Page 4 of Wicked Bonds
I clear my throat, stepping from the shadows into her line of sight.
She startles, nearly dropping her backpack. Her heart rate beats a rhythm that makes my fangs itch.
“You’re late.”
“Late? The invitation said midnight.”
“Punctuality at the Serpentine Academy means arriving with time to spare. A concept I suspect you struggle with, along with proper attire and basic hygiene.” I allow my eyes to linger pointedly on the gin stain.
She follows my gaze down to her shirt and has the audacity to sniff at the spot. “Sorry to disappoint, Your Highness. I was a bit busy getting fired.” She hoists her backpack higher on her shoulder. “Great start to my magical education. Is lesson one how to be an insufferable prick?”
The corner of my mouth twitches disloyally.
I hide it by stepping closer, allowing my height to emphasize the difference in our positions. “Rose Smith.”
Her eyes narrow at the use of her name. “And you are?”
“Lucien.” I offer nothing more. No title, no surname, no explanation of my role.
“Just Lucien? Like Madonna or Beyonce?” She steps forward, deliberately shrinking the space between us rather than backing away as most would. “You the welcoming committee?”
I circle her slowly, taking in every detail. Her ponytail reveals an unexpected elegance in the line of her neck. My gaze traces the curve of her spine down to the swell of her hips. The jeans she wears have seen better days, torn at one knee with a fresh abrasion visible beneath from a recent injury. I can smell her blood and traces of tar. Her t-shirt with the offending stain clings to curves that the oversized jacket she wears fails to hide.
But it’s her eyes that have my attention. Shrewd, intelligent, wary. They follow my movements with experienced alertness. This is someone who has had to be mistrustful by necessity.
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” she says, turning to match my circling. She refuses to let me at her back. This girl is not naïve, as unskilled and untrained as she may be.
“The academy has extensive records of all its students,” I reply. “Including photographs. So that will be unnecessary.”
“I’m not a student,” she says. “I’m a bartender who got fired tonight and received a very pretentious invitation that claimed I didn’t have a choice about coming here. So how about we skip the creepy circling and get to the part where someone explains what the hell is going on?”
I stop directly in front of her, close enough that she must tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. “You are what the Coven says you are, Rose Smith. And they say you’re a student at the Serpentine Academy now.”
“The Coven,” she repeats. “The Crescent Moon Coven. My mother mentioned them once. All I know about this school is that it’s full of snobs. My mother called them ‘elitist assholes with more money than sense’.”
I cannot hide the small smile that forms. “Your mother wasn’t entirely wrong.”
“She usually wasn’t.” A dark look crosses her face. “What do they want with me?”
“Your mother made choices,” I say carefully. “Choices that kept you hidden for many years. But magic has a way of revealing itself, especially when it’s been unnaturally constrained.”
Her brow furrows. “What are you talking about? I can barely keep a plant alive.”
I glance pointedly at the succulent peeking from her backpack. “And yet, it lives.”
“That’s not the point,” she replies, frustration evident in the tight line of her mouth. “Look, there’s been a mistake. I’m not gifted or special or whatever this place thinks I am. So, if this is some kind of outreach to the less fortunate and hopelessly tragic, we can stop it now. Because I don’t have the cash a place like this needs, and I certainly don’t have any real powers.”
“The broken fingers of the man who assaulted you tonight suggest otherwise.”
Her eyes widen. “How did you know about that?”
“The academy sees many things, Rose.” I gesture toward the imposing structure behind us. “Including the moment the spell binding your magic began to unravel.”
She takes a half-step back. “I didn’t touch him.”
“Precisely.” I allow my gaze to drop to her hands, short, unpainted nails with ragged cuticles. Hands that have never known privilege, yet carry the potential for immense power. “That sort of untrained ability is why you’re here.”
The wind changes direction, carrying her aura more strongly toward me. My fangs ache again, and I force myself to take a breath through my mouth instead of my nose.
