Page 2
Alastair
Chapter 1
Three Weeks Until Christmas
Calista
My nipples could cut through glass, and not for the reasons I’d prefer. This godforsaken building is colder than a witch’s tit.
I tug the edges of my emerald peacoat tighter, walking through the dark corridor lit by oil lanterns leading to the library. It is my singular place of solace in this darkened university where the air always feels damp, and the shadows follow me like ghosts from my past. One ghost, in particular.
The lantern’s glow grazes the black brickwork of the fifteenth-century Gothic walls, as if spending every waking hour in a secluded building which hangs just over the cliff’s edge isn’t suffocating enough.
I'm thrown off-kilter, my stomach falling to the floor where the heel of my stiletto is caught between the stone cracks.
My cry echoes in the hollow corridor as I pitch forward—until a tattooed arm shoots out, halting me mid-fall. My chest slams against his, breath scattering in the soft gleam of flame.
“Good morning, Dr. Ravenna.” The smooth and intoxicating voice belonging to someone who has become fretfully familiar wraps around me like silk and sin, and I am reminded that there are not one, but two places of solace here.
The other, in Alastair’s arms.
My gaze flits up to meet a striking pair of storm-gray eyes rimmed with the faintest frost of blue, and my thighs rub together without thought.
The corners of my lips curve, a brow quirking as I use his thick, sinewy arm as leverage to right myself. “Alastair, what did I say about calling me doctor?”
He arches a deep auburn brow beneath gold frames, the tip of his tongue swiping across pink lips with a light dusting of freckles, like ashes scattered across his pale complexion. “To keep it in the bedroom?” he asks in a husky whisper.
“Mmm,” I hum, shifting onto my toes to press my cheek to his, “precisely, Professor Ignatius. Now, shouldn’t you be off to class?”
Sudden shouts from the headmaster’s office assault us from the end of the long hall—they may as well be yelling straight into our ears with the vibrato behind each scathing word, and our attention snaps to the sound.
Alastair tugs me firmer to his chest, spinning us to press between a limestone column and the stone wall. His warm breath ghosts over the shell of my ear, and goosebumps erupt over my skin, a heaviness settling low in my belly.
The slamming of a door cracks through the corridor, jolting me from Alastair’s warmth. Out of the shadows emerges Hook-Hand Henry, a man who’s worked at Nocturne Frost longer than I’ve been alive.
“Henry, you must see it’s time to retire. The school is bitter cold, the students restless. They pay dearly for their education! Warmth should not be too much to expect—” Headmaster Whitmore explains to Henry, but he’s cut off.
Henry’s voice permeates the area like a sack of gravel scraping the ground, a shiver racing through me at the sound despite how kind he’s always been to me. “This place has been my home as long as I can remember. I’ve treated her with respect, and as I’ve told you, the furnace needs repairs before it can be turned back on for the coming winter.”
“That is the problem, Henry. Everything here falters, yet your repairs drag on. Perhaps it is time to set down the tools, my friend.”
“I wouldn’t be your friend if you were the Devil’s own piss stain. You’ll regret this, mark my words!” Henry shouts, his voice echoing off the rafters above us, a bat flapping by with a start. He hobbles out, his eye covered with a black patch, a hook for a hand, and a wooden peg where his leg had once been prior to his most recent roofing incident.
He makes his way past where Alastair and I are hidden, holding a collective breath and plastering ourselves against the stonework. His movements halt, sharp gaze landing on us, narrowing. The lanterns flicker as his eye rakes over us, time holding its breath until he turns away without a word.
“That was—”
“It was,” I breathe out. Alastair presses a firm palm to the base of my spine and guides me forward with my heart in my throat.
“I believe I have a class in just a moment,” he says, lifting his hand and twisting his wrist to check his watch. “And you have students to tend to in your library, Dr. Ravenna.”
I love that he calls it mine. I’ve never had anything that belonged to me alone.
“And after?” I ask in a whisper, gliding toward my most favorite place in the world.
“Are you propositioning me, Dr. Ravenna?” he asks in a low, rumbling tenor. I suspect if I glance at his crotch, he wouldn’t be the only one awaiting my response.
“Would you be offended if I were?”
