me away.

Not that I can blame him for it. Any sane person would be overwhelmed too.

I press my face against my hands.

England’s pale morning light spills through the windows in washed-out streaks, emphasizing the normalcy of everyday as usual.

Students slowly fill the rows around me. Conversations blur together into meaningless static. Someone laughs three seats behind me. Someone drops their pen.

And here all I can think of is how he stood there looking less like a professor and more like something violently human for the first time since I met him.

And God. That kiss.

Heat crawls instantly up my throat.

He kissed me because something inside him snapped for half a second, and I happened to be standing close enough to witness it.

My tongue unconsciously swipes over my bottom lips.

The way his hand wrapped around my throat like he was debating whether to suffocate me and ground me against him.

The worst part? I still kissed him back. Wouldn’t even mind if he choked me to death.

What kind of person watches a man kill someone, helps him clean the blood, then spends the next two days fantasizing about his lips?

Apparently, me. A humorless laugh nearly escapes me.

He kissed me first.

He was the one who kept looking at me like he wanted to ruin me slowly then rebuild me in his terms.

He was the one who kept dragging me closer only to shove me away the second things became too real.

So why the hell am I the only one unraveling over it?

My eyes drift towards the wall clock ahead—12:29 p.m.

I feel my heart rate spike. He’s about to enter the class.

12:30—anticipation starts to kick in.

12:31—the lecture hall doors finally open.

But it isn’t him.

An older professor walks in carrying a stack of notes.

Confusion ripples through the room instantly.

“This is Jonas Callaway. I’ll be covering today’s lecture on Professor Hertley’s behalf,” he says calmly while setting his things down.