There was no way she could carry him. Couldn’t he have passed out as a damn cat? She’d have to drag him. Using all the strength she could muster, she hooked her arms around his chest and pulled him across the floor. She tried to ignore the scent of him. He smelled of the forest, like pine needles and crisp winter air. Part of her wanted to huff it in, the other part of her actually focused on dragging this six-foot-six naked monster across the ground. Another part of her hoped he got a splinter in his ass.
His ear flicked her nose as she dragged him across the floor, her breath heaving with the effort. Goddess, she needed to get fitagain. They were both going to be sent to the dungeons she was sure this school had.
She dropped the shifter on the ground of the bathroom, his head hitting the tiles a bit harder than it should have.Oops.
Histhingwouldn’t stop staring her in the face. So she decided to dress him andthentie him up. Because she had basic human decency, which he severely lacked. Shifters were just as brutal as she had always been told.
Dressed and tied, she locked the bathroom door and waited for the beast to awaken.
Nine
Felix
A splitting headachecoaxed him awake.
Once again, he had woken up somewhere he should not be. The first thing he noticed was the cold tiles against his top half, while his bottom half was nice and toasty. Rage boiled under his skin. Did that fucking witch dress him while he was unconscious?Right—he was going to murder her.
He had used too much magic, letting himself lose control. Usually, he would have passed out much earlier, but the monster in him screamed to touch her, to feel her. It had kept him conscious to watch; it had taken over, and he let it. Shame flooded him. That wouldn’t happen again.
He tried to move himself from the floor. But as soon as he did, he realized there were ropes crudely tied around his ankles and wrists. That little witch. She was more cunning than he gave her credit for. A growl rumbled through his chest. The ropes wouldn’t stop him; they were more insulting than effective.
His ears pricked at movement outside the door, the scent of her hitting him the next second, that cinnamon perfume he had already attached to her. She was here. The ropes snapped easily as he strained against them. Using the bathtub as support, hestood, his head swimming as it hit the chandelier.Who needs a fucking chandelier in a bathroom?
The mirror showed his reflection, its ornate gold framing his humiliation. The witch had put a too-small maroon sweater on him. The university logo with the three houses plastered on the front, with Caerwyn Swim Team written across the chest. Turning in the mirror, his eyes slid to the maroon shorts that matched the sweater. She had cut a crude hole and pulled his tail through it. He was definitely, absolutely,without a fucking question,going to murder her.
Stumbling through the bathroom, he clung to the wall for support, the cool tiles grounding him in the space while his head pounded. Felix grabbed the handle and tried to open the door. It was locked. Closing his eyes, he quickly exhaled, trying not to lose his shit and get himself caught. He was teetering on a very fine line. Back in the den, Ciro, his best friend and leader of his den, had tried to teach him to count to tenbeforeacting on his anger; it worked sometimes, other times it didn’t. The sound of the witch shuffling on the other side was just the icing on the goddamn cake; he could practically hear her heart thumping against the door like a rapid drumbeat.
Breaking down the door would be easy. But he also did not want an enforcer to hear the noise and come running. Negotiation it was. It wasn’t his strong suit; decapitation was his preferred method.
“Witch?” he called out, remaining surprisingly calm despite the utter rage boiling within him.
A squeak of surprise answered him, as if she had been pressing her ear right up against the door.
“Open the door, witch, or I’ll—” he said, claws scraping against the wood.
“You’ll what? Call thepawlice?” Her smug, muffled voice came through the door. “Well, well, well. How the tables have turned, shifter.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. It was most definitely not the same situation to any degree, but he would let her think she had the power in this conversation. When he got out, though, he would teach her a lesson for thinking she could cage a shifter.
He pounded on the door. “Let. Me. Out.”
“I will only let you out once we have come to a deal that doesn’t involve dismembering each other, like mature, well-adjusted adults,” she said, trying her very best to sound assertive.
“You’re the one who locked me in a bathroom.”
“You said you would kill me!”
“That’s what you think of me?” He feigned the sound of hurt in his voice.
“Yes.”
“Fair enough.” He sighed. He had said he was going to kill her. Many times. “Well then?”
“Well what?” she asked, as if she had lost the very purpose of the conversation.
Was she a goldfish?
Rolling his eyes, he asked, “What deal do you propose?”
