Page 20 of Spark of Sorcery
“Maybe that’s because I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Maybe you don’t have a choice,” I say, then regret it almost immediately. She’s right. Dray’s right. I am an asshole and I don’t know how to do this. I sigh. “I want to make things right between us.”
She shakes her head. “You said all that stuff. You showed me who you really are, Beaufort Lincoln, and I didn’t like what I saw.”
We reach the forest, the road cutting under the leafless branches. I swing between two tree trunks and slam on the brakes.
“And what did you see?” I shift around in my seat and stare at her, right into her eyes so she’s forced to stare right into mine.
“A man who’s only out for himself.”
I keep staring right back at her. “Then you don’t know me at all.” I twist my head back around and look out into the forest. It’s dark under the trees, but a few stray rays ofsunlight filter through the branches, dust particles spinning trapped in their glare. “Because I want to look after you, Briony. I want to help you.” I frown, remembering what brought us under these trees in the first place. “Of course, if you’ve found some other shadow weaver to lend you–”
“That’s not what this was.”
“Wasn’t it? Then why can’t you tell me who it was? Why the secret?”
“You have secrets too, Beaufort. Things you aren’t telling me.” I nod. I can’t deny it. “So why don’t we call it quits? I won’t tell you and you won’t tell me.”
“I can’t help you, if you don’t tell me.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“Really?” I snort. “And how’s it going with that little investigation into your sister’s death? Found your answers yet?”
She opens her mouth, closes it and then turns her head away from me.
I sigh once more and lean my head back against the headrest. I don’t want to fight. I want to be lifting her into my lap, sucking on her throat and making her moan with my fingers. I don’t want her hating on me.
People don’t hate Beaufort Lincoln. They admire him. They are afraid of him. They don’t hate him.
Yet, every wave of energy rolling off her right now says hate.
Could I tell her? I said I would. But would she understand? She comes from Slate, the backend of nowhere. Bland, miserable, pathetic. Not a world of magic. She doesn’t know what it’s like to bend reality, warp perception, or manipulate the very building blocks of the universe.
Would she look at me and think I was lying? Worse, would she look at me and think I was a freak?
“It was Professor Tudor,” she says, “who healed me.”
“The teacher?”
She nods. “There’s nothing going on. I’m not interested in getting tangled up in relationships. What happened between you and me was a mistake.”
“It wasn’t,” I growl. “It was damn good.” Her gaze flicks back to me and the heat in my eyes makes her swallow. “And it’s too late. We’re already tangled up together.” She opens her mouth to argue. I beat her to it. “You’re right.”
Her brows leap up her forehead in surprise, then plummet back down into a suspicious frown. “About what exactly?”
“Me being an asshole. What I said about your sister – it was–”
“Wrong.”
“Cruel. And, despite what you may think about me, I am not cruel. Not to the people I care about anyway.”
I scratch my nail along the leather seam on the steering wheel.
“Are you apologizing to me, Beaufort Lincoln?” she asks, puzzled.
“I guess I am.”
