I blurted, “What are you doing here?”
He arched a brow at the question. “Training, remember?”
“I… uh, I need a few minutes,” I said, feeling my face go hot as he ran his gaze over my disheveled appearance. I’d thrown on a pair of jeans and an old T-shirt, and my hair, still wet from the shower, fell in tangled ringlets down my back. I shivered in the doorway.
Casimir smiled crookedly. “I can see that.” He was, it seemed, entirely unaffected by my embarrassment.
I shut the door behind him as he slid past me and sank into my chair. I tried to ignore him as I continued readying myself. I pulledon a dove-gray sweater, wool socks, and laced up my leather boots. I considered adding a necklace to the ensemble but then thought better of it. I felt Casimir’s eyes on me as I checked that my dagger was still sheathed in my pocket.
“Well? Are you going to tell me what the bad news is?” I asked, the question coming out more harshly than I intended.
His smirk grew. “The Prescott brat is pressing charges. He’s gone to his daddy all in a tizzy over his broken hand.”
My bag fell to the floor. “He’swhat?” I said, aghast.
Casimir shrugged. “It’s a slight hiccup. First offenses are only a misdemeanor.”
From the haughty smirk plastered on his face, I had a very hard time believing this was his first offense.
“Can’t you just—I don’t know, make it go away?” I said, exasperated.
Casimir’s expression turned positively wicked. “Farrow, are you asking me to glamour him? Or worse, the judge?” He gave a mock gasp of outrage. “If only I had a necklace of pearls to clutch?—”
“Stop being an ass,” I snapped. “You know what? Don’t glamour him. See if I care when Monty’s daddy’s lawyers throw you into the penitentiary.”
“If I’m locked up,” he took a step toward me, “who’s going to come to your dormitory and make you blush?”
I turned away so that he wouldn’t see my cheeks redden further. “I understand it’s your prerogative to be an impossible prick,” I began, “but can’t you wait til I’ve had coffee? It’s barely eight in the morning.”
Something darkly flirtatious shadowed his expression. Something dangerous, violent, and not at all sweet.
“Admit it. You want me to glamour him,” he said.
I fought the urge to walk across the room and kick him in the shin. “No, I don’t.”
He arched a brow in challenge. “You know he deserved it, Farrow. I dare say you even enjoyed watching him writhe in pain.”
“I did not!” I replied, affronted.
Casimir went on, “You should’ve heard his screams when I broke the little bones in his hand…” He sighed wistfully.
“You’re despicable!” I remonstrated.
He gave a lazy shrug, as if discussing the depths of his despicableness was entirely pointless. “So?” he prompted. “What do you want me to do about dear Monty?”
I glared at him for a long moment. “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” I cried, throwing up my hands. “Fine. Casimir, will you please do yourself a favor and glamour the other raging, arrogant pain in my ass to forget that you broke his hand so you don’t end up in prison?”
Amusement sparked briefly in his eyes. “Done,” he agreed.
“Great,” I growled, my tone dripping with sarcasm.
Neither of us spoke for a moment, until he commented, “I’ve never seen your room. It’s more… eclectic than I expected.”
I swung my gaze over the chaotic assortment of plants, books, and trinkets scattered across Gwen’s bookshelf and desk, clashing gloriously with the cacophony of fuzzy pink and blue pillows tossed across her bed.
I snorted. “Yeah, well, Gwen and I are staunchly opposed to minimalism as a design concept.”
“Clearly,” he said, eyes glittering. “Well, I like your side of the room better, in any case.” He stood, stretching his arms. “So, are you ready to train?”