Page 55 of Damsel in Disguise

I let the silence stretch instead of reacting. If he wants more, he can ask for it. And he does

“How long have you been known me, Ariella?”

The sound of my name from his mouth shouldn’t affect me this much—to be on my knees and confess my sins. He must’ve noticed that, and is clearly using it to his advantage.

If calling a Keinston by their first name would be a mistake, Alistair should be hung for dead four times by now. But then again, I can never get tired of hearing my name roll off his lips.

“What do you mean?”

My gaze drops briefly to his lips as his tongue drags slowly across them. The color stands out sharply against his pale skin.

I force myself to look back at his eyes before he notices.

“We both know you haven’t been here long enough to form the kind of conclusions you’re already forming,” he says evenly. “Yet you have questions about the last four weeks, about my schedule, about the gaps that were never publicly discussed. So instead of pretending otherwise, why don’t you be honest with me for once and let me extend you the same courtesy?”

The seriousness in his gaze isn’t theatrical. This is the first time I’m seeing him stripped of the casual detachment he usually wears.

And suddenly I’m afraid—afraid to find out he’s not the man my naïve heart believed is just a crush.

He’s not just a predator either, rather the predator.

The predator wrapped in sheep’s clothing, the ever-so-smiling, friendly professor.

All my life I’ve escaped consequences. My family erased my mistakes. When I crossed the lines at sixteen, Asher cleaned the blood from the floor before it could stain me. There was always someone standing between me and the fallout.

But right now there’s no shield. I’m exposed, completely exposed in front of the man of my dreams.

This is what it must feel like to step over quicksand, feeling your ankles being pulled down, realizing nobody can save you anymore. This is what it feels like to have nowhere to hide when the mask slips free.

20. NOTICEABLE

alistair

“Why did you bring me here?” Ariella asks, swallowing the hesitation before my name ever reaches her tongue.

A subtle smirk settles at the corner of my mouth. Directness always amuses me, especially when it’s tempered by restraint.

“Direct,” my voice roughened by the low register I rarely bother to mask. “I appreciate that.”

My gaze lingers, observing the tension in her posture, the faint calculation behind her eyes, waiting to see which version of Ariella answers—the cautious fresher or the girl who dances in the shadows unannounced.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she presses, forcing steadiness into her tone.

I lean back slightly. “My apologies, Miss Keinston. Just wanted to spend some time with my favorite student.”

The reminder unsettles her.

“I didn’t think you’d bring me here for casual tea,” she replies, letting irony soften the tension.

“So you anticipated something more. Let’s begin with how you found me, shall we?”

It’s not a question. It’s an observation of what she’s doing—measuring how much she can reveal without confirming what I already know.

Ariella chooses the narrowest truth available.

“You have a YouTube channel named CoreCircuits. You discuss academic frameworks, policy structures, and institutional dynamics. I’ve watched them.”

“For how long, Ariella?” I ask despite knowing the answer—I want to check if she lies or not.