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The yank on my magic is expected and yet I’m so raw and tense that it startles a hiss out of me. A reminder that, even weakened, the enchantment works.
Focus on more neutral things, I tell myself. The assignment, the joint project.
That’s right. It’s for Art class, the teacher wants it tomorrow. I need to go and get it done. It’s urgent, right? It can’t wait. Something I have to do.
I wait for a few beats to see if the yank on my chain resumes but it seems schoolwork doesn’t trigger the spell.
Arawn, I hurt. I brace my hands on the desk, taking a few deep breaths, and I find myself staring at the map of bruises running the length of my arms, the raw skin around my wrists as if from shackles. I shake my head. Straightening, I gaze down at the dark bruising splotched all over my torso. I see cuts. Burns. What…?
Bile rises in my throat. I barely make it to the toilet before I throw up everything I’ve eaten today, plus some blood.
Someone beat me up pretty badly. Someone tortured me. I can’t… fucking remember, but the memory is there, right under the surface, and it makes me shake.
Huddled against the toilet, I try to marshal my thoughts. Not remembering sucks but it’s the spell. It’s okay. I’m okay. Got to move. Formulate a plan.
This is war and we need to strike back. I can’t think outright of… her. A small pull on my magic stops my breath. I make myself look at the bruises on my arms again, change that path of thought.
Focus on the schoolwork. Get out of here before Ophelia comes here, before—
Stop thinking, dammit.
Stumbling out of my small bathroom, I hunt for my boots and a shirt. I pull them on, grab my art pad and pencil, and head over to the girls’ dormitory.
Something tells me that time is running really damn short.
As I reach her room and raise my hand to knock, I hear a giggle and turn my head to see a couple of girls staring at me from behind an open door. Human girls. Our magical races produce very few girls. A way to keep the balance, humans have theorized. Give a race magic and the ability to reproduce quickly and you have a vermin problem on your hands.
Of course, this means that the magical races often stole brides from the humans in the past. The urge to reproduce is potent.
Which is why my mother should have been protected. Cherished. If women are so scarce among us, how could they let her come to harm, have her flee to save herself and eventually die?
I frown. More memories slam back into me. The photo in Ashton’s room. Him saying that she died. My anger toward him. A duel we were meant to fight and…
The door opens and there she is, her long dark hair messy, her old-fashioned nightgown reaching past her knees, white and a little see-through, outlining the curves of her body. Her face is startled, slender dark brows winging up, her soft mouth half-open as if to ask who it is.
Don’t think of her name, don’t think of her name.
“Dark Eyes,” I whisper.
“Sin?” Then she’s throwing herself at me, her arms coming around me, and I still. My art pad drops to the floor. I hear a distinct click as the door of the giggling girls closes.
“Mia,” I say, and the pain hits instantly. Maybe it’s the bruises and cuts and fuck knows what else is wrong in my body right now, but it almost sends me to my knees.
“Oh God, I’m so sorry.” She’s moving, pulling me into her room, those dark eyes wide. “I was just so glad to see you, didn’t think of the enchantment…”
Ow. My jaw is clenched so tight I’m not sure I can speak or make a sound. She leads me to her bed, pushes me down to sit and I sink on the mattress. I bow my head. Ow, goddammit.
My skin crawls. My bones try to change shape. My back is trying to break open. My face feels weird—kind of numb with razor blades working in my jaw, under my eyes. My body is trying to shift again. One day, sooner or later, it will succeed, if I lose control.
No. I won’t. Mustn’t. Pulling the magic back into myself feels like sinking knives into my flesh. I realize I’m panting.
“Why have you come?” she asks softly and I realize she has sat down beside me. She places the art pad on my other side, leaning slightly over me to do so. Her scent of sweet flowers seeps into my senses.
“For the assignment,” I force the words out from between clenched teeth.
“For real?” Her hand searches for mine, slides against my wrist, against my palm, and my mouth trembles as some of the pain fades.
I bite into my lip, tell myself that I can’t fucking lose it, not now. “For real. I came to draw you. I—”
