Page 7
The week has been long and dreadful, the university sealed beneath icy winds and the muffled hush of falling snow. Grief lingers in the stonework, in the narrow halls, in the way every sound seems swallowed before it can fully form. Small glimpses of light brought on by Alastair’s attentive presence act as my only reprieve from the sorrow I feel at the loss of my old friend.
I step into Alastair’s office, and the familiar scent of ink and old parchment enfolds me, reverent as a chapel. A single desk lamp burns low, its light cutting sharp angles across the room, illuminating his hands, his bowed head, the patient lines of his concentration. He looks almost sculpted there—still, deliberate, a man shaped by quiet devotion.
For a moment, I bask in his existence.
As if sensing my presence, his eyes find mine—unhurried, searching—and the world seems to still around us. The scratching of his pen ceases. The quiet deepens. Something unspoken settles in the space between us, taut as a held breath.
Neither of us smiles or makes a move toward the other. We simply look at one another, the weight of the week pressing in, grief and longing braided so tightly I cannot tell where one ends and the other begins.
Relief slips through me, slow and unwelcome in its intensity.
He straightens in his chair, setting the pen aside as though whatever he was doing no longer matters. I step further into the room then, the door closing behind me, grateful, absurdly so, to find him here, present and real, rather than lost beneath the echo of another man’s absence.
He does not rush to fill the silence.
Instead, he leans back just enough to regard me, the chair creaking beneath him. His posture is relaxed, but his attention is fixed, as though I have stepped into the center of his world without ever meaning to.
There is something almost reverent in the way he looks at me now—careful, measured, as if he is taking inventory of my presence rather than merely acknowledging it. When he speaks, his voice is low, softened by the hush of the room.
“Dr. Ravenna,” he says, and my name sounds different in his mouth. It’s less a title, more an offering, and provides none of the oily weight I get from Professor Dinwoodie. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
There is no sharpness to it. No suggestion. Only the quiet warmth of a man who has chosen to see me, fully and without pretense. The kind of attention that lingers long after the moment has passed.
I’m quick to remain professional, aware that we have a small audience, though judging by the muffled thud of books and rustle of papers, they’re too preoccupied to pay us any mind.
I pull up a chair to his desk, setting his black coffee down in front of him. He wraps his hands around it, bringing the dark liquid to his lips and breathing it in. His lids lower as he hums in satisfaction, steam curling upward like incense.
A sudden commotion erupts from the couple still lingering in his office, the heavy thump of a tome striking the floor hard enough to reverberate in the stone beneath my heels.
“God, Mela. Why are you always so damn clumsy? You can’t even manage to put your book in your bag without dropping it?”
It isn’t the loud bang that stiffens my spine but the sharp, cutting voice that follows: Adrian Delacort, the little prick that he is, berating his girlfriend, Philomela, as if dropping a book were a mortal sin.
His words slam into me, ripping me backward, reminding me of a man who’d once spoken so similarly to me all those years ago, in the before. And I can’t help but to fall into a memory of a time I’d rather forget.
“The shore was nice this weekend,” I tell John. My skin still prickles with unease at how he spoke to the waitress at the restaurant, but as usual, I brushed it off, not wanting to draw attention to myself for fear of what that might mean.
He grunts in response as we walk down the cobblestones toward the small shop I’ve been desperate to visit. I’ve passed it every trip, my heart snagging on the small emerald pendant in the window—yellow gold encasing it like a forest ember in velvet. Each time I ask, John makes me feel monstrous for wanting such a frivolous thing.
But this weekend, he’s been in better spirits, flush from signing a new deal his biggest rival had yet to land. My heart beats fast as we approach the shop.
My cheeks ache from smiling as I press to the window, staring at the necklace that has haunted my daydreams. We step inside, and I pick it up, fumbling with the clasp under John’s sharp gaze.
“Get on with it already,” he huffs, tapping his foot with such impatience it feels like a drumbeat against my chest.
The tone unstrings me. The dainty chain slips from my fingers. I stumble trying to catch it.
“Always so fucking clumsy, Calista. Do you even try to stand on your own two feet?” he snaps, loud enough to turn heads. Heat and humiliation chokes me, and I bolt from the shop, leaving behind the necklace I so desperately want. If only I left my abuser where he stood too.
“Calista?” Alastair’s soft whisper drags me from the memory, goosebumps prickling my skin at the reminder of all that I’ve faced, and survived.
“My apologies, Professor. I hadn’t meant to give you anything less than my full attention,” I tease, an easy smirk curving my lips as I let the present reality settle around me, washing my past away with it.
Alastair knows much of my history, never judging me, empowering me to do what’s right for me at any cost. It’s this that comforts me when I fear the love I’ve been swallowed whole by.
He beckons me closer with a curl of his finger. I glance over my shoulder, ensuring the room is free from prying eyes and find that everyone has cleared out. I push to my feet and prowl around his desk before easing into his lap.
Alastair lifts my hair, sliding it to one shoulder and lowering his mouth to hover just above my pulse. His warm breath ghosts there, making me shift in his lap, arousal sparking low and insistent.
