Page 41 of Wicked Bonds
“I will set your fucking balls on fire if you ever touch me again,” I say. I look him straight in the eye with as much disinterest as I can manage, considering every bone in my body is screaming at me to push him down on the bed and tear his clothes off right this minute. But hell no, I will not give him the satisfaction of knowing that. And me and my stupid body are going to have a talk about why we should absolutely not want to fuck vampires, especially lying vampires like Lucien.
He says nothing as I straighten my hair, walk to the door, and leave, slamming it shut behind me.
I make it back to my dorm room before my knees feel like they’re going to give out.
Nineteen
Lucien
I touch my fingers to my mouth, still tasting her lips, all that rage and fire that makes my fangs ache to descend. The scratches she left on my arms have already healed, but I can still feel them, phantom marks that shouldn’t matter to someone who’s survived centuries of actual wounds. I straighten my shirt, smooth my hair, and leave my quarters with what dignity I can salvage.
The corridor stretches ahead, mercifully empty, which I’m thankful for. I need the walk to Wickersly’s office to rebuild the walls Rose just demolished with her fury and her mouth and her absolute refusal to be intimidated. Hundreds of years of discipline, and it takes one infuriating girl to make me lose control like some newly-turned fledgling.
I’ve been the Coven’s attendant for so long I’d forgotten what it felt like to want something for myself. No, that’s a lie. I’d trained myself not to want, because wanting leads to this, standing in an empty hallway with the taste of her skin still on my lips.
She knows now. About the true cost of the Accord. The anger in her eyes when she’d realized my omission, it wasn’t just indignation at being lied to. It was the particular rage of someone who’d almost trusted, almost let herself believe someone might actually help her without ulterior motives.
And who told her? Not Wickersly, who guards that secret like a dragon hoards gold. Not the faculty, all bound by their own contracts to keep silent. Not Soren, who’d gain nothing from revealing it.
Drake.
Of course. The ghost who haunts these halls with his bitterness. The one who died trying to break free of the very contract that binds Rose now. I’d dismissed him as harmless, a melancholy specter more interested in self-pity than action. But he’s been visiting her room, hasn’t he? Whispering truths in the dark, playing the tragic hero to her damsel in distress, Tristan to her Isolde.
The realization makes my teeth grind. Drake can slip through walls, lurk unseen, gather secrets. He’s been here long enough to know where all the bodies are buried, literally and figuratively. And now he’s focused on Rose, drawn to her like every other dangerous thing in this place.
But Drake’s interest isn’t purely altruistic. No ghost lingers this long without unfinished business. He wants something from Rose, and given what happened to him, I can guess what. He wants her to succeed where he failed. He wants her to break the Accord, consequences be damned. He wants to see the Coven and the academy annihilated.
A witch stumbles out of a classroom ahead, takes one look at me, and immediately presses herself against the wall to let me pass. My mood must be transmitting like a radio signal. Usually, I maintain better control, keep the monster tucked away behind civil smiles and measured words. But Rose has a talent for stripping away pretense, for finding the exposed nerves and pressing.
The way she’d arched against me, nails digging in even as she’d threatened to set me on fire. She’d meant it too. If she had better control of her magic, I’d probably be healing burns right now instead of just wounded pride.
Wickersly won’t be pleased when she finds out. Not about the kiss, I’m not telling her about that, but about Rose knowing the truth. The Headmistress prefers her pawns ignorant until the last possible moment. Easier to manage, easier to sacrifice. But Rose was never going to be easy to manage. That should have been clear from the moment she showed up with her battered bag and her refusal to be intimidated by anything or anyone.
I turn the corner toward the administrative wing, and collide with something solid, someone solid, which shouldn’t be possible. I’m a vampire. I don’t collide. I sense heartbeats from rooms away, smell blood through walls. But Soren has always been an exception to rules.
The incubus straightens his jacket, that insufferable smirk already curling his lips. His nostrils flare slightly, and his eyes brighten with unholy amusement.
“Well, well,” he says, voice dripping with satisfaction. “Someone’s been naughty.”
I curse internally. Of course he can smell her on me. Incubi and their damned senses, attuned to desire and lust like sharks to blood in the water. There’s no point denying it. Soren already knows exactly what happened, probably down to every detail.
“Don’t,” I say, but Soren’s grin only widens.
“Oh, this is tasty.” He circles me slowly, like a predator who’s found wounded prey. “The great Lucien, the Coven’s perfect soldier, absolutely reeking of frustrated desire and,” he inhales deeply, “is that guilt I detect? How wonderfully flesh-and-blood of you.”
Any reaction will only encourage him. But the urge to slam him against the wall is strong.
“I don’t know what you think you know,” I say, voice calm, “but your imagination?—”
“Please.” Soren laughs. “I can taste it. All that pent-up horniness finally boiling over. Tell me, did she fight you? Of course she did. Our Rose isn’t the type to go quietly into anyone’s arms, is she?”
Our Rose.
The possessive pronoun makes my fangs threaten to descend. “Stay away from her, Soren.”
“That’s rich, coming from you.” He stops directly in front of me, close enough that I can smell the expensive cologne he wears. Demons do have a taste for luxury. “I’m not the one who just mauled her in my quarters.”
“You know nothing about it.”
