Storm of Shadows, page 29
She glares at me and for the briefest flicker of a moment, I wonder why she cares, I wonder if she cares, I wonder if maybe she is jealous. But I bat those foolish ideas away.
Just because my thoughts about the girl are burgeoning on the obsessive, does not mean she feels the same way about me. And even if she did, so what? I will not go there. I refuse to go there.
“Madame Bardin is dangerous,” I tell her.
“Is she an ex? Is that what this is about?”
I ignore her questions.
“Briony,” I say earnestly, “do not meet with her alone. Even if she asks you to, do not. It isn’t safe.” She stares at me, disbelief written all over her face, waiting for me to say more, to explain myself. But how can I? “Trust me when I say, she is dangerous.”
“Trust you?” she spits. “Why the hell would I trust you?”
Something pangs in my chest. Something I haven’t felt in years and years. Is that hurt? Do I want her to trust me? She’d be a fool to. And the girl is bright, I see that. She’s no fool.
And yet, still I want her to trust me. Fuck, I want to protect her and devour her. I want it all.
“Fine,” I concede. “You don’t have to trust me. But for your own safety – for your own sake – heed this warning anyway.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
Briony
With the next trial tomorrow, you can feel the tension growing among the students. The commoner students are quieter than usual – even those from Iron Quarter – and the shadow weavers are even more obnoxious. There’re plenty of displays of their powers and I’m sure I’m not imagining that even more kids than usual are walking around with black eyes and busted noses.
I’m sort of thankful for the upcoming trial. It’s going to be awful. I will probably end up with another broken nose and another sprained ankle, but at least it means everyone’s attention is diverted onto that and not onto me and the Princes.
Even Fly and Clare show no interest in my complicated love life. Despite his earlier skepticism, Fly and I have joined Clare in researching everything we can about past trials – me keeping half an eye out for clues about my sister as I do.
Although we’ve spent every spare moment of the last few days going over possible trial scenarios and how we’d handle them, the evening before the trial – when we should probably be in bed resting – we’re doing the same again.
There are several scenarios that have us beat – unless you’re a shadow weaver with magical abilities there’s no way you’d overcome the trial – but we have plans and ideas for the others. Of course, plans and ideas are one thing; putting them into execution is another.
“You know, I think it’s going to be a maze,” Clare says, looking up from her latest book as we lie out together on her bedroom floor.
“What makes you say that?” I ask, closing the old newspaper I was reading.
“I made a tally,” she explains, holding up a piece of paper with a table drawn across it. “Mazes are the most frequent trial type to be set – especially for the early trials.”
“Doesn’t that make it less likely to be picked again this time?” Fly says, scratching his cheek and yawning.
“I don’t think so. It’s obviously a favorite with the trial setters and they haven’t picked it for the last four years straight.”
“Maybe,” Fly says, sounding unconvinced.
“A maze doesn’t sound so bad,” I say.
Fly snorts. “Don’t count on it.”
“But aren’t there ways to solve mazes?” I persist. “Even for those of us without shadow magic?”
“Yes,” Clare says, slamming her book down in front of me. “There are!”
Clare spends the next hour going over the different techniques. She’d probably spend longer still, but Fly cuts her off and insists we all go get some sleep.
“Techniques or not,” he says, “we won’t be able to solve any maze if we’re so tired we can’t sleep tonight.”
“I don’t know,” I mull. “I think we should keep researching.”
“Uh uh,” he says, “trust me on this.”
He drags me to my feet and we hug Clare good night. Then we make our way back to our tower. Despite the late hour, there are lights on all over the campus. I guess we weren’t the only ones up studying tonight.
Outside our doors, Fly rests his hand on my shoulder.
“Okay?” he asks me.
“A little nervous,” I say. “You?”
“Same.” He kisses my forehead. “Try to get some sleep, Cupcake.”
Once I’m in my room alone, I realize he never promised me tomorrow would go okay. Because he can’t. He doesn’t know. And there’s a high probability it won’t.
Without my friends close by, I feel suddenly more nervous, less sure of myself, less confident in all the plans we made.
I climb into the old pair of pajamas Clare has gifted me, flick off the light switch and snuggle into my bed.
The mattress doesn’t feel nearly as comfortable as it usually does. It’s scratchy, lumpy and hard. One night in a luxurious shadow weaver bed and I’m spoiled. But I don’t think that’s truly the problem. My mind buzzes with worries and I toss and turn unable to find sleep no matter how desperately I try.
I start to panic as the tower bell chimes two. Fly’s right, without sleep I’ll be even more hopeless at this trial – and while I’m not expecting to pick up any points, while I don’t think I have any chance of making it into one of the other quarters, I want to make it out of the trial alive.
I flop over onto my back and stare up at the dark thatched roof, listening to the sounds of the creatures scurrying around inside. My heart beats loudly and my chest feels tight with worry. Speaking with Fly or Clare would make me feel better. It would probably calm me down. Lying here alone with only my spiraling thoughts for company isn’t helping. But I can’t wake them up in the middle of the night. They need their sleep as much as I do. It wouldn’t be fair.
