Page 69

Lonan hasn’t told me where we’re going, but he seems determined, steering us up what feels like every flight of stairs in Gossemort.

“Why’re you walking like a drunken horse?” Lonan asks after several minutes of climbing.

“I’m not walking like a drunken horse,” I bite back. Except, I am definitely walking like a drunken horse.

I have been tackled, torn, bitten, and bruised tonight, had a Saint treat my skin like a damn embroidery pillow, ripped a handful of new scars into my body and recarved the old ones, but somehow slipping in the mud of the cemetery and twisting my ankle is what’s causing me so much pain I can’t see straight. With every step I fear I might go blind or fall flat on my face.

We’ve climbed several staircases, all the way to the top floor of the main building of the school. A school full of magic, and we can’t find a better way to get around than endless staircases.

“Right, we’re not doing this,” Lonan declares. He grabs me by the waist and stops me in the middle of the hall. Too close. Too close.

There’s no way to explain to him what it does to me, to my siphon appetites, to have him within arm’s reach. And if I tried to explain, I know he’d look at me either with disgust and fear (smart) or with cocksure male pride (stupid). So instead of attempting an explanation, I look up at the ceiling while he kneels before me.

“Put your hand on my shoulder,” he says, lifting my ankle.

Oh Saints, I don’t want to touch him . . . or rather, I very badly do, but shouldn’t. I compromise with myself by allowing three fingers on the edge of his shoulder to steady my balance while he raises my foot and rests it on his knee.

And then panic sets in.

Because there is one secret that I haven’t revealed to him and never intend to.

“I’m fine,” I say, attempting to pull away.

He shoots me a dark glare. “You’re not. Now let me see.”

I cringe as he lifts the hem of my once-white ball gown, now damp and deeply stained with things I don’t want to think about.

“I still can’t believe you’ve been running around this school without shoes all damn night,” he says as he gingerly touches my ankle. I hiss as he presses a swollen part. “We need to get this wrapped. I could use part of your dress—likely not worth saving anyway.”

He lifts the hem to tear the tattered fabric, and I bend down, swatting his hands away and causing myself searing pain in the process.

He lifts an eyebrow. “Shy about your ankles?”

“I’m . . . modest.” It might be my worst lie yet.

“It’s an ankle.”

“Men invented tablecloths to shield themselves from the seduction of table legs shaped like a woman’s ankle.”

He looks at me flatly. “You think I suffer from lustful thoughts about table legs?”

“I don’t pretend to understand your Neanderthal brain.”

He shakes his head. “You know, I don’t give a damn about your modesty if you’re going to be squealing—”

He stops, staring down at my leg. I squeeze my eyes shut and curse the Saints for ordaining this moment.

“Vesper . . .” He reaches a hand toward the exposed skin of my shins. I know what he sees there—the evidence of the Dark, my cursed poetry. Only my godfather knows it does this to me, that these scars are the reason I wear high socks.

Lonan pulls back, like he’s thinking better of touching them. Most are old, but some are still red and angry. The ones I carved tonight are still bleeding, and blood has dried in dark maroon rivulets down my legs.

He takes a deep, shaking breath and reaches toward me like I’m an injured animal, like he might frighten me away if his movement is too quick. “Who did this?” he breathes.

A pathetic laugh escapes me. “I did it to myself, Lonan.”

He gently lifts the hem higher, exposing my skin up to my knee. His eyes flit over the ugly patchwork. I’m just now realizing how horrific it must look. I’ve mostly grown used to them—the scars have accumulated slowly, over years. But to fresh eyes they must be a horror.

“How high do they go?” he asks.