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“Unlikely. If anything, I’d say you’re a sadist.”
“Think whatever you want.”
I scowl and open my mouth to snap back some kind of insult, but it dies on my tongue. The biting wind kicks up again, picking at my dark-blonde curls, and passing through my dress like tissue paper. I shiver, and I wish for the um-teenth time that I had worn anything else.
Roman clears his throat and holds out his jacket to me.
I freeze, my eyes going wide, and I take a beat to react. “No, it’s fine.”
Where the hell is Cat? I should just go back inside. Except, I can’t decide if going inside to look for her and having people stare at me sounds more painful than freezing to death.
“It’s just a jacket, good girl.”
I stiffen. In theory, sure, but nothing is ever simple with The Montagues, and Roman is no exception. If anything, he’s the rule.
Still, I glance down at the jacket, wavering.
I’m distracted by the black ink tattoos snaking up Roman’s forearm. I can’t make out all of it, but I recognize the rune for inspiration, and part of a Robert Frost quote. On his other arm, he has scribbled notes in faded sharpie. Upside down, I can read:
“Dentist 2:10 Wednesday
Buy aspirin, melatonin.
Then under that, darker, as if written later:
Sara (Dent. Asst.)
Call me! :) 617-555-0149
I narrow my eyes.OnlyRoman would have someone in his mouth cleaning plaque off his teeth thinking,Yeah, I want this guy to fuck me.
My hands ball involuntarily into fists, and I take the coat for something to do with them. “Thanks.”
But now I can’t stop thinking about the notes as I shrug on his jacket. Why the hell is he going to adentistand taking human sleep aids when I know for a fact he pledged to the Order six months ago. He should be able to rune-away any problem as simple as insomnia or gingivitis.Weird.
Roman steps back and leans against the railing opposite me. He raises his clove to his lips and takes a drag, watching me intently with his serious, dark eyes. “So, what are you doing here?”
I narrow my eyes. “What do you mean? I have just as much right as—”
He cuts me off. “I thought you were going to England.”
It takes me a moment to understand what the hell he’s talking about, and then I stiffen. “I was.”
I completely forgot I told him about this. Why I would do that, I have no idea. More confusing is why he would remember.
Three years ago, I applied to a university in the UK. Instead, my parents insisted I go to Elsinore. Elsinore is the only college in the country that offers not only regular classes, but also studies of witchcraft, runology and the occult. While I argued that I could study those things in my spare time abroad, my parents were adamant that it wouldn’t be enough to pledge to the Order upon my graduation.
Roman’s eyes bore into me, his face expressionless as he exhales a plume of spicy clove smoke. “So, if you were going, then what are you doing here?”
For some reason I feel the need to explain. “My parents asked me to stay.”
His expression is unreadable. “I’m sure they’re happy.”
“They are.” My tone is undeniably defensive. “We all are. It’s great.”
“I’m sure.”
The silence stretches, full of unsaid things, and I feel that energy building in my chest again. Like I’m about to explode with everything I ever wished I could say, and then some.
