47. ABSENT
ariella
What was I thinking when I cleaned the blood from his floors?
The question had been gnawing at my skull for the past forty-eight hours like a parasite refusing to die.
It’s been almost two days, and I still can’t forget about my reckless decision. I can still vividly see the crimson staining his marble floors as I dragged the blade over her throat.
By the time I arrive at Oxford, taking my usual seat in his lecture hall ten minutes early, the feeling hasn’t faded.
If anything, it’s worsening.
The image of the blood and regeneration and him forcing the Synthète into malfunction with his bare hands mid-sex refuses to leave me alone.
The next minute Alistair Hertley kissed me beside that specific corpse. Then together we cleaned the mess afterward like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And suddenly, he was pushing me away.
Not that I can blame him for it. Any sane person would be overwhelmed too.
I press my face against my hands.
England’s pale morning light spills through the windows in washed-out streaks, emphasizing the normalcy of everyday as usual.
Students slowly fill the rows around me. Conversations blur together into meaningless static. Someone laughs three seats behind me. Someone drops their pen.
And here all I can think of is how he stood there looking less like a professor and more like something violently human for the first time since I met him.
And God. That kiss.
Heat crawls instantly up my throat.
He kissed me because something inside him snapped for half a second, and I happened to be standing close enough to witness it.
My tongue unconsciously swipes over my bottom lips.
The way his hand wrapped around my throat like he was debating whether to suffocate me and ground me against him.
The worst part? I still kissed him back. Wouldn’t even mind if he choked me to death.
What kind of person watches a man kill someone, helps him clean the blood, then spends the next two days fantasizing about his lips?
Apparently, me. A humorless laugh nearly escapes me.
He kissed me first.
He was the one who kept looking at me like he wanted to ruin me slowly then rebuild me in his terms.
He was the one who kept dragging me closer only to shove me away the second things became too real.
So why the hell am I the only one unraveling over it?
My eyes drift towards the wall clock ahead—12:29 p.m.
I feel my heart rate spike. He’s about to enter the class.
12:30—anticipation starts to kick in.
12:31—the lecture hall doors finally open.
But it isn’t him.
An older professor walks in carrying a stack of notes.
Confusion ripples through the room instantly.
“This is Jonas Callaway. I’ll be covering today’s lecture on Professor Hertley’s behalf,” he says calmly while setting his things down.
The words hit me strangely. He’s absent.
The rest of the class moves on almost immediately. Silence drops. Laptops open. Pens click. Chairs scrape against the floor.
But my mind stays on one thing. He didn’t come.
Alistair Hertley—the man built entirely out of routine and precision—missed a lecture.
Something is definitely wrong.
The lecture drags unbearably after that. I barely absorb a word.
By late evening, I give up pretending to focus on anything else and somehow end up outside his mansion, straddling my bike.
The windows are dark.
No lights seeping through the curtains.
No Aston Martin in sight.
Most importantly, no sign of him.
Even so, I stand there far longer than I should anyway—helmet tucked beneath my arm while the cold evening wind threads through my hair and slips beneath my jacket.
Should’ve changed into the leather.
My body occasionally trembles from the cold. However, my attention remains fixed on the silent mansion towering in front of me.
Meanwhile, my mind keeps spiraling through possibilities I can’t seem to shut off. Every scenario slips apart before I can hold onto it for long.
Maybe he’s at the Triarch Dominion.
Maybe he’s somewhere underground doing things that would make normal people sick to their stomachs.
Or maybe he never came home. Maybe he noticed me properly this time and changed his location on purpose.
My heart aches at this possibility. I try to console myself, saying he’s dangerous enough that I should’ve stopped this stupid obsession months ago.
Perhaps he’s bleeding somewhere alone.
With that, dread creeps into my bones. I need to find him.
My phone vibrates inside my bag just then, slicing through the noise in my head.
I blink and pull it to find an unknown number.
My brows pull together instantly. For a brief second, I just stare at the screen while my pulse starts climbing for no reason other than instinct.
Curiosity wins the better of me. I end up swiping right, pressing the phone to my ear.
“You shouldn’t stand outside people’s homes after dark, Miss Keinston.”
Every nerve ending in my body lights up at once.
The sound of his voice pours through me like a slow electric current—roughened around the edges in a way I’ve never heard before.
Not lecture-hall polished. Not camera-ready. This version of him sounds tired. Deeper. Real.
“Professor?” the word leaves my mouth softer than intended.
His voice cuts through the line again, sounding like exhaustion dragged gravel through it. “If you’re going to stalk me, at least make yourself useful.”
Heat floods my entire body so fast it almost feels humiliating. “I—”
My eyes roll upward, noticing only then that I’m standing right under the CCTV. Must’ve forgot to notice. It mockingly blinks a red light on cue.
He chuckles, as if he just saw me staring at the camera.
I look away immediately.
A blush tints my cheeks. My heart pounds hard enough to make me aware of every inch of my skin beneath my clothes.
“Try Velmourne Club instead.”
It’s an invitation, or perhaps a warning—both equally tempting.
Before I can force my brain to respond, the line disconnects with that small piece of location.