This time, the arc is more defined. Wordlessly, I wave at him to continue, retreating slowly backwards. The fire becomes more arcual with each successive attempt. And I use his distraction to sneakily summon the contract into my hand.
I barely manage to look down at the first page and note that hedidn’ttick the platonic box when the swoosh of fire stops. I dart a glance up to check on him, only to find him staring at me.
“You weredoing well. Keep going.”
He folds his arms, raising his brows pointedly at the paper in my hands. “I said we’d talkafterI mastered it.”
“I interpreted that as after I’d helped, which I’ve now done.”
He thrusts one hand through his hair, turning away from me with a groan.
“Jesus. This is precisely why I don’t think your stupid contract will work. Go on then, read it. But afterwards, we’ll talk about why this—us—is a shitstorm waiting to happen.”
Swallowing back the instinctive urge to retort, I settle down in the chair to read through what he’s written.
The second page catches me completely off guard.
Almost everything he’s ticked is the total opposite of Lambert’s choices.
Heat rushes beneath my skin, and I glance at his back, watching as he casts a flawless arc of fire towards the stained-glass ceiling. It’s powerful magic, the flames nearly white with the force he puts into the blow.
Northcliff Ackland is many things—most of them proud and stubborn—but beneath it all, he’s a very powerful arcanist.
Note to self: reinforce the Solarium in the morning. If that kind of fire gets unleashed near my plants or books…
Cutting off the chill of anxiety that follows that thought, I return to the contract.
While Lambert’s choices were playfully annotated, North’s are painfully black and white. No embellishments.
“Do you see the problem yet?” he asks, dropping into the seat opposite me, his posture still tense.
I shuffle the papers to buy myself time to think, scanning his answers again, even though I’ve read them a dozen times in the half an hour since he started practising.
“No. I don’t. Unless…you’re not really willing?”
That’s the only reason I can come up with. On paper, we’re perfectly compatible. We ticked a lot of the same boxes, but that means nothing if he doesn’t actually want me.
“There’s no pressure to sign this now. You can think about it some more if you’re unsure.”
He huffs, pinning me in place with his disbelieving yellow glare. “Trust me, I’ve been thinking about this since Lambert first suggested it before Christmas. You’re gorgeous, kind, and smart as hell.”
My jaw drops a little at not one, butthreecompliments in a row from Northcliff Ackland.
“But you don’t have a submissive bone in your body. If I told you to strip, kneel on the floor, and beg me to fuck my pretty slut, you’d shove a book up my ass and kick me the fuck out of here.”
I don’t think he knows me as well as he thinks he does, because every cell in my body just perked up with interest.
“I ticked those boxes.”
“You’re curious,” he concedes. “I get it. But you’re not a sweet little submissive. Even if you were, you don’t trust any of us enough to give over that kind of control.”
A flicker of indecision sparks in my gut. Is he right? Have I become so set in my independence that I’m incapable of half of the fantasies from my books?
No. I refuse to believe it. Don’t get me wrong, if it were anyone but him or one of the others asking me to do those things, I’d definitely retaliate. But itisthem… I trust them.
I want to let go. I crave a few hours a day where I’m not expected to always be in control. I’ve done enough research to know I can be both. Switches exist. Even in vanilla relationships, dominance and submission are fluid concepts.
Indignation replaces the confusion as I jerk up from my seat. “Look, if you’re not Dom enough to handle me, just say that.”
