I could hear the smile in his voice. He began tracing slow circles on my bare shoulder, making me shiver. He hadn’t replaced the blankets.
Refusing to leave the sanctuary of my pillow, I grunted out a meek protest, but it came out sounding muffled and devoid of real vitriol. I couldn’t move, couldn’t stop shivering at the feel of his finger tracing lazy circles on my shoulder and along my back.
“Casimir, you’re just so arrogant and conceited,” he repeated my earlier insults. “Casimir, you’re an asshole.”
“Technically, I never called you an asshole,” I mumbled into the pillow.
Laughing softly at my vitriol, Casimir continued to trace shapes into my back. “No,” he conceded. “But I can tell you’ve wanted to.”
Well, he had me there.
After a moment, I lifted my head to meet his gaze. Of course, he looked as infuriatingly flawless as ever, whereas I must look as awful as I felt, and likely worse. He raised a brow at my expression as he handed me a warm, moist washcloth. It felt like heaven against my skin, but when I pulled the cloth away, it was mottled with streaks of black eyeliner. The remnants of last night’s makeup. I was still wearing Gwen’s silk dress, and my heart sank as I examined the splotches of red staining the fabric. Like someone had run their bloody fingers all over the silk. My blood, my fingers. I’d ruined her dress.
“Where the hell am I?” I asked.
“My house.”
I squinted around the room. It was a loft, and a surprisingly cozy one at that. Arched white ceilings were accented by warm stone walls and an expanse of round windows with a view to the forest. A winding ivory ladder led to the living room, which was tastefully furnished with a leather couch and armchairs. Next to the massive bed stood a towering bookshelf, built into a windowless section of wall. Below the loft, various plants, books, and vials of potions were strewn across sturdy wooden shelves. The fire had dwindled so that only a few embers illuminated the blackened hearth.
“I thought sophomores weren’t allowed to live off campus,” I said pointedly.
Casimir offered me a crooked smile. “They made an exception for me.”
My gaze narrowed on him like a knife. Ouverham made exceptions for exactly no one. He was definitely lying.
I groaned again, glancing up to see Casimir regarding me warily.
“Are you going to puke again?” he asked.
“No,” I replied, my voice cracking in my throat. “Though the sight of you this early in the morning is enough to make me sick.”
“You do look terrible,” he agreed.
I met his comment with a glare and a sarcastic, “Thanks.”
Casimir’s eyes flashed in amusement. “Would you rather I lie and tell you how positively lovely you look this morning?” he asked wryly. “And here I was, thinking honesty was so important to you.” He paused, still leaning over me. “Tell me, Farrow. Does the sight of me truly turn your stomach?”
The stomach in question lurched in response. “Sometimes,” I admitted. It wasn’t a lie. His stare frequently stripped me bare and peeled me open; his glamours made me nauseous, and his touch threw my heart rate into tachycardia.
“And right now?” he prompted, his eyes narrowing as a cruel smirk twisted his mouth. “How do you feel?”
“Wretched,” I spat.
His answering smile was vicious, like he knew whatever was wrong with me was incurable. But then his gaze fell on my bandaged shoulder, and the smile faded.
“What happened last night?” he asked. “One minute you’re looking for August, and the next—I find you bleeding and drugged out of your mind on the floor of the foyer.”
“Zhara,” I mumbled. In hindsight, the whole ordeal was downright embarrassing. I should’ve known it wasn’t August as soon as I noticed his clothes and that strange, manic look in his eye.
Bits and pieces of the night began to return to me like gradual ripples in the shallow, murky tides of my memory. I closedmy eyes, trying to see through the fog. It was difficult to decipher which memories were real and which were the result of wine-induced delusion. The stains of blood on my dress and the pain in my shoulder were undeniable, as was the memory of the smell of iron and the cold edge of Zhara’s dagger pressed against my throat.
I didn’t want to consider how much of a fool I’d made of myself last night. I didn’t want to remember the blood on my fingers, the feel of cold tile beneath my cheek, or the warmth of Casimir’s lips on mine?—
Wait—his lips? Did that actually happen? No, I must’ve hallucinated it. A side effect of that terribly wonderful poison.
“How long have I been out?” I asked a little shakily, running my fingers through my knotted hair to assess the damage.
“Nearly two days.”