I close my eyes.
There is one person.
One person I could talk to. One person who is going to ace the trial, sleep or no sleep. One person who I shouldn’t want to go and talk to – but I do.
I flip over onto my side, tucking my hands under my cheek.
I shouldn’t be relying on other people for support or comfort. I shouldn’t be trusting people.
Amelia was too trusting – so was I back then. I bet that was the true reason for her death.
I think of her now. Exactly my age. She seemed so old back then. Now I realize she wasn’t. I am twenty-one and yet I feel like such a kid half the time. There is still so much to do, so much to learn. I don’t want my story to end yet. I want to make it through this trial.
I fling back the thin blanket, slide on my boots, tug my coat over my pajamas and walk out of my room, locking the door behind me.
I creep down the staircase as quietly as I can, not wanting to wake anyone, also really not wanting anyone catching me on my way to where I’m going.
There is already so much gossip swirling around about me and to be caught creeping towards the Princes’ tower in the middle of the night would churn that gossip up into a whirlwind.
The lights that were burning earlier are all extinguished now and the only other being I meet is an owl, swooping low over the towers on his way out towards the woods.
At the Princes’ tower I hesitate. I’m not sure thumping on the door is going to wake them. This was probably a wasted night-time stroll. I try the door-handle anyway and to my surprise it clicks open.
I stand there dumbfounded as the door swings back and the dark hallway comes into view.
Do the Princes leave their tower unlocked? Or … did the door open specifically for me?
I’m not sure how I feel about that. Flattered maybe? Another strange new sensation to add to my collection.
I step inside, closing the door quietly behind me as I slip off my boots and tiptoe up the staircase.
This is extremely, one hundred percent stupid and possibly deadly. If Beaufort, Dray or Thorne catch an intruder in their tower, they will probably shoot first, ask questions later. I was worried about dying or being injured in the trial, I am just as likely to be killed or hurt climbing their stairs. I keep climbing though. I’m committed now.
No turning back.
As I step out onto the landing, I find my suspicions were correct. Beaufort Lincoln is not sleeping in his bed. Beaufort Lincoln is once again sitting in his study. Beaufort Lincoln is staring right at me.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Beaufort
“I … I couldn’t sleep,” she says.
I crook my finger and beckon her. Her hand rests on the banister. She doesn’t move.
“You’re worried about the trial.”
She nods.
“Come here,” I command and she stays where she is.
“Little thrall,” I whisper, “you wanted to see me.” She bites at her lip. She’s always fighting this connection. But I’m no fool. I know now that she feels it. That she’s finding it as hard as I am to resist. “So come here and see me.” She creeps into my study like a shy little rabbit, stopping by my desk and leaning her hip against it. I can’t help myself. I swivel my chair around to face her, taking a grip of her thighs and pulling her towards me.
This time, she comes willingly, a flush on her cheeks and something in her eyes leading me to believe there’s more than her fears about the trial on her mind. In fact, I believe she’s come here seeking distraction from those fears.
“Do you always work this late?” she asks, as I draw my hands up her legs and squeeze her ass through the material of her sleep pants.
“I find it hard to sleep. I have a lot on my mind.”
“You’re a shadow weaver, what could you possibly have on your mind?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Have you ever had to worry if you’ll have enough money to buy food for the next week? Have you ever worried there’ll be no food left in the cupboard come tomorrow? Have you ever had to worry they’ll take your home away?”
“No,” I say, I dip my head to meet her gaze. “But I take it you have.”
She nibbles at her lip and, shit, I want to do that. “Yes.”
“Not anymore,” I say.
She opens her mouth to say something, then changes her mind, meeting my gaze with her own instead.
“Tell me what you’re worried about, little one.”
She rolls her eyes. “Everything. I don’t have powers like you. I may not make it out.”
“You will,” I say confidently.
“You don’t know that for sure. Every year, students end up–”
“It won’t happen to you,” I say, that vision flickering in my mind.
I reach up and cup her cheek, stroking the pad of my thumb over her plump bottom lip.
Maybe she sees all the heat burning in my pupils, or maybe I’m thinking this is more than it is and all she wants is that distraction. Either way, a little whimper escapes her throat and the next thing I know, she’s climbing up to straddle my lap.
“Shit,” I mumble as she rubs her core against me.
“Maybe there’s something that could help both of us to sleep.”
“Don’t you have your–” I start to say but I don’t finish my words because she’s kissing my mouth hungrily.
“It’s over.”
I smile against her lips. I should have known it would be like this. The girl does not act like she should. One moment she’s hating on me, hissing and spitting into my face, the next she has her tongue inside my mouth.
I yank her closer still, so her sex is pressed right up against my erection and then I’m guiding her hips to rub against me.
She bites down hard on my bottom lip, making me groan.
“Not enough,” she pants.
“Not enough?” I repeat. “You want more, little thrall?”
