Page 31 of Wicked Bonds
I’ve lived centuries, and yet these two weeks have stretched longer than some decades. I catalog Rose’s interactions, which are minimal (the girl has no friends). Her progress in classes, which is pitiful. Her emotional state—completely hostile. My reports grow increasingly brief and redundant, but Wickersly insists on every detail, every nuance, as if somewhere in the boring observations lies some secret information.
“Has she attempted to breach the academy borders?” Wickersly asked yesterday morning.
“No,” I replied, knowing it disappointed her. The Headmistress seems almost eager for Rose to try escaping, to test the limits of the Accord’s binding magic.
“And her associations with the ghost? The incubus?”
I hesitated then, unwilling to elaborate on the complication I felt was beginning until I figured out how far it might go. “Limited.”
Now it’s Sunday afternoon, and the quiet of the academy is refreshing, with most students still hungover and asleep, or visiting family. I search the usual places but Rose’s dormitory room is empty, the dining hall has a few students eating a greasy late breakfast, but none of them her, and the quad where she sometimes sits alone is vacant save for a flock of seagulls.
Finally, I find her in the farthest corner of the library, a wall of books stacked around her like a fortress. Her hair falls in a curtain over her face as she hunches over a book. The bloodmark on her arm is visible even from where I stand.
She stiffens as I approach, her spine straightening a little more with each step I take. She doesn’t look up, but I know she’s aware of me, the tightening of her fingers on the book’s edges gives her away.
I slide into the chair opposite her without waiting for an invitation and her jaw tightens, a muscle moving beneath the skin. Her irritation is palpable, radiating off her in waves. I find it oddly amusing.
“You won’t find the truth in there,” I say, tapping the cover of her book. “The library’s collection has been carefully curated to exclude anything the Coven considers, shall we say, inflammatory?”
“Shocking,” she replies, voice flat. She turns a page with deliberate slowness, a clear dismissal.
I should leave, I have the information I need for today’s report. But I linger, watching the way her eyes scan over the text hungrily, searching for anything that might give her leverage.
In hundreds of years of serving the Coven, I’ve watched countless students pass through these halls. Most arrive unsure, some frightened to death, then gradually surrender to the comfort of belonging, of purpose. They learn to bend, to serve, to accept their place in the hierarchy.
The ones who don’t bend?
They break.
Rose, though, does neither. It’s early days, but the girl stands in defiance of everything, her refusal to submit both comical and intriguing. It’s like watching a sparrow challenge a hawk, foolish but undeniably brave.
I lean forward, noting how she shifts away, maintaining the distance between us. “You’re wasting your time with that,” I say. “If you want to understand the Accord, I could tell you things that aren’t in any book.”
That catches her attention. Her eyes glance up, suspicious but interested. “Why would you do that?”
An excellent question. Why indeed? Not out of kindness, I abandoned that luxury centuries ago. Certainly not out of loyalty to the Coven, though betraying them would be foolish. Perhaps it’s simply that I’m tired of watching history repeat itself. Tired of seeing potential wasted because no one bothered to explain the rules of a game rigged from the start.
“Because,” I say, choosing my words with care, “contrary to what you might think, I don’t particularly enjoy serving the Coven.”
She snorts, disbelieving. “Right.”
“Watching you flail against a system you don’t understand is becoming tedious.”
Her eyes narrow, weighing my words against her mistrust, and I can see the calculation happening behind them. Is the risk of trusting me worth the potential knowledge?
In this moment, I make my decision. I will tell her partial truths about the Accord. Enough to help her navigate, not enough to endanger her, or myself. It’s a delicate balance, one that Wickersly would certainly not approve of. But Rose Smith deserves to understand the chains that bind her, even if she can’t break them.
“So,” I say, resting my elbows on the table, “shall we discuss what your ancestors really traded away when they signed that contract? Or would you prefer to keep reading?”
Rose slides her wooden chair back with a harsh scrape against the floor. She gathers her books, shoving them into her bag with more force than necessary. “Thanks for the offer,” she says, sarcasm dripping from every syllable, “but I think I’ll stick with the books.” She stands, slinging her bag over her shoulder, ready to storm off. I feel a ripple of annoyance. No, this won’t do at all.
“Sit down, Rose,” I say, letting power seep into my voice.
I rarely use compulsion. It’s crude, inelegant, and leaves an unpleasant aftertaste of guilt, occasionally, but sometimes efficiency wins over ethics. My will wraps around her like invisible chains, and I watch as confusion crosses her face,followed by outrage as her body disobeys her, lowering her back into the chair against her wishes.
“What the fuck?” Her fingers gripping the edge of the table, knuckles turning white with the effort of trying to stand again. “What are you doing to me?”
I allow myself a small smile. “Ensuring we finish our conversation.”
