Page 164 of Damsel in Disguise

The words hit me strangely. He’s absent.

The rest of the class moves on almost immediately. Silence drops. Laptops open. Pens click. Chairs scrape against the floor.

But my mind stays on one thing. He didn’t come.

Alistair Hertley—the man built entirely out of routine and precision—missed a lecture.

Something is definitely wrong.

The lecture drags unbearably after that. I barely absorb a word.

By late evening, I give up pretending to focus on anything else and somehow end up outside his mansion, straddling my bike.

The windows are dark.

No lights seeping through the curtains.

No Aston Martin in sight.

Most importantly, no sign of him.

Even so, I stand there far longer than I should anyway—helmet tucked beneath my arm while the cold evening wind threads through my hair and slips beneath my jacket.

Should’ve changed into the leather.

My body occasionally trembles from the cold. However, my attention remains fixed on the silent mansion towering in front of me.

Meanwhile, my mind keeps spiraling through possibilities I can’t seem to shut off. Every scenario slips apart before I can hold onto it for long.

Maybe he’s at the Triarch Dominion.

Maybe he’s somewhere underground doing things that would make normal people sick to their stomachs.

Or maybe he never came home. Maybe he noticed me properly this time and changed his location on purpose.

My heart aches at this possibility. I try to console myself, saying he’s dangerous enough that I should’ve stopped this stupid obsession months ago.

Perhaps he’s bleeding somewhere alone.

With that, dread creeps into my bones. I need to find him.

My phone vibrates inside my bag just then, slicing through the noise in my head.

I blink and pull it to find an unknown number.

My brows pull together instantly. For a brief second, I just stare at the screen while my pulse starts climbing for no reason other than instinct.

Curiosity wins the better of me. I end up swiping right, pressing the phone to my ear.

“You shouldn’t stand outside people’s homes after dark, Miss Keinston.”

Every nerve ending in my body lights up at once.

The sound of his voice pours through me like a slow electric current—roughened around the edges in a way I’ve never heard before.

Not lecture-hall polished. Not camera-ready. This version of him sounds tired. Deeper. Real.

“Professor?” the word leaves my mouth softer than intended.