Page 89 of Damsel in Disguise

“You know what?” I exhale sharply, pushing back from the chair, taking my bag with me. “I’m done entertaining whatever this is.”

The coffee sits untouched now, luring me for another sip, but I ignore the temptation and reach for the door.

“I’ve quizzes to prepare for.”

The obvious lie hangs between us. The term just began. There’s no upcoming quiz for at least two weeks.

My hand closes around the door handle, ready to twist it open, when he halts me. “I haven’t assigned anything yet.”

I pause, jaw tightening.

“There are other courses, professor,” I shoot back without turning. “Other faculties. Things I need to catch up on because I happened to be in an accident.”

A beat of silence.

“My mistake,” there’s something off in the way he’s speaking now.

I dare to look over my shoulder at him, bracing myself for whatever is about to come.

“And yet,” he continues, voice dipping just enough to drag along my nerves, “you seem far more committed to everything related to me.”

A strange heat crawls up my spine, paired with a dose of irritation.

Then he adds, almost lazily. “Tell me, Miss Keinston… why concern yourself with exams,” a pause, just long enough to make my pulse stutter, “when you could be far more productively occupied with me instead?”

My breath catches. For a second, I don’t move. Don’t think. Don’t even blink. He can’t be serious.

My heart surges, fast and heavy against my ribs, betraying exactly how much the words land. My body pivots, eyes finding his blue orbs watching me with a predatory gaze.

“Excuse me?”

“Hmm?” his brow raises with interest, like he didn’t just cross a line and redraw it entirely.

A sharp, grounding flicker of anger pushes through my bloodstream.

“You do realize I could report you for this informal behavior,” I snap, striding back toward his desk. My palms hit the surface, bracing both sides. “And ruin more than just your career.”

He doesn’t even look surprised.

“Since we’re discussing legal actions now…” he murmurs, turning toward his desktop.

My brows knit together, unease settling low in my stomach while he types something in. His gaze flicks in my direction before he starts reciting a number.

My blood runs cold. Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit…. That’s my fucking plate number.

“Does that registration number ring any bells, Miss Keinston?”

For a fraction of a second, panic claws its way up. I force it down, burying it underneath my skin.

There’s no point hiding it. I close my eyes briefly, gathering myself, then meet his gaze.

“It’s mine,” I answer truthfully.

“I appreciate your honesty,” he says, that same pleasant smile settling into place.

This time, it chills rather than warming my heart.

“For the last seven nights, a motorcycle bearing this exact registration number has been spotted in the vicinity of my residence.”