He was the same when he mentioned that Amelia’s funeral was coming up. No one ever even bothered to tell me she’d died. Poor girl’s runeform activated, and she decided she’d rather find the bottom of a bottle of pills than face whatever horror the curse had in store for her.
A law of averages would suggest that sometimes what anÓ Rinn will miss most is benign. A paperclip, a phone. That’s the lie we tell ourselves. Maybe this time it will be something easy. Nice. Maybe this bairn is the one who simply loses a doll. Maybe this wife loses her wedding band.
It never works out that way.
The only thing that spared me throwing up the expensive dinner was the arrival of the Librarian’s invitation. Needless to say, that didn’t go down well with the old man.
He was more upset about a piece of paper than he was about Jamie and Amelia put together.
If there’s one thing Artemius Ó Rinn hates more than life, it’s being forced into anything. The cranky old bastard would rather wither away in solitude with his wacky baccy and his horses than be summoned by anyone, least of all a woman.
The man understands duty, responsibility, and obligation better than most, but he has no patience. That disappeared with his happiness and empathy when his runeform activated.
Apparently, he’d been a jolly child…long, long ago.
In just under a third of cases, what’s lost to the curse is returned, but that’s not a mercy. Just another demon of hope sent to haunt our family. Jamie will, no doubt, grow up praying he’s one of the lucky thirty percent. Maybe if my grandfather had ever gotten his happiness back, his house—the place where I was raised—might have felt like home. But no. He’s been this way for decades, and I feel more at ease in the Arcanaeum than anywhere else.
I don’t fecking know why I bother putting myself through our weekly dinners. The two of us together rarely make for good company. It’s a waste of my time. I have more important things to be dealing with.
Not that I’ve been as focused on my curse as I should’ve been. Recently, I’ve spent far too much time obsessing over Kyrith’s contract.
For the hundredth time, I debate ripping the distractingdocument up. I should check the platonic box and be done with it.
But…the things she checked…
She’s just curious, the logical part of my brain insists.She’ll get a taste and back out, safe word at the first hint of pain.
I don’t train new submissives. Not worth the hassle or the risk of getting attached.
Everything about my own contract is designed to mitigate any chance of an emotional bond.
But it’sher.
The Librarian never backs down from anything. Just imagining the defiance on her face as she pleads and begs and cries has me so hard that I need to adjust myself as I walk. Maybe I need to find someone to scratch this itch before I do something bad like sign myself into a commitment that includes a Talcott.
I’m not dumb. No one else will be enough.
My stupid brain has always been wired for obsession, and now it’s fixated on Kyrith.
The idea of her tied up and crying pretty tears as I introduce her to my particular brand of sadism is too fecking appealing. I could shatter that legendary composure. Those tits would look perfect clamped and painted in wax and cum and?—
“Nice night.”
Anthea’s voice, posh and cold, destroys my deluded fantasy. I whirl, almost tripping as my ankle catches on a bleeding pothole. My hand drops to my grimoire, and I curse myself for not just using the front door to return to the Arcanaeum.
I just wanted to clear my head. That was a fecking mistake.
Wait. She’s alone?
I know better, but my shoulders drop a fraction. Antheamight give me a headache, but if it came to it, I could probably take her.
“What are you doing here?” I demand, tracking her every move as she steps from between the trees. Was she really lying in wait just to ambush me?
“Don’t be so jumpy.” She deftly navigates the worn old driveway, despite her ridiculous heels and the steep incline. “I’m here because I heard a whisper that your curse has activated.”
“And you thought your sunny disposition would brighten up my final days,” I bite back. “How considerate of you.”
Anthea just rolls her eyes, leading the way down the drive instead of pissing off like I wish she would. I’m left in a cloud of her bitter citrus perfume, and I quicken my pace, if only to get upwind of her.
