Page 9 of Wrongfully Magicked
“Or something,” he says, not missing a beat, completely unfazed by my attack. His concerned gaze drops to my hand, then he grabs hold of it, ignoring me when I try to pull away. My skin tingles at his touch, unused to much physical contact.
We play tug-of-war for a few seconds before I huff and give up. If I’m honest with myself, something about the feel of his callused hands on my skin makes me want to throw myself into his arms. Ignoring that disturbing thought, I take stock of my surroundings—we’re in a small room that contains a cot, a chair the big man is sitting on next to my bed, and a small end table with a glass of water on top.
The room is dim, almost comforting, but I don’t make the mistake of relaxing.
I’m wearing little more than a sheet, a tiny camisole that barely covers my tits…and I wince when I realize that it’s granny panties day.
While I don’t care that they’ve practically seen me naked, I tug up the sheets a little, not liking the vulnerable sensation crawling up my neck.
I hate being vulnerable around…well, everyone.
I should be desperate to get away, I absolutely hate having anyone touch me, but something about his nearness is calming. In my family, touch usually means a pain. Oddly enough, the stranger radiates comfort and warmth, the alien sensation making me want to linger. I sit docilely, taking my time to study him, not protesting as he carefully wiggles each finger.
Even sitting, the man is big.
No, not just huge.
He’s fucking massive.
His thumb practically spans my wrist alone. Heat radiates from him, but I don’t sense that he’s a mage like me. He avoids my gaze, as if he’s trying to evade detection, which is hilarious given how much space he takes up in the tiny room. His hair is shaved in the back and up the sides, but the strands on top of his head are thick and wild. His red hair is so dark, it resembles a deep mahogany that makes me want to reach out and weave myfingers into the messy waves, the dark streaks of red and blond reminding me of flames.
When I catch him peeking at me from the corner of his eye, I notice his eyes are black—like, completely black. The only thing that breaks up the color is a tiny ring of molten silver around the outer edges that almost seems to swirl under my gaze.
I’m so distracted by watching him, I don’t notice that he’s basically stroking my hand. “Nothing is broken.”
His voice is so dark and growly that it contains a thread of menace to it. Instead of reacting like a normal person, all my girlie bits sit up and take notice. When he turns my hand over and runs his thumb up the underside of my arm, I can’t stop my full body shiver, and damn if my nipples don’t tighten, begging for his touch.
“I’m not sure if these will scar or not. They are already fading a bit.” He rubs his thumb over the silvery lines that branch their way up my arms. This time, I know he did it on purpose, those dark eyes of his cataloging every reaction as he does it. “Cassius will know more.”
The lines he mentions go all the way up to my shoulder, but they grow lighter as they go. There is a thick band of what looks like bruises around my wrists, and I suddenly remember everything.
The arrest.
The threat to send me to prison for a crime I didn’t commit.
Then losing my temper.
I close my eyes and mentally sigh. “Yeah, that wasn’t one of my better moments. That dickhead just pissed me off. If I was going to prison, then it might as well be for something I’m guilty of doing, right?”
“So you’re saying that you didn’t blow up that building?” a harsh voice speaks from the doorway, and I guiltily jerk awayfrom the big man seated before me, not even realizing that I’ve been leaning toward him.
The big man’s eyes drop at my retreat, and I shiver at the distance between us, which has nothing to do with the lack of warmth. Without his eyes on me, I feel like I lost something precious, as if an invisible barrier has been placed between us.
I glare at the asshole who disturbed us, not the least bit intimidated by the dark-haired man who—I tilt my head to the side—resembles a scruffier version of Idris Elba. Instead of dark eyes, his are a combination of orange and yellow. His dark skin makes his irises appear so bright that they seem to be lit from within. I mentally sort through a list of different types of shifters, but nothing jogs my memory.
Then I remember where I saw him last—the man from the basement. Only this time, he’s wearing a shirt. I can’t stop a little moue of disappointment.
What a pity.
He’s much more palatable half naked.
I don’t wilt under his scowl, having been subjected to much more frightening ones from my family. I only lift my chin and roll my eyes. “Anyone with half a brain would be able to track the spell. Not my spell, not my crime.”
The man saunters into the room, not once breaking his gaze. “MID agents are many things, but they are not idiots. You don’t think they checked?”
I pause at his absolute conviction. “What? That makes absolutely no sense. There should be some residual magic. If they didn’t find any, then they need to look harder.”
My answer seems to give him pause. “And you’re saying that it won’t match yours?”
