“Very.”
He leans toward me again, his black-rimmed eyes mesmerizing in their intensity. “I can hear your hatred loud and clear. Do me a favor and try to tone it down a bit so we can get started,” he instructs, like I should have known to do this.
I forget he can dip into my head whenever the desire strikes him. I try not to think anything negative about the infuriating man sitting across from me, but it’s impossible. It’s like telling someone to try not to breathe.
Don’t think anything bad.
Don’t think anything bad.
I. Can’t. Stand. You. Adair.
“So how exactly does this work? You can already just dive right in and violate my thoughts, so what’s the next step in proving my innocence?”
“I can hear whatmostpeople are thinking, currently, depending on how loud their thoughts are. Yours are obnoxiously loud. Delving into memories is a bit more complicated,” he answers. “I have to have a tether to your energy, a type of connection.”
“You have to touch me,” I state without premise.
“Unfortunately,” he drawls, appraising me like I’m a petulant headache.
Without warning, he closes his eyes and reaches out, putting a hand on each side of my head. At first, I jolt from his hands on me, but then the pressure is immediate, as if someone is ripping out threads of my existence. I’m forced to close my eyelids from the incredible tension permeating through my head. Vivid images of the past forty-eight hours rapidly appear behind my eyelids. A bird’s-eye view of my writhing form on the ground during the Blood Ritual Ceremony, being carried to my room while unconscious, and the trip to Moorechester with Ambrose.
I get to watch Ambrose’s rejection play out in front of my eyes again in stark detail before I’m at the bookshop picking out a few titles. Suddenly, the books blur into the academy doors opening, and I’m walking into the chaos that’s transpiring in all directions before the image abruptly vanishes, and the pressure subsides.
I carefully peel my eyes open.
Kingston stares at me, hands on his knees, but the accusation that was previously buried in those depths has lessened.
Slightly.
Checkmate, asshole.
“He’s always been an idiot,” he says, his tone lower than I’ve heard it.
I’m embarrassed but even more angry. “I’m sure you enjoyed that part the best,” I seethe. “That was private and not for you to witness.”
It’s bad enough to live through a rejection, no matter how softly it was delivered, but to have to relive it with an audience? Sheer agony.
He doesn’t laugh or mock me. But he istense.
“Why the interest in dark objects?” he asks, swiftly changing the subject.
Shit.
That little tidbit certainly doesn’t help me not look guilty in some regard. Thank fuck I was at Moorechester when the abductions presumably took place.
“It looked interesting,” I say flatly.
He raises a dark brow.
I take a deep breath. This entire charade of being civil is exhausting. “I have no idea where I fit in the scheme of things, as a Liminal. At this point, nothing has manifested, neither light nor dark abilities, so I figured, why not look into both?”
“Curiosity is an essential aspect of wielding. It’s also critical you’re familiar with facets of the Noctryn ideology since we don’tyet know where you fall in the scheme of things,” he states, rolling his sleeves up and exposing his corded forearms. “Dark objects are crucial for Noctryns. Do you know anything about the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“They arecreated. More specifically, they’re made for a Noctryn who wields deep levels of dark magic with the potential to burn out. Without a way to stabilize themselves, that amount of dark power can lead to madness. An elite dark wielder paired with a dark object is a reputable force.” His lower lip pulls between his teeth, just enough for the point of his left canine to show. “But a Noctryn who delves too deep without the proper tools is a hazard to themself. And everyone around them.”
“How are they created?” I ask, suddenly very curious.
