Page 56 of Wicked Endeavors

Marisol, Teo, and Bas had been given a box to watch the shadow play from, and she was curious to see what such a thing would look like from up high and done by witches. She wiped her sweaty hands against her skirts and stepped into the box, freezing when both boys turned to look at her with a chair open between them. A hysterical laugh bubbled in her throat. She forced it down.

“There you are,” Teo said, standing to help her to her seat. “I was starting to worry you’d be late.”

“I’m running out of clothes for these events,” she lied, instead of explaining that she had almost overslept due to emotional stress.

Her kiss with Teo didn’t haunt her the way her hug with Bas had… and therein lay the problem. In fact, she had barely thought of the prince in the last few days, except as part of a team with an unfinished job ahead of them. Instead, she cried herself to sleep thinking of Rodrigo and practiced her swordplay until she was too exhausted to keep thinking of Bas.

Bas’s hand on her cheek.

Bas’s arms around her body.

Bas’s heart in her hands—metaphorically or literally.

Bas gave her a small smile that made her stomach flutter as she settled in beside him, and she cursed her traitorous body for the involuntary reaction. It felt as if these feelings were parasitic in nature, feeding on her heart the second it had escaped the cage of her hate. She longed to go back to that hate. It was easier. It made sense.

Teo handed her a program, but Marisol didn’t have time to glance at it before the lights went low.

On the stage was a scrim. With the houselights down, a larger light illuminated it, and the shadow puppets bounced into view. Instead of being on sticks controlled by puppeteers beneath the stage, the shadows were freestanding and shape-shifting, the result of magic rather than human ingenuity. They were spectacular and impressive, swirling out of view in a cloud of shadows or appearing from the edges of the light as if they’d been hiding from the audience. Teo was enraptured from the first line.

Marisol continued to watch Bas from the corner of her eye. She couldn’t tell if he was paying attention to her or the stage, and she couldn’t tell which one she preferred. She folded her hands in her lap, clasping them tightly to keep from fidgeting. He would notice. He always noticed everything about her.

The dancing shadows animated his blank face. She remembered the first time she saw him again, when his smile had been enough to send her into a murderous rage. Now she had seen him angry, she had seen him sad, she had seen him resigned to death and hopeful for life.

He had infected her mind. There was no other explanation for this. He had been there for her in her lowest moment, and now she craved his quiet strength. His presence was driving her to distraction. She needed to get over this.

Marisol stood. “I need to use the washroom.”

Inside the empty room on the first floor, she washed her face with cold water. The mirror mocked her with her own beauty. As conflicted as she was inside, her illusion held; she looked like a mermaid emerging from the waves, pretty and perfect. It had been her weapon before, but now it felt like a blade pressed to her own throat. She missed her own imperfect face. She missed her own imperfect life.

She closed her eyes. One plant down. One to go. Then this would end.

The door opened.

Marisol met Bas’s eyes in the mirror. “Is something wrong?”

He let the door fall shut behind him and then leaned against the wall beside it, his arms folded. “You’ve been preoccupied. I’m checking on you.”

“Maybe I’ve seen this play before.”

“So you stare at me instead?”

Caught, she dropped her gaze to the sink. Water droplets lingered across the porcelain, some escaping down the drain. She wished she could escape, too.

“You’ve been acting strange,” Bas continued. “If I said something to upset you, please just tell me.”

“You didn’t say anything to upset me. You upset me.”

A quick glance showed that his expression had darkened. “I thought we were—”

“What?” Marisol whirled around, tired of feeling like the cornered one in this conversation. “You thought we were what? Past you killing my entire family and abandoning me to the streets? Past you living in luxury while I shared a hard bed with at least three other kids at the orphanage? Past you never looking for me, never thinking about me, never once taking accountability for all the ways you ruined my life?” Her hands made fists at her sides. “I’m trying to get past it, Sebastjan, but I have to admit it’s a little hard.”

The words burned as they came out, slicing her as deeply as they seemed to be slicing him. But they were a barrier between them, keeping him and these confusing feelings at bay. She would rather have his ire than risk anything else.

“No,” he said slowly. He took a step forward and then another, his eyes narrowed. “That’s not what it is. You haven’t looked at me like you hate me in days.”

“Oh?” Marisol went for airy, even though the sink was digging into her spine from her failed attempt to back away. “Enlighten me. How have I been looking at you, then?”

Bas stopped when there was only a handsbreadth between them, not even room for a second person to squeeze through. His eyes were the color of tea steeped just a touch too long. He placed his hands on the counter on either side of her, preventing her from running, from thinking. His quiet intensity pinned her in place as surely as his arms did.