13. Petra
PETRA
The violence in the square continues. The crowd erupts into chaos. A loud cry rises above the din—constables. Within seconds, the onlookers scatter, panic spreading as people flee in every direction. The constables begin arresting bystanders at random, only intensifying the confusion.
I glance around, searching for my friends, but they’re gone. Not a single veiled figure remains. I turn, looking for Mrs. Jenkins, but she, too, has vanished.
Someone slams into me, nearly knocking me over. Another jostles past. I stumble, but then strong arms catch me. A hand grabs mine, steady and firm, pulling me away from the crowd.
Without a word, I’m led into a shadowed alley, tucked into its dark corner, hidden from the chaos outside. Shouts and scuffles echo in the distance, but here it’s quiet.
And then I see him.
Him.
Even in the dim light, the blood on his face is stark—dripping down to his mouth, staining the collar of his white shirt.
Instinctively, I reach into my reticle and pull out a handkerchief. He watches me, puzzled, but doesn’t resist as I dab gently at the wound. Then he catches my hand and holds it to his cheek.
My arm softens, my gloved palm pressed against his face. He leans into it. And though our skin doesn’t touch, the moment is unbearably intimate.
I try to pull away.
“Stop,” he says. “Just stay like this . . . for a moment.”
I swallow, stunned, as he continues to press his cheek to my hand, breathing slowly, deeply, as if he’s memorizing the feel of me.
Then he moves, pressing his lips to my glove, then lower, to the bare skin at my wrist. A kiss.
A sharp inhale escapes me. A shiver ripples down my spine. Every nerve in my body sparks alive.
Frightened by this strange reaction, I yank my hand back.
“I never gave you permission to do that,” I say, trying to sound stern despite my shaking voice.
He smiles, unfazed. “I’d be a fool not to take the chance when I had it.”
“Why are you smiling? You’re bleeding.”
He shrugs. “That doesn’t matter. You’re here. Next to me. That’s reason enough.”
“Really? If I’m the reason you’re smiling, then why haven’t you written to me? It’s been weeks—”
But I stop myself. Don’t let him see how much it mattered, I whisper inwardly.
And yet, I can’t help it. I need to know if I meant anything, or if it was all a game.
He smirks. “Did you miss me, my beautiful Petra?”
“What?”
“Did you miss me?”
“Was that your goal?” I shoot back. “To make me miss you? To toy with my emotions?”
His smirk fades. “Never. I would never do that.”
“Then why didn’t you write? Why start something you had no intention of finishing?”
“It wasn’t a game,” he insists. “Why would you think that?”
“Why wouldn’t I? You’ve admitted to watching me for months. Then you bring me a forbidden book. Then, somehow, you appear at my window, night after night—and then you stop. What else am I supposed to think?”
He presses his lips together. “It seems . . . my approach may have been wrong.”
“It was,” I say flatly.
His expression tightens. “I didn’t want to frighten you. I was . . . concerned.”
He steps closer, and I stiffen.
“Did I scare you?” he asks gently.
I raise my chin. “You can’t scare me.”
It’s mostly true. I should fear him. But I don’t.
“But you can annoy me,” I add.
He chuckles. “So I’ve annoyed you.”
“Yes. With all your secrets. If you say you care about me, then why keep everything hidden? You’re a professor of demonology—”
He smiles. “At least you’re curious.”
“Tell me who you are,” I cut him off. “Or I’ll never speak to you again.”
“Is that so?” His brow arches. “You’ll never speak to me again?”
His tone is amused, but his eyes are serious, dark and sharp. He steps closer. I back away until my spine meets the alley wall.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
“I thought you weren’t afraid of me.”
“You’re too close. Please—keep your distance.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so. And because if you claim to care, then prove it. Step back.”
“No,” he replies simply. “I will not step away. And I will not let you shut me out.”
My breath catches. “What?”
“Don’t threaten me again, Petra. Don’t threaten to withhold yourself from me. Not again.”
Laughter bubbles up in my throat. “So you can withhold yourself from me, but I can’t?”
He narrows his eyes. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Of course it is.”
“I didn’t do it on purpose,” he says. “I was just—”
“Concerned. I know,” I cut him off. “Then be concerned now. Tell me who you are.”
His lips press into a line. “Yes, you’re right. I’m a professor at St. Anselm Hall. But I’m not the pagan monster they make me out to be. My background is in theology. Demonology is simply a branch of it.”
“It’s blasphemous,” I mutter.
“Why? It’s knowledge.”
“Knowledge made man fall.”
He smirks. “Then we’ve already fallen. Why not learn something on the way down?”
I open my mouth to argue but close it again. He has a point.
“Why study it? And why here of all places? You knew this town wouldn’t welcome you.”
