Page 45 of Wicked Bonds
“Language, young lady,” Soren teases. “You might want to work on control before you accidentally summon something worse than water spirits.”
“Worse?” I ask, and immediately regret it when both men nod.
Movement in my peripheral vision makes me look up. In a third-floor window, Headmistress Wickersly stands watching, her face unreadable. She doesn’t move, doesn’t acknowledge that I’ve seen her, just stares down.
“She’s watching,” I say quietly.
“She’s always watching,” Lucien replies, bitterness in his tone.
I’m about to respond when I catch sight of another figure, in a different window, on the floor where students aren’t supposed to go. Drake. He’s more solid than usual, solid enough that for a second I think others might see him too. But no one looks up, no one notices the ghost boy watching from the forbidden floor.
He raises one hand, not quite a wave, more like a warning. I remember what he told me about the Accord, about what the Coven really wants, and suddenly I’m exhausted. The magic, the spirits, the constant feeling of being watched, it’s too much.
“I need to go,” I say, not waiting for either of them to respond. I turn and walk away, wet boots squelching with every step, leaving Lucien and Soren standing by the fountain.
Behind me, I hear Soren say something, followed by Lucien’s sharp reply, but I don’t care what they’re arguing about. I’ve got bigger problems.
The bloodmark throbs, reminding me that time is running out, and every day brings some new disaster, some new reminder that I’m in over my head.
Twenty-One
Soren
The hunger is sharp and needy. I count souls in the rooms around me, a total of seventeen sleeping witches, and one shifter having what sounds like an aggressive dream about rabbits. None of them call to me. Their energies are like tepid bathwater compared to what I really want.
Three nights. That’s how long I’ve gone without a proper feed.
The real problem is Rose. That display at the fountain today, the way the water spirits responded to her, ancient things that have slept under this academy since before the Coven claimed it, they knew, they recognized something in her. The same thing that makes my cock ache and my control slip.
I realize I’ve stopped walking. I stare at the number on the door, Rose’s room number, and feel something I haven’t experienced in decades. Genuine surprise. My feet carried me here without conscious thought, like a starving man sleepwalking to a bakery.
This is problematic.
Even through the wood and the pathetic protection ward someone scratched into the frame, Lucien, I’m guessing, I can taste her sexual energy. It rolls off her in waves. Earth, air, water, and fire magic mixed with death and blood and sex, all intertwined together in a potent cocktail of magic that makes my mouth water. She doesn’t even know what she is, what she carries. Most witches have one flavor, maybe two if they’re particularly gifted. Rose is a fucking buffet of magical energies, each one more irresistible than the last.
The responsible, professional thing would be to walk away. Find some willing witch who’ll wake up tomorrow with a smile and a story she’ll embellish for her friends. That’s what I’ve been doing for years, controlled feeds, consensual dream encounters, nothing that leaves permanent marks or connections. It’s safer that way. Cleaner.
But I made her a promise. No feeding without consent. What kind of incubus makes promises about not feeding? It’s like a vampire swearing off blood or a werewolf promising not to howl at the moon. Against nature. Against everything I am.
My fingers touch the door handle. The metal warms under my touch, responding to the demonic heat that always runs just beneath my skin. I could turn around. Should turn around. There’s that redhead two floors down who’s been giving me looks all week, the one who made it very clear that she would leave her door unlocked for me. Her dreams would be sweet, simple, probably involving some ridiculous romantic scene. Easy feeding. Boring and unfulfilling.
Because she’s not Rose.
Rose, whose magic nearly drowned the courtyard twelve hours ago.
The lock clicks open without me consciously deciding to turn it. That’s the thing about being a demon. Sometimes who you are makes decisions for you.
Her room smells like her, the shampoo she uses and the underlying essence of magic. I slip inside, silent as a spirit, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. That poor fucking succulent on her windowsill has somehow sprouted a new leaf, probably feeding off the magic that’s becoming unbound in her.
And there she is.
Rose sleeps on her side, one hand tucked under her pillow, the other stretched across the mattress. Her breathing is deep but not quite even, and there’s a flush to her skin that has nothing to do with the temperature. The sheet has slipped down to her waist, revealing the thin tank top she sleeps in, and I can see the way her nipples press against the fabric.
She’s dreaming.
I move closer, careful not to disturb the air too much. Her lips are parted, and there’s the slightest movement of her hips. The magical signature around her expands, simmering with a lustful potency that makes my hunger surge, and I have to pull back a little to regain control. This is what happens when power this potent lives in someone like Rose. Her body becomes sensitive to primal instincts, to the connection between sex and magic that most modern witches can’t even begin to conjure.
A soft moan escapes her lips, and I freeze. But she doesn’t wake. Instead, she whispers something that makes my entire body stiffen.
