Page 67 of Wicked Bonds
“Yeah, well, he also said he couldn’t help me. At least you’re offering something, even if it’s just breadcrumbs.”
“Breadcrumbs can lead you out of the forest. Or deeper into it. Didn’t your mother read you bedtime stories, little Rose?” He straightens, moves toward the door, a clear dismissal. “Take the book. Page 384 might also interest you. It discusses the concept of blood debt and how it can be transferred or dissolved.”
I stand, tucking the book under my arm. “This is a weird game you’re playing, Soren.”
“All the best games are.” He opens the door for me, maintains that careful distance. “One more thing. The garden isn’t the onlyplace things can be hidden. Sometimes the best hiding spots are in plain sight, just shifted slightly out of phase.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you might want to reconsider what you’re looking for. Not just where, but when.” His hand hovers near my shoulder, not quite touching. “Be careful, Rose. There are things moving in the darkness that even I can’t see clearly.”
I want to ask more, but footsteps are in the hallway. We both tense, then relax when they pass by without stopping.
“I should go,” I say.
“Yes. You should.” But he doesn’t move aside immediately. For a moment, we’re close enough that I can feel the heat from his body, smell that expensive cologne he wears. His eyes drop to my mouth, then back up. “Rose.”
“Don’t.” I step back. “Whatever you’re about to say or do, don’t. I can’t… I don’t have the bandwidth for it right now.”
Some expression I can’t decipher flashes across his face.
I leave without looking back. I’ve got reading to do and mysteries to solve, and despite everything, I’m not doing it quite as alone as I thought.
It’s not trust. Not really. But it’s something. And right now, something is better than nothing.
Even if that something comes in the form of a dangerously attractive incubus with questionable motives and a talent for speaking in riddles.
I really need to reevaluate my terrible taste in men.
Thirty-One
Rose
Every spare moment between classes, I’ve been hunting for that hidden chamber, pressing my palms against walls, standing still in the middle of the quad trying to sense whatever magical vibe might give away the location, reading the book Soren gave me cover to cover. But the academy keeps its secrets better than a mob boss’s lawyer, and I’ve got nothing to show for my efforts.
Tonight, though, I have to dress up and play pretend. Tonight is Samhain, and as a member of the decorating committee, my attendance isn’t optional. The bloodmark burns under my sleeve as I stand outside the ballroom doors, reminding me that my festivals and celebrations will be coming to an end soon.
The doors are thrown wide, and the transformed space is revealed in all its Thorne-approved glory. The committee really went all out, though I hate to admit it. The ceiling has been draped in black tulle with orange fairy lights. Carved jack-o’-lanterns are everywhere, hundreds of them, with faces ranging from devilishly grotesque to blandly sweet. The walls are drapedin black and orange silk that ripples with the slightest breeze, traditional corn dollies hang at intervals, harvest vegetables are heaped high on tables, and dried corn stalks are everywhere, along with hay bales and wooden baskets of bright red apples. The whole room smells like cinnamon, wood smoke and mulled cider.
In the center of it all, a massive bonfire burns in a giant cauldron, the flames reaching up dangerously close to the tulle-covered ceiling. Students are already tossing in scraps of paper with wishes for the coming year, according to tradition. I wonder if “please don’t let the Coven kill me” would work.
Then I see them. Lucien stands near the far wall, and my stupid heart does this painful squeeze thing that I absolutely did not authorize. He’s wearing a charcoal suit that fits him like it was painted on, no tie, top button undone in a way that would seem sloppy on some, but on him it just looks sexy. His dark hair is not a bit out of place, and he’s holding a goblet of something that he’s not drinking, just using as a prop while he surveys the room.
His eyes pass over me without stopping. Not even a glimmer of recognition. Like I’m furniture. Like what happened in his room last week never happened. Like he didn’t have his face between my legs making me call out to a god I don’t believe in.
Cool. That’s cool. I’m totally cool with that.
He’s been avoiding me all week, but I still caught glimpses of him following me in my peripheral. Yet he would always disappear when I turned my head. I had wondered if he expected me to go to his room, to knock on the door and beg for him to help me again. To beg for him to… do something. If he did, he didn’t know a thing about me.
Soren, on the other hand, makes his awareness of me immediately and inappropriately obvious. He’s lounging against the opposite wall like he’s posing for a cologne ad, wearing black leather pants that should look ridiculous but absolutely don’t—because if anyone can pull of leather pants it’s a demon incubus—and a black shirt that’s unbuttoned enough to be borderline obscene. When our eyes meet, his lips curve into a smile that promises terrible things.
He pushes off the wall and moves toward me with that predatory prowl that makes everything below the belt clench despite myself. “Rose,” he says, voice low enough that I have to lean in to hear him over the haunting Celtic music with harps and flutes and drums. “You look absolutely delicious. I could eat you up right here.”
The way he says ‘eat’ makes it clear what he really means. My cheeks heat, and I hate that he can do this to me with just his words.
“That’s harassment,” I inform him, willing my cheeks to return to their normal color.
“Is it?” He circles me slowly, not touching but close enough that I can feel his heat. “I thought it was a compliment. That dress is…” He makes a sound that’s almost a growl. “Perfect.”