“Uh huh.” She pants as I draw my hand up under her shirt and squeeze at her tit, finding her stiff nipple and brushing the pad of my thumb back and forth over it.
“What do you want?” I say, against her mouth. “Do you want to be fucked?”
She whimpers again and I think that’s the closest I’m going to get to a yes.
“Because I really really want to fuck you, little thrall,” I mutter, scrabbling to remove her pajama pants and then her panties; simple, plain things. I snap open the drawer of my desk, stuff the panties inside, and grasp around for a rubber. I break off our kiss to rip open the wrapper with my teeth.
Then I’m instructing her to lift up on her knees as I unbuckle my belt and yank down my pants, freeing my stiff cock.
Her eyes are wide as I roll the rubber down my cock, and then my hands are back on her hips, firm, unyielding. I’ve waited long enough. I’ve been patient. Now I’m going to have the girl.
I brush my thumb over her stiff sensitive nub, and then I guide her down onto me.
We groan in unison as I push inside her and I know my cock inside her feels just as good as her pussy does wrapped tightly around my cock.
“Okay?” I say, my voice catching in my throat. She nods, resting her fingertips against my chest, tension on her face.
“Just …” She shudders. “It’s been a while …” She swallows. “Go gently.”
Go gentle?
I want to bite my own damn fist. All I want to do is slam her up and down my cock, to fuck her hard, to make her scream.
Maybe with any other girl I would. But I want this to be more than a one-time-only thing. I want her to enjoy it. I want to fuck her over and over again, willingly. I want her to want it.
“Then you take control, little thrall,” I tell her. “You bounce up and down on my cock just how you want to.”
A little strangled noise escapes her throat and then she’s lifting up onto her knees, my cock slipping through her wet pussy, caressed by her velvety walls.
When she reaches the top, and only my cockhead lingers inside of her, she whimpers again and her fingernails dig into my shoulders.
“Does it feel good?” I murmur, looking up at her.
“Uh huh,” she murmurs, gliding back down me.
It’s slow and considered – a fucking tease of a fuck and maybe I like it this way. The girl has been teasing me right from day one and fuck I have loved it.
She circles her hips, moaning because that must feel good, before rising up again.
I lean forward and nip at her throat, threading open the buttons of her top and sliding it open. Her tits are a perfect handle of a size, her nipples pink and stiff and delicious. I lean in and capture them in my mouth, swirling my tongue around them, feeling them crinkle further still.
“Your pussy feels so damn good. So tight, so wet, so perfect.”
I wonder why the fuck she ever fought this. All those weeks wasted when we could have been doing this and nothing else.
“Now I know how good you feel, I’m going to fuck you all the time. You’re never going to leave my bed.”
She sinks back down onto me, this time with a little more force and I grunt.
“Yeah, sweetheart, just like that.”
“You’re so …” She screws up a brow.
“Big?” I suggest, smiling to myself. I’ve been told often enough that I am.
“Chauvinistic,” she clarifies. “You say such sexist bullshit.”
“I think you like what I say. I think you like my dirty mouth.” I flick at her nipples, then lick up her neck and capture her mouth with mine, kissing her hard as her movements along my cock become faster, harder, more frantic.
I begin to meet her with a thrust from below every time she slams down on my cock and she lets out little cries of ecstasy, shaking her head from side to side as if she can’t handle just how good this makes her feel, a blush blossoming across her flesh.
“I think you like my words. I think you like my fingers. And most of all I think you like my cock,” I grunt.
And then I’m gathering her up into my arms and lifting her to lie on my desk. I push her down flat and paw at her tits, watching as she arches her back, pressing her breasts into my palms. I fuck her hard, the solid desk shaking beneath her and books crashing to the floor, my bottle of whisky tumbling that way too and smashing into a million pieces.
I want to see her come again. I want to make this good for her too. I press my thumb to her clit and soon it’s quivering and she’s writhing on my desk, ecstasy racing across her face. She cries out and with a grunt, I join her, collapsing over her, my brow damp with sweat.
I find her mouth again. I kiss her deep and slow as the aftermath of pleasure pulsates through my body, from my balls all the way to the top of my head and the tip of my toes. She kisses me back, sucking on my tongue and I find her hands and thread our fingers together. I have no desire to move. I’m still inside her and I want to remain there.
Because now I’ve had her, I’m never letting her go.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Briony
For a man who claims he doesn’t sleep, Beaufort seems pretty passed out to me. He lies face down on the mattress, arms and legs slung wide, one arm draped over my waist.
I chew on my lip and stare up at the canopy of his four-poster bed.
I can’t deny that that wasn’t anything but good. So good I know I am doomed. Because it was like the sweetest of honeys, the most potent of opioids – one taste and I won’t be able to help myself from coming back for more.
What the hell possessed me to come here tonight? What the hell compelled me to climb onto his lap like that? What the hell was I thinking?
I was thinking how good it would be for him to touch me again, to make me fall apart again. And it wasn’t like I wanted it. I needed it. My body has been craving his touch all week. I am already an addict.
