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He catches hold of it, his skin pleasantly warm against mine. It’s surprisingly comforting. I would have thought his skin would be cold and stone-like based on the greyness, but that’s not the case at all.
“Let me see,” he says.
“I’m fine, Cethin,” I respond.
“Please?”
I bite my lip and nod.
His gaze drops to my lips and for one moment, I consider what it would be like to kiss him and to do far more than that.
A small rivulet of blood runs out of the cut and onto his finger, the bright red showing up surprisingly well against the dark grey. He seems transfixed on the injury and for a horrifying moment, I find myself wondering if he’s a vampire and that this is some kind of fixation Idon’twant. I know there are some at Blackthorn, but I’m not sure how to tell who is what. There are some characteristics that are easy to recognise, like Nati’s snakes, but for the rest of the students, anybody could be anything. Or that’s the way it seems to me. Maybe I should have paid more attention when Mum was trying to teach me all this stuff and then I’d be better prepared.
I clear my throat, knowing that this isn’t the time to be thinking about any of this. “It’s just a cut.”
“Mind if I fix it?”
I frown. “How?”
He chuckles. “Magic, Anja, how else do you think?”
“Oh, right.” I push a strand of hair out of my face with my free hand. “Sure.” I glance to the front to make sure Professor Wainwright isn’t paying us any attention. Though even if she is, I doubt she’d tell us off for dealing with an injury, even if it’s a small one.
He mutters a few words under his breath and a wisp of violet washes over my hand. My skin tingles and the sting of the cut vanishes, though I can’t see what happened.
I let out a small gasp at the way the magic makes me feel, though I can’t put into words precisely what caused it.
Cethin looks up, his gaze meeting mine and I can see all kinds of unspoken questions in there. Or maybe they’re unspoken answers and the questions are mine.
“Your eyes are glowing purple,” I murmur.
“I’m using my magic,” he says by way of explanation. “You should be okay now.” While he says it, he doesn’t let go of my hand.
Nor do I pull it back.
“I like purple,” I say.
“I guessed.”
“Oh, right.” I touch my hair with my free hand. “Yes, it’s my favourite colour.”
He cocks his head to the side, an intrigued expression on his face. “Is that so?”
I nod.
He finally lets go of my hand, and I mourn the contact even though I know I shouldn’t. I examine my hand, surprised to find that there isn’t a single mark on it. “That’s amazing.” I prod and poke at it a little.
He chuckles. “The perks of being a warlock, even a dark one.”
“What’s the difference between a dark warlock and a non-dark warlock?” I ask before I can stop myself. “Sorry, you don’t have to answer that, it’s a personal question.” I turn back to the task of cutting up the root so we can add it to the cauldron simmering between us.
“We can trade questions, if you want,” he suggests.
“Okay, but I think you’re going to be disappointed in some of my answers.”
“Don’t I get to decide that?”
“Mmm.” I move my knife carefully. While I like the attention he gave me when I was hurt, I don’t want to do that unnecessarily.
