48. PURSUIT
ariella
Finding my way to the Velmourne Club with a GPS wasn’t much of a hassle.
I finally arrive at the destination within half an hour.
After parking my bike in the underground garage, I make my way inside.
The club is as exclusive as its reputation suggests—a private sanctuary where only the elite, and those over twenty-one, are granted entry.
Thankfully, being a Keinston opens doors in more ways than one. Quite literally.
I dial his number again. He picks up on the first ring.
“Umm, professor, I’m here. But I can’t seem to spot you.”
“For someone who’s been stalking me for years, you’re unusually sloppy today.”
Heat rushes into my cheeks so fast it almost burns. Being called out so casually shouldn’t affect me this much.
“I’m s-sorry.”
God, I hate this.
I hate the version of me who’s without the leather bodysuit.
It feels like every ounce of confidence I own was stripped away with it and locked inside my wardrobe, leaving me standing here with nothing but nerves and embarrassment.
A low chuckle vibrates through the line. “I don’t mind this timid version of you. In fact, I like it more.”
My throat chokes around a response that never comes. Beneath the warmth blooming through me, unease coils quietly.
The words hit me strangely. It’s too intimate and sounds so wrong. This is not the Professor Hertley I know. Is he drunk?
The thought barely has time to form before he adds, “Behind you.”
I spin around so fast my pulse stumbles, only to be met with a horde of people.
Bodies move in every direction around me, swallowed beneath flashing lights and the relentless pulse of the bass vibrating through the club. Dancers blur together into a sea of motion, laughter, perfume, alcohol, and sweat.
Yet no sign of him.
My grip strangles around the phone as I push through the crowd, weaving between strangers and muttering apologies every time a shoulder clips mine.
I don’t even look at the people I’m apologizing to—my eyes are too busy searching for him.
Somewhere through the receiver, he hears every single one. And every time he does, he chuckles softly with dripping amusement.
I’m sure he never imagined to see a Keinston apologize. And here I am… doing it on repeat.
The velvety sound slides through the line and settles somewhere deep beneath my ribs, sending a swarm of butterflies through my stomach. Goosebumps chase across my skin despite the heat packed inside Velmourne Club.
I can’t remember how many times I’ve replayed his voice through old lectures, interviews, and videos.
Yet this is entirely different.
He sounds almost tangible tonight, wrapping around my senses until I find myself gnawing on my bottom lip from the growing frustration.
I could listen to his voice like this for hours.
Especially this version of it. Warm. Amused. Dangerously soft. Assuming, of course, he really is drunk.
“How does it feel to be the one being watched, little kitty?”
The sweet scent of red wine washes over my skin as the words are murmured directly into my ear, nearly lost beneath the pounding bass and the chaos of the crowd.
A gasp escapes me. I whirl around too quickly and collide straight into a solid wall of muscle.
His hands immediately find my waist, steadying me before I can make a fool of myself. My palms flatten instinctively against his broad chest. The firm heat of his body bleeds through the crisp black fabric beneath my fingertips.
He wasn’t lying. He was, quite literally, behind me.
Normally, the ankle boots I’m wearing tonight do grants me extra inches, but they’re doing me absolutely no favors right now. I’m still forced to crane my neck up to look into his eyes.
And God. The sight of him nearly steals my breath away.
No glasses.
No blazer.
No carefully maintained professor facade.
Several buttons of his black dress shirt have been left undone, exposing the strong column of his throat and a glimpse of pale skin beneath. His hair is a total mess.
And those ocean-blue eyes are rimmed red, confirming what I’d been suspecting—drunk. Or at least tipsy enough for the edges of his control to blur.
The contrast between us is almost absurd.
I’m dressed entirely in white—a fluffy mini skirt paired with a sweetheart-neckline crop top, the short puffy sleeves making the outfit look softer than I usually prefer. Even my boots are white. The half-updo hair is adding more to it.
Meanwhile, every inch of him is dressed in black, starting from his shirt down to his shoes.
