Page 30 of Wicked Ends
I nod solemnly. “That snake of hers? It’s not just a pet. It’s how she hears everything. Haven’t you noticed how it’s never in the same place twice? It’s always slithering around, listening, reporting back to her.” Not a lie.
Harry’s face goes pale, and he looks like he might throw up. He glances frantically around the library, as if expecting to see snakes sliding out from between books.
“Harry didn’t say anything. We like the new headmistress. Very good leadership. Very fair trials.” He backs away from the table, knocking into a chair.
I try not to smile. He nearly trips over his own feet as he turns, practically running for the exit. As he disappears, I laugh. Hank hops back to the table, looking at me questioningly.
But the smile fades from my face as I look back at my pile of books. I’ve been here for hours, and I’ve found exactly nothing that could help Drake. Every solution is worse than the problem—binding him to an object so he can never leave, performing rituals that would hurt him, making deals with entities I definitely shouldn’t be dealing with.
I slam the last book closed. Drake deserves better than this. Better than me failing him.
Hank croaks quietly.
“I know. I’m not giving up.” I gather my things, shoving the books back onto the shelf haphazardly.
I pick up Hank. “Let’s go back to the room. Maybe Drake will show up.”
But even as I say it, I feel the doubt creeping in. Each time he appears, it takes more out of him. Each time he fades, he’s gone longer. What if he doesn’t come back at all?
I push the thought away as I leave the library, and walk through the empty hallway. The academy is quieter than usual tonight.Maybe everyone is in hiding, planning, or plotting how to survive Jasmine’s next round of trials.
As I walk, I think about what Harry said. Thorne with Jasmine. That’s a combination that can’t lead to anything good. Thorne was already dangerous. Add Jasmine’s particular brand of psychotic to the mix, and we’re all in trouble.
“Tomorrow,” I promise Hank as I push my door open. “We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”
Sixteen
Rose
I dream that night of Soren.
He’s waiting for me, lounging on some ridiculous velvet fainting couch like a villainous duke from a Regency romance. The room is all soft, golden light, and I realize we’re in something like the boudoir of a very high-end brothel. Soren fits right in with his suit, but no tie, shirt open indecently, and his eyes that impossible black, already locked on me.
Dream me crosses my arms.
He grins, lazy and lethal. “Missed me?”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” I glance around. “Nice of you to spare the time to come and see me.”
He stands up, his movements lithe, closing the distance in three steps. “I always make time for you, little witch.”
“Funny, because it feels like you’ve been avoiding me.”
Soren’s smile fades just a touch. “Have I? Like I once said to you, all you have to do is ask.” His hand comes up, thumb tilting my face. “You want me here?”
I shrug and look away.
“No games tonight, Rose. Not unless you beg for them.”
I don’t get a chance to fire back. His mouth is on mine, and just like that, I’m gone.
It’s a hungry, almost punishing kiss, with nothing sweet about it, like he’s trying to make up for time. His hands are everywhere, one in my hair, the other on my ass, dragging me up against him until there’s no space.
He growls, deepening the kiss until my knees threaten to give out.
Somehow, Soren walks us backwards, never breaking contact, until the back of my thighs hit the edge of a bed. (Oh, there’s a bed now, high-thread-count sheets and all. My subconscious is such a wanton harlot.)
He pushes me down, following me with his body, boxing me in with arms on either side of my head. “You know,” he murmurs, “if you needed attention, you could just ask.”
