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“A what? Are you kidding me?”
He shook his head once. “Not a joke, I’m afraid. I don’t understand why he wanted to kill you.”
His voice was so calm, so normal. A lower demon nearly killed me, and he was playing paranormal detective. What was a lower demon? And what did that make my rescuer?
Steven stirred nearby. I’d forgotten all about him.
“Your boyfriend is unharmed. However, he’ll have a headache.”
“He isnotmy boyfriend,” I enunciated very, very clearly.
Another ghost of a smile crossed his face. My insides melted into a pile of goo.
“Come. Your friends will worry.”
He offered his hand and lifted me up. His hand enveloped mine, warm and rough with calluses. I needed to let go, suddenly overwhelmed by the sensation of his touch, his nearness.
I was never overwhelmed. I was Genevieve Drake, the epitome of calm and collected. Steven moved again. Damn him.
Then the stranger did something I’d never expected. He lifted my hand to his lips, brushing a soft kiss along my knuckles. His lips lingered, spreading warmth from my hand to my arm and throughout the rest of my body.
What an old-fashioned gesture. I shivered. Not from the cold. His eyes never left mine.
“Happy birthday.” He let my hand slip from his.
What? How did he know? Unable to hold his gaze any longer, I glanced down, chanting a brief mantra in my head.Get—it—together.I took a deep, shaky breath, finally summoning the courage to ask for his number.
When I looked up, he was gone.
2
Ichecked the rearview mirror. Sandy-hair had gripped me low on the throat. Four little bruises marked the left side of my neck above my collarbone. A fat bluish thumbprint was higher on the other side. Thank God for Mindy’s supersonic concealer, making them nearly invisible.
“Good enough,” I said to my messy reflection.
After a birthday celebration that had left me battered, bruised, and extremely confused, I’d fallen into bed last night without setting the alarm. Mindy had been so wrapped up in her darling David and his heroic ability to carry her through the club, to the car, and then up one tiny flight of stairs to our apartment that she lavished kisses on him all the way home before collapsing into an appletini coma.
Steven had been more difficult to deal with. He insisted that he’d been hit on the head in the alley until I convinced him otherwise. No way was I admitting what really happened. When he mentioned that he’d taken some sinus medicine earlier that night, I persuaded him to believe he’d just had a bad reaction mixing medicine with alcohol.
I grabbed my backpack and red hoodie from the backseat, stuffed my iPhone in my shorts pocket, and took off. I practically sprinted across campus to Professor Bennett’s classroom, slipping into my hoodie as I went.
Ugh. Professor Bennett. Nicely shaven. Well-groomed. Graying at the temples. Designer black-rimmed glasses and polished loafers. Wears a different blazer with dark jeans every single day. His professor-ish trappings and illusion of perfection apparently gave him the right to lord over the rest of us like we were slovenly, uneducated peasants.
Perhaps it was his attitude that made me dress more unkempt than usual for his class. The rebel in me couldn’t help it.
I was tying my hair up into a messy bun as I entered the classroom. He’d already launched into one of his perfectly articulated lectures.
“Greetings, Ms. Drake. So good of you to grace us with your presence.”
I plopped down in the front row.
“You’re very welcome, Professor Bennett. I do aim to please.”
Straight face. No smile. From either of us.
“Since you seem ready to go this morning, how about you take the first stab at explaining last night’s reading from Milton?”
Oh crap. Homework. I’d glanced over it yesterday over lunch but hadn’t taken any notes or anything. I opened my Norton Anthology.