From an outsider’s perspective, I probably look exactly like a damsel caught in the Devil’s grasp.
The thought sends an embarrassing flutter through my stomach.
Slowly, his hands slide lower. Not enough to be inappropriate, yet. Just enough to make me hyperaware.
His fingers settle along the delicate flare of my hips, the grip firm and possessive as they draw me closer until his body presses firm against mine.
Every breath suddenly feels painfully difficult to take.
One corner of his mouth lifts into a slow, knowing smirk.
He’s noticed everything. The way my chest is rising and falling too quickly. The heat flooding my face.
The fact that I can barely look into his eyes unblinking for more than a few seconds.
“Not so vicious now, are we?”
I swallow hard and look away, blushing.
Desperately trying to focus on the music instead of the overwhelming realization that I’m finally standing exactly where I’ve wanted to be ever since I first laid eyes on this man.
“Why were you looking for me, little kitty?”
Heat crawls from my cheeks down my neck. The stupid organ inside my chest thumps rapidly.
“Professor—”
He leans over. “Call me Alastor,” hot breath skims across my ears, delicate enough to send a shiver down my spine.
The deliberate mispronunciation barely registers. Not when his mouth suddenly brushes the curve of my neck, exactly where the pulse is throbbing ridiculously.
His tongue licks over it, sending a sharp shudder throughout my body. Every coherent thought evaporates.
Then I feel the sharp pressure of teeth. Hard.
So hard that I fear he might’ve broken into my skin. I fear he might drain all the blood of my body, and I won’t even try to stop him.
A startled cry escapes me. “Alastor—” I immediately clamp my lips shut.
Thankfully, no one notices. Or maybe they did and simply don’t care.
The club is too loud, too crowded, too consumed by itself to pay attention to us. And I’m glad for that.
Still, nervousness and embarrassment crash through me in a wave. What’s happening?
“Mmm…” the vibration caresses my skin. “I like the sound of it.”
A second later, warmth follows. His tongue sweeps again, lazier this time, over the place he’d just bitten, soothing the sting he created himself.
The contradiction makes my knees go jelly, flooding my core with liquid heat.
If not for the bruising grip on my hips, I’d be on my knees for him right in the middle of the club. The strange part is, I wouldn’t even care if he takes me amidst the crowd for anyone to see, I belong to him.
“Prof—”
He grumbles against the curve of my neck.
“Alastor,” I correct automatically, and feel his smile on my skin.
Somehow, I manage to push him back enough to look into his eyes. “Let’s get you home,” I try to slip from his hold.
His smirk deepens. “Are you worried about me, Miss Keinston?”
“What if I am?” I lift my chin, gathering every scrap of courage I can find. “You were absent today, and now I’m finding you drunk in a club.”
Amusement flickers across his face. “That’s surprisingly attentive of you,” he murmurs. “I had no idea my whereabouts occupied so much of your mind.”
Color rushes into my cheeks. The worst part? He’s right.
“Now c’mon,” I attempt to pry myself free again.
It doesn’t work. Not even a little. So I glare up at him.
His smile only widens. “You look better feigning anger. Just like a kitty cat. My little kitty,” and there they are—those stupid dimples.
The sight of them as he emphasized ‘my’ strikes me with an almost embarrassing force.
If someone asked me to pinpoint the exact moment they fell in love, I think I’d choose this one for myself.
Not even the first time I saw his pictures in the worst circumstances—the prank.
Not the years spent watching him from a distance.
Not the countless lectures online.
Not our first meeting or working as his student assistant in secrecy.
This. Right here.
The way his eyes crease.
The way those dimples appear without warning.
The way he somehow looks younger despite carrying enough darkness inside him to eclipse entire cities.
I know this feeling. I know it with terrifying certainty.
The realization settles heavily inside my chest, making every heartbeat feel louder than the music surrounding us.
I love him.
Despite the monster he is. Maybe because of it.