I end the lecture early—by choice—for the first time ever and wait for everyone to leave the room. There will be no next lecture and no attendees, for that matter. But I want her to know this will be a lesson.
She stays put for a second longer than the others, questioning me with her eyes, waiting for a confirmation. If she thinks it will be that simple, she has a lot to learn. When I refuse to give her any sort of confirmation, my subject leaves the room as well, without a word.
Stage 1 initiated. Let’s see how long your rope will let you hang before you realize you cannot breathe.
Azrael: Tomorrow.
user26093003: Time? Location?
Azrael: Use your stalking skills for it.
user26093003: I knew you liked it, Professor.
Azrael: Not in the slightest.
CHAPTER 9
VICTORIA
It’s official. The Professor is ding-ding in the head forvoluntarilycontinuing to come back to this shithole. Beige walls stained by greasy fingerprints, neon lights that buzz like there are mosquitoes trapped inside the bulbs, and a smell that reminds me of burnt milk. But if he’s here, I’m here.
Before ourdate, I spent hours trying to choose the perfect outfit.
Men are simple: show a little too much cleavage, let them stare a little longer at your boobs andboom—they are hooked and bending to your will, just a second away from doing whatever you want for the promise of a quickie. And under normal circumstances, this is exactly what would happen. But something tells me that Azrael is not dumb enough to fall for it.
So I had to put into practice all the knowledge on the internet and the not-so-accurate articles about “men and the psychology behind clothes.” Did I buy a body-hugging, long summer dress just because one article said to do so? Maybe. Am I wearing my most uncomfortable red high heels because of the same reason? Probably. I mean, I’d try anything. Whatever it takes to win.
I know he’s playing his own game, whatever that may be. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have agreed to meet me. But I also know I need to be the one winning. And for that, I need to play all the cards I have in the pack.
I arrive a few minutes before the not-so-scheduled time. Azraelmademe hack him, which was difficult. Beats me, what sort of twisted pleasure he got from seeing me trying to penetrate his phone’s security system, but I finally managed to get access.
And there, right at the top of his notes app, was a message:See you at 7:00. Same café where you failed to stalk me the last time.
Bloody fucking Professor.
I see him across the room, seated at the same table, and I feel him registering my presence the moment the door closes behind me.
I would have expected him to acknowledge me in some way, but nope. He doesn’t even look up, too absorbed by his coffee. Instead, he sits with one arm resting lazily along the back of his booth, the other toying with a chipped ceramic cup that was probably created before I was born. Maybe looking at me would break his timed routine.
I slide into the seat across from him, waiting for some sort of confirmation that he sees I’m there.Hello, Professor, it’s me, your dear subject.But no, nothing. It’s like I’m a ghost and he cannot be bothered enough to look at me. Or maybe he is just too scared to admit he likes what he sees, outside of that black-and-white outfit I usually wear when I’m in his class. Could it be that? Yes, I will go with that. But before I have a chance to push it a little further for my own entertainment, the server comes to take our order.
Luckily, it’s not the same one Ishouldhave killed during that first visit.
She looks exactly like the typical cafeteria lady, with a deep voice from an excess of nicotine and eyes glazed enough to make me wonder what exactly she has been doing in the back.
“Coffee?” she asks mechanically, her voice scraping the interior of my eardrum like a malfunctioning blender.
“Wine,” I reply, almost amused. It’s 7 p.m., for God’s sake. Who on earth drinks coffee at 7 p.m.? Besides my Professor, of course, no judging him.
The look on her face says it all—this isn’t a wine place. No shit. This is a caffeine and cigarettes place.
I sigh, and instead of pulling out the knife from my thigh holster, I just give her a sharp smile. “Red. Cheap. Whatever you’ve got. Put it in a mug if you have to.”
Will she bring that to me? One can hope. I’m pretty sure whatever is making her eyes glassy is not the only thing she has there in the back.
She leaves, muttering something I don’t need to hear, nor do I want to if I want her to stay alive long enough to bring my order.
My focus is already narrowing toward Azrael. Up close, he’s so…stoic. Stone-cold to the point you’d wonder if he was alive, if not for his finger moving on the mug. I lean my body forward over the table to get closer, trying to grab his attention, but if he notices the movement, he doesn’t care enough to react.