Page 75 of Damsel in Disguise

Instead, I set it aside with deliberate calmness, pulling my mask up to cover the lower half of my face before turning to face him fully. He’s not wearing his glasses.

His gaze lands on me and sweeps over my leather-covered body.

It travels unhurriedly, starting from my face down to the rest of me, as if he has all the time in the world to take me apart piece by piece. The movement is subtle, like being touched without contact.

Heat prickles along my skin in the wake of his attention, goosebumps rising in a slow, traitorous wave. Every inch of me heightens from sensation under that silent inspection, leaving my body reacting before my mind can catch up.

It’s an undressing that never quite crosses the line—yet leaves you feeling far more exposed than if you were fully dressed and covered.

And I don’t look away.

I stand there, fully aware, fully covered, and still feeling like he can see right through me.

“With due respect, Sir, I’d say you should be the last person talking about focus when you’re the one who keeps creating distractions.”

A collective silent gasp ripples through the room. My own heartbeat stutters, caught somewhere between shock and something far more reckless.

But I don’t take it back.

I can’t stand the way he speaks to me like I’m just another student in this room, as if he didn’t control the narrative down to the last lie—my accident, my absence, my return to waking up under his roof, under his rules, under his authority.

If he gets to pretend, then so do I.

Nonetheless, I return the favor.

My gaze drifts—deliberate this time, unhurried in a way that mirrors his own.

His upper body is still bare. The overhead light spills across him, catching on the defined planes of muscle, highlighting the kiss mark I left on the upper left side of his chest.

My gaze drags lower.

The sharp cut of his V-line disappears beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, hanging just low enough to make the view indecent without crossing into exposure.

My breath hitches, barely noticeable, as I follow the line further. I see the subtle rise beneath the fabric—the evidence of him coming in my mouth, and I happen to spill some on his clothes again. The unmistakable tension.

My pulse spikes. No matter how much I see of him, it’s never enough. Every glance feeds me greed. And every time, I want more than the last.

He says something, but I don’t register a single word. My mind is too loud, my anger still simmering beneath the surface, and my body betraying me in ways I refuse to acknowledge.

At this point, I just blankly stare at him.

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly before he clears his throat. “I was hoping for an answer, Miss Keinston.”

My eyes widen barely a fraction at the implication—he’s trying to communicate in code words in the middle of the class about me joining his so-called research team.

“I heard you,” I reply evenly, letting my voice settle into something deceptively calm. “I just didn’t find it worth answering.”

“Are you incapable of following simple instructions, or are you choosing not to?” he asks, tone smooth but edged now.

My lips press together—the movement deliberate enough to answer without giving him what he actually wants. Words.

Around us, the room has gone completely still. Every eye is on us.

He clears his throat again to reset himself, though the tension lingers all the same.

“I asked you a question.”

I still don’t answer.