Page 87 of Damsel in Disguise

I turn. “Yes?”

He doesn’t answer with words. Just a small tilt of his head—a silent command to follow.

I obey. I hate that I do.

We keep a measured distance as I walk behind him, the rhythm of our steps echoing faintly through the corridor.

My mind keeps circling back to that one question—why me? Did Alistair know it was me from the start?

I swallow a lump, my hands tighten around the straps of my bag. If yes then… What now?

He doesn’t speak the entire way to his faculty room.

Professor Hertley opens the door and steps aside, holding it for me. The gesture is simple and polite as usual.

It sends an unexpected warmth through me, although I know exactly what he’s capable of behind closed doors. Not when my body still remembers the way he handled me—unyielding, merciless, consuming.

A man who can strip me down to nothing in the dark and still hold a door open like a gentleman in the light. The contradiction makes my heart flutter a little too hard and butterflies flapping their wings in my stomach.

I give a small nod and step inside. He follows, the door clicks shut with such softness that makes me flinch.

It’s absurd. I’ve had him inside my mouth for days, learned the weight and taste of him in ways no one else has, and yet standing here, fully clothed, under fluorescent lighting, I feel nervous.

Get it together, Ari. He doesn’t know.

What is he does?

“Have a seat, Miss Keinston,” he says, already turning toward the coffee brewer, his tone calm and professional.

Strange. I think his wife mentioned he doesn’t like coffee.

I nod, though the motion feels delayed, and move to sit across from his desk. My fingers loosen slightly around the strap, letting the bag slide off my shoulder onto my lap.

“Want some coffee?”

The question catches me off guard.

I glance over my shoulder at him, momentarily stunned by the casualness—as if we’re just professor and student, nothing tangled, nothing hidden beneath the surface.

I shake my head. “Thanks, but no.”

“You sure?” he asks, already reaching for another mug. “I think it might help with your sore throat.”

My breath stutters, catching halfway up my chest.

“H-how did you—” the question falters before it can fully form.

“Observation,” he replies easily. “You’ve been unusually quiet today.”

He walks over and sets the mug in front of me nevertheless, and takes his seat with his fill in hand—completely unbothered by the way my pulse has started to misbehave again.

I mouth a quiet thank you and wrap my fingers around the mug, letting the heat seep into my skin before I take a careful sip.

Too hot. I pull back slightly, not willing to add a burnt tongue in the list.

He watches me patiently, waiting for me to adjust at my own pace.

When I try again, slower this time, the flavor settles over my tongue, rich and smooth with a subtle bitterness softened by something almost velvety.