“You’re here,” he says simply.
“Be serious.”
He chuckles. “My mentor invited me. He was my teacher at Harvard and recommended me for the position.”
“Harvard?” I blink. “And yet you’re here, in Radcliffe?”
“I told you. Because you are here.”
I roll my eyes, though he can’t see it. “You’re toying with me. And I don’t like it.”
“How many times must I say it? I’m not toying with you, Petra. I’m trying to help you.”
“Help? I never asked for your help.”
“Haven’t you?” He steps closer again, his fingers brushing the edge of my veil. “You crave knowledge, just as I do. I see it in you. You’re bound by expectation, by what others think you must be. But you’re not what they want. You’re something else entirely.”
“Appearances deceive,” I whisper, remembering his letter.
“Exactly. And not just for them—for us, too. I see who you really are.”
I swallow. “Then let me see you, too. Tell me who you really are.”
A sad smile tugs at his mouth. “Perhaps I’m afraid. That if you knew, you would fear me.”
“I told you I’m not scared.”
“You think that now. But I’ve learned that people fear what they don’t understand.”
“Then let yourself be understood.”
“Ah,” he says with a soft laugh, “you clever, clever girl. Yes, I should let myself be known. But if you turned your back on me, as so many others have—”
“You mean the townspeople? Because they called you a demon? I don’t believe that. You’re not a demon.”
He raises a wry eyebrow. “Am I not?”
“No. You’re a person. Just like me.”
“If only that were true,” he muses.
“People say many things. That doesn’t mean I believe them. I make my own opinions.”
He watches me closely. “That’s what I saw in you. Your mind is your own. No matter how much your church tries to suppress it.”
I open my mouth to argue but stop. Because he’s right. From the beginning, the church has done nothing but try to stifle me. My thoughts. My questions. My voice.
“Then tell me,” I say. “Tell me who you really are.”
“Is it a name you want, Petra? Or is it something more?”
“We can start with a name,” I say quietly.
He tilts his head, seemingly considering the request.
“You know mine, and I never even told it to you,” I add.
A thoughtful hum leaves his lips. “Perhaps I’ll tell you. Quid pro quo—you give me something, and I’ll give you my name.”
I frown. “You already know everything about me. What more could I possibly give?”
“Oh, there’s one thing,” he says with a sly smile. “I want to see you.”
My breath catches. “What?”
“Your veil. Take it off, and I’ll give you my name.”
“That . . . I can’t,” I whisper, shaking my head.
“Why not? Because your church says so?”
“If anyone found out,” I murmur, “I’d be . . .”
“Excommunicated?” he finishes the sentence, almost as though he’d welcome the thought.
“No. Not just that. I’d be . . . hurt. Again.”
His expression darkens. “I would never let that happen. Not again. You have my vow.”
“You can’t stop them,” I protest. “You can’t be everywhere. You can’t protect me all hours of the day—”
“Shh.” He places a finger gently over my lips. Even with the veil between us, the gesture silences me. “It’s just you and me here. No church. No university. No family. No townspeople calling me a demon. Just you and me. And I want to see you. The real you. And then—I’ll show you who I am.”
I stare at him, frozen. Do I dare? Do I commit the ultimate transgression: remove my veil before a man I barely know? My fingers twitch with the temptation. But my mind reels with all the teachings pressed into me since childhood.
Then, gently, his hands rise to the edge of my veil. Slowly, he lifts it.
He pauses when the fabric rests just beneath my chin.
“Show me, Petra,” he murmurs. “It’s your choice. Show me who you are—and I will show you who I am.”
For what feels like forever, I stand frozen, debating.
Should I show him my face? The thought churns in my mind like a storm.
The longer the silence stretches, the more I realize this is dangerous.
He is a stranger. Why would I risk everything—my safety, my place in this world—for someone I barely know?
I press my hands to his chest and shove him away.
His eyes widen in surprise, his expression briefly raw. But then it vanishes, replaced by a tight, unreadable mask.
“Perhaps I was wrong about you,” he murmurs.
“Perhaps you were,” I reply. “I don’t owe you anything. If you truly want me to know you, then you’ll reveal yourself freely. No games. No expectations. Until then, I shouldn’t even entertain your presence.”
I turn my back and start walking toward the main square. I’ve already lingered too long. Mrs. Jenkins is likely searching for me. The others must be wondering where I’ve gone. Trouble may already be brewing.
Step after step, I move forward. He doesn’t follow.
A tightness coils in my chest. Did I mean what I said? Maybe. I’m not sure. I just know I don’t like being toyed with. I won’t be controlled—not by another arrogant man I barely know. Our only connection is a handful of secret letters passed in the dark.
My heart races. I swallow hard. Am I already regretting this?