Page 202 of Damsel in Disguise

Ariella looks up at me with those impossible hazel eyes, the kind that never seemed content with one color. Gold around the pupils. Green at the edges. Flecks of brown scattered between them as though someone forgot to finish the painting.

She’s dressed entirely in white. A soft-looking skirt. A sweetheart neckline. Puffed sleeves. White boots that tried and failed to make up for the difference in our height.

Meanwhile, I’ve been wearing what I always wear—black, from head to toe.

From a distance, we must look ridiculously like a scene from some forgotten fairytale. A damsel standing exactly where she never should’ve been—the devil’s grip.

The music continues drifting through the laboratory. The melody loops through the speakers again and again, transforming it into a haunting background noise. Then suddenly it stops.

I look over at the live footage now playing, and for the second time in my life, my blood runs cold.

The video isn’t in HD—far from it, since it’s been zoomed in from at least a few miles away. But the message is clear.

Ariella is being tracked live. The ammunition sight is aimed right at the nape of her neck. Judging by the angle, it’s a tranquilizer. In the footage, she’s sleeping peacefully in her dimly lit bedroom. The same bed where I wrecked her just hours ago.

“If you don’t bring her here yourself, I promise you won’t like the outcome.”

A muscle ticks in my jaw, and the veins in my temple throb.

“One condition,” I grit out, not waiting for his approval. “Nobody touches her except me. And by that,” I look dead in his eyes, “I mean nobody, or else I end your best creation.”

He dares to scoff. “Bring her here, Alistair.”

“Do. I. Have. Your. Word?”

“You do. No one touches her.” He murmurs something else under his breath—some bullshit about how he never thought I’d be so obsessed with her.

As if it’s that simple. Little does he know, it’s not an obsession. It’s something far more dangerous than that vague word.

My thumb hovers over the screen. One touch is all it would take.

I could warn her.

I could tell her to disappear.

I could spend the next six hours running and guarantee both of our deaths instead.

Or I could do what I’ve always done—being nonchalant as usual.

I do none of what I should, but hit call and press it against my ear.

The call connects on the fourth ring. Soft, unguarded sound reaches me first—fabric shifting, sleepy breathing.

Then her voice, thick with sleep and exhaustion. “Professor?”

It’s too early for someone to be awake. Of course, she was sleeping.

Ariella thinks I was too drunk last night to remember any of what happened.

“I remember telling you to use my first name, haven’t I?”

“I—uhh… sorry, yes—hi… Al-Alistair.”

I don’t need to see her face to know she’s blushing.

My eyes lift to the Crown, who’s still watching me.

I decide to make this quick. The less I speak, the less of myself I’ve to betray.