Page 14 of Nocturne

“There is a schedule change for the practical classes. I apologise for any inconvenience.”

Her voice is steady and calm. But I see the way her fingers tighten around her papers. She's uneasy.

Some students groan at the announcement, but the sound fades quickly.

“Dr. Sinclair, is it true you’ve been nominated for the Atkins Award?”

I catch the way her head tilts slightly at the question.

“Yes,” she says, without much fuss.

The name—Atkins Award—clearly carries weight. Whispers spread fast, students leaning into each other. I hear bits and pieces. Prestigious. Almost impossible to win. Only the best get nominated.

“You’d be the youngest winner, right?” another student calls out.

Ara’s lips twitch into a small smile, her cheeks turning a soft pink. She nods. “If I win, yes.”

The murmur grows louder. Questions fly. Her research. Openings in her lab.

She answers politely, but keeps her distance. Smiling just enough. Not letting them in too close. I never heard of the damn award. But judging by the whispers, it’s a big deal. So, she's not just some quiet, harmless thing. She’s got brains.

“I appreciate the enthusiasm, people. The assignment for this week will be posted by Ray in the mail thread and it should be submitted by the end of next week. And it will be graded so it is in your best interest if you do it on your own,” she squints her eyes at a small group huddled in a corner who give her sheepish smiles.

“If there are any doubts, my door is always open. You can leave now.”

The students slowly mill out of the room, leaving Ara and a girl behind.

“Dr Kent wants an appointment to discuss collaborating on both of your experiments,” the woman says causing Ara to frown.

“That’s a load of bull. He wants to hog the credits like he did with my graduate research.”

“No appointment it is,” the girl nods and leaves.

Ara pushes her things into her bag, the soft rustle of paper breaking the silence. That’s when I step out of the shadows. I don’t bother to mask the sound of my steps. It’s a deliberate choice. Her shoulders stiffen immediately, her body going tense as she turns, clutching her bag tight against her chest. Her eyes lock with mine — wide, alarmed.

There’s a flicker in her gaze. A sequence of emotions that cross her face like a storm. First, shock. Then recognition. I can almost feel the pulse of her fear before it twists into something darker. Dread, maybe, but also something... more. Something she tries to hide.

Her pupils contract, a momentary flicker of awe, but then her eyes narrow, a shadow darkening her gaze. And it’s the slight shift in her expression that catches me. That heat — barely perceptible, but it’s there. I inhale, my nostrils flaring instinctively. She’s trying to bury it, but I know what I saw. There’s a pull to her, a tension building between us.

And I can’t help but wonder — how much of that is fear? And how much is something else entirely?

There’s no disgust on her face. I’ve seen it enough times to know when a woman is repulsed by me, the way they shrink back or look away. Not her.

It’s strange. Women, they can’t stomach looking at me. Not just because of the fear I bring, but because of the scars, the marks that cover me like a history of brutality.

The women I fuck beg for it from behind, unable to look at my face because of the scars. The ones who can handle me, they take it, desperate to feel the power, to submit in the ways that come easy to them. They crave the power, the submission, but my face? It’s too much for them. They take everything else, but not that. And I let them. They are nothing but a bunch of blurry pictures I never concentrate on.

But this... This isn’t the same. In a world built on vanity and perfect faces, there’s no place for ugly monsters like me. Pretty scholars, like this little nerd, they’re the last people I’d expect to look at me like this. Like something other than the monster they’d want to run from.

Yet, she doesn’t look away. She doesn’t shrink back in disgust. And that gets under my skin.

Her lips part slightly as she inhales sharply, her grip on her bag tightening until her knuckles go white. Her body goes stiff, the tension radiating from her. That expression—curiosity mingled with just the faintest hint of lust—could land her in trouble.

She’s a paradox, and that’s what draws me in. There’s something about her that makes me want to unravel every layer and own.

Everything about her feels off balance. She’s the unknown in a world where I’m used to the certainty of things, of people. She’s the question I need answered.

“Mr. Devlin,” she breathes, her voice taking on a husky edge.

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