Page 43 of Marrying My Professor

"Whoa, careful," he says into my ear, his breath hot and alcohol-sweet.

"Sorry," I laugh, already recovering, my fingers working with practiced precision. "These heels are killing me."

The ring slides off his finger so smoothly he doesn't even notice. One second it's there, the next it's tucked into my palm, and I'm already shifting my weight, moving my hand to his shoulder in a way that looks natural.

"Maybe we should find somewhere you can take them off," he suggests, voice dropping suggestively.

Maybe you should find somewhere to develop a personality.

"Maybe," I agree, stepping back with a smile I don't feel. "But I really do need to use the restroom first. Too many drinks."

He looks disappointed but nods. "Hurry back."

"Promise."

I slip away through the crowd, heading toward the hallway I saw earlier. The one the mysterious stranger disappeared down. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, the ring clutched tight in my palm like a talisman.

The hallway is darker than the main room, lit by intermittent sconces that cast more shadow than light. Doors line both sides, some closed, some slightly ajar with sounds coming from inside that I do my best to ignore.

At the end of the hall, there's a door different from the others. Heavier. Made of dark wood instead of the same black lacquer as everything else. And next to it, a small panel with a slot just the right size for⁠—

I press the ring against the panel.

There's a soft click, and the door swings inward.

Holy shit, it worked.

The room beyond is an office. A real office, not some sex dungeon disguised as one. There's a massive desk made of dark wood, leather chairs, built-in bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes that probably cost more than my education. Everything is immaculate, organized, the kind of space that belongs to someone who values control.

And on the desk, in a neat stack, are folders.

I move quickly, my hands shaking slightly as I flip through them. Most are innocuous—financial reports, membership rosters, event planning documents. But then I find it.

A folder marked Annual Rites in gold lettering.

I open it.

The first page is a schedule. Dates, times, locations. But it's the section marked Blood Sacrifice that makes my blood run cold.

There's a name. Typed in neat letters. And then crossed out in red ink, the strokes heavy enough that only the first word survives it.

Amelia.

And beneath it, handwritten in the same red ink: Brandon Hayes.

My brother's name.

My hands shake so violently I almost drop the folder. I pull out my phone with trembling fingers and start taking photos—the schedule, the names, every page I can before⁠—

"Well, well."

The voice comes from the doorway, smooth and amused and utterly devoid of warmth.

I spin around.

James stands in the doorway, and he's not alone. Next to him is another man—older, early thirties, with dark hair and a wolfish grin that makes my stomach turn. He's wearing a red tie loose at the throat, and there's something feral in his eyes that screams danger.

"Looking for something?" James asks, stepping into the room. The door closes behind them with a soft click that sounds like a death sentence.