My nostrils flared in anger, but he was not to be deterred. I was close to cracking under the pressure, the confession wavering on the edge of my tongue. And he knew it.
“Please?” he coaxed. “It’s going to bother me for the next century if I don’t know what it was that made you blush so furiously in the crypt?—”
“Fine!” I shouted before remembering that we were in the library. “I’ll tell you if you’ll stop haranguing me.” Christ, he was irritating. I huffed in frustration and then focused on composing myself long enough to speak. Casimir watched me, his amber eyes swimming with gleeful anticipation. This was going to be humiliating.
“I don’t know whether you’ve heard,” I began, my tone coming out entirely too hostile. “But the college is hosting the JewelBall Sunday night. The same night as the ritual.” I cleared my throat. Gods, why was I so nervous? “I was thinking…It might be a good idea for us to attend together—just to make sure the Order doesn’t try to do anything nefarious…If you’d like.” I finished, falling into an embarrassed silence. A blush crept up my neck and onto my face, and I prayed he couldn’t see it in the darkness.
Casimir watched me, an amused smirk playing on his lips. “Farrow,” he began, his eyes glinting. “Is this your attempt at asking me on a date?”
“I—No!” I cried, my cheeks flushing an ever deeper shade of crimson. “I didn’t—I wasn’t asking you out!” My mortification was approaching a near-lethal level. Suddenly, I wished I could spontaneously melt into a puddle and sink into the floor.
“A misunderstanding, then,” he said.
He was enjoying watching me squirm, and I could see him fighting the urge to laugh at my embarrassment, especially in contrast to my suggestion’s hostile delivery.
“I just meant—We could go together as friends—or not even as friends—as allies, if you prefer. We are working toward the same goal, after all, I mean…” I was trying to do damage control but only managed to dig myself deeper into the mire.
“And this would fall under your definition of keeping this professional?” he asked, and despite the way he furrowed his brow in confusion, I caught the thinly veiled amusement sparking in his expression. Oh, he was loving this.
I might have punched him if I wasn’t so deeply mortified. I took several calming breaths before speaking again.
“I only meant,” I began, forcing my voice to remain calm, “that I thought it would be wise to attend together so that we can keep an eye on things and make sure that Devereaux doesn’t—I don’t know—perform the bloodrite in the middle of the ballroom, or murder the orchestra or something.” I shot him an icy look. “You’re the one reading into things.”
I was fully backtracking now, heedless of my former promises to Gwen.
He nodded solemnly, forcing his mouth into an expression more appropriate for the bedside of a dying loved one. “Of course, you’re right,” he relented. “Forgive me, but at first it did sound like a date.” He pressed his lips together to hide his mirth.
I gave him the most withering glare I could muster. “You can be a real asshole sometimes, you know that, Wrayburn?” I grumbled, quoting his earlier accusation.
He grinned at the insult. “Always with that sharp tongue, Farrow. So, just to clarify—I will be attending as your ally, then, not as your date?”
I clenched my teeth together, my temper rising. “If you like.”
“Does attending as your ally involve the usual accoutrements?”
“Like what?” I asked, bewildered.
“You know…” He gave a shrug. “Come to your dorm with a bouquet of flowers, escort you to the ballroom…”
“No flowers,” I growled.
He shook his head regretfully. “Will you at least let me buy you a dress?”
“Absolutely not!”
“I suppose you could just wear the silk dress I sent you…”
I flushed angrily and snapped, “I’m returning that dress to Gwen to replace the one I ruined. It was hers in the first place, before I bled all over it.”
“So stubborn,” he complained, stalking closer. “Don’t tell me you’re planning to show up in jeans and a T-shirt?” His eyes fell to my baggy denims, and I glowered up at him.
“Obviously, I’m not wearing jeans to a fucking ball, Casimir.” I might not have the best fashion sense, but I wasn’t an idiot.
“My mistake,” he intoned.
He was close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his skin; his warmth felt like a gentle caress. My tattoo prickled as if aware of the proximity to its maker, and I shuddered at the way his name haunted me. I was reminded of the magic binding us every time I caught a glimpse of my tattoo in the mirror, or when the inevitable prickling returned, demanding I scratch it. It was as if his name was burrowing itself deeper into my skin with each passing day, bleeding into muscle and suffusing with bone, at once an irrevocable and permanent mark. Even after our veilbound bargain ended, I feared I would somehow still belong to him.
“Will there be dancing at this ball?” he asked.