Page 87 of Hallowed Bones

The old stones have seen more than their fair share of elders training the inexperienced youths, but I wonder how much of those sessions were like my own. How many other boys were trapped down here, pinned like butterflies beneath glass, as they were shaped into what their elders wanted?

Haven doesn’t know it yet, but of all of us, I am the only one who truly understands what she might be going through. Because unlike my fellow coven members, I, too, had to be trained to control a dark power. Unlike my time, however, I will make sure her lessons are kinder.

And when it’s all over, I will set her free.

The click of boots on stone sends a ripple through me. The sound echoes, growing louder as it stalks down the spiral stairs that lead into the coven’s lair.

She’s here. Her sweet scent rushes forward, a hint of light and magic.

I don’t turn right away. Instead, I close my eyes and spread my senses out, searching … searching … there. An invisible ball of chaos and energy glides down the stairs toward me. Both the energy and the sound of footsteps halt at the same time. My lashes lift, and I find myself spellbound by the woman standing a mere few feet away.

Her cheeks are starker than before, and there are bruises beneath her eyes. Still, she’s beautiful as she stands on the bottom step, gazing around with curiosity in her eyes. I’d told Cameron to show her how to enter the chamber, but then to let her traverse the descent herself. Despite the numerous steps, she doesn’t look out of breath. She’s recovering even faster than expected. Good.

She’s dressed in a pair of jeans and a plain gray T-shirt that shapes over her breasts with a lover’s closeness. The sight of her makes my blood burn, a hunger akin to Lyall’s wolf on a full moon rising to the surface. I shove it down, stomping the urge to close the distance between us and pull her against me until there’s no doubt who is in charge. Between my desire and my honor, I will always be the dominant.

“You’re late,” I say. Dual-colored eyes narrow on me, but I don’t miss the hitch of her breathing as her gaze sinks lower. She blinks as she takes in my attire—or lack thereof.

“Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?” she snaps.

I fold my arms. She steps off that final ledge and into the chamber, her body moving slower than it might have before her illness. My muscles tense as I resist the urge to ask if she needs to sit down. What she needs is to not be coddled. Haven turns her gaze away as if sensing my keen attention. She might think she’s being subtle by pretending to glance around the room and take in its contents, but I see the way her eyes continue to shift toward me.

She likes the way I look?

No. I shake my head. That’s not fucking important.

“Does my lack of a shirt bother you?” I ask, tilting my head. It doesn’t matter—my reasons are my own—but curiosity thrusts the question out before I can stop myself.

“No.” Her response is fast, but the way her head turns quickly from me gives her away.

Yes, Haven does like the way I look.

I grit my teeth as the urge to flex or do something else to recapture her attention for a reason other than education threatens to overwhelm me.

“Then don’t let it bother you,” I say.

Her gaze moves back to me. I force my focus to remain on her face instead of the way each breath she takes pushes her breasts into the v-cut neckline. I look at her—just her.

“What are you teaching me today?” she asks, shifting closer, closing the distance between us until she’s fully into the circle. Her scent stretches out, invisible fingers wrapping around my throat, stroking along my arms until my muscles bulge with the effort it takes to hold myself back. She doesn’t even realize the temptation she presents.

The sharp crack of a cane splintering and snapping in half as it comes down on flesh brings me back to reality—the phantom sound, a reminder of why I’m here.

I clear my throat and drop my arms, turning away from her as I move into the center of the large space. I consider the kind of spell to reveal to her. Of the five types of witches, blood witches like myself are one of the most lethal. Putting a little fear in her might go a long way to maintaining a proper distance myself.

“Lyall told you what the different classifications of witches are.” It’s not a question, but she answers it as if it were.

“He told me there were five types,” she says. “But I only know four of them.”

I nod. I’m not surprised he chose to leave out the rarest bloodline. I would have done the same. Turning to face her, I reach into the pocket of my jeans and withdraw a pocketknife, flipping it open and locking its blade into place.

Her brows draw closer together as she glances from me to the blade. “What are you—”

Flipping the handle, I shift and drag the sharp edge of the knife in a diagonal line across the opposite forearm. Her gasp and subsequent jolt forward as she reaches me in three long strides fills the chamber.

“What the hell is wrong with you!” She grabs the wrist of the hand holding the knife and pries it away from the opposite arm.

“I hardly feel it,” I inform her coolly. If anything, I feel the sensation of the blood dripping down my flesh more viscerally than any actual pain.

She rips the pocketknife from my hand, and I let it go without a fight. It’s completed its purpose, after all.