“So am I.”
She shakes her head and smiles, then picks up a book from the coffee table, and I recognize it as the one Viola took from her house in Albion; Olivia’s favorite book of fairy tales. “I found this on the study desk and figured Viola would want it closer.”
My sister sits on the sofa, sets the book at her side, and pats the empty seat next to her. I walk over with a sigh, sinking into the softness of the velvet. Lyria leans her head against my arm like she used to do in the early days after Mom’s death. “Mom would’ve loved her. They’d probably spend hours in the garden together.”
“You think?”
She hums quietly. It’s all in the words she doesn’t say, the quiet permission to lean into these feelings that have become my reason to breathe. “Tomorrow isn’t promised, Sy,” she murmurs.
I nod against her head. We sit in silence, the soft crackling fire fooling us into a moment of normalcy. Then Lyria stands and picks up her bag. “If I solve Mom’s theory—as much as I hate to admit it, with Lorne’s help— Viola might have her years back.” She smiles. It’s ripe with promises of a future I would die for. I know not to hope in our world, but tonight I will.
“What would I do without you?”
“Not much, I’m afraid.” She winks, then she’s out the door.
The hot water scalds my skin, pooling at my feet in a dark, red puddle, but it does nothing to quell my fears. Once Delaney realizes she has the wrong cuff, shewillcome back for Viola. Even if she sealed her death magic— that’s hardly an option because I wouldneverlet her seal her magic, but even if she did—Delaney’s lust for revenge would still hunt her down. I let out a heavy exhale. Fear is a dangerous thing. It’s all-encompassing, suffocating, and demanding all at once.
I turn off the water, dry myself, and pull the first pair of pajama pants I find in Beau’s drawers. Coincidentally, they are mine. Actually, most of the clothes in this drawer are mine. I make a mental note to gift my brother a whole new wardrobe for the Pine Festival.
The night is quiet, the stars twinkling low in the sky. It’s treacherous, how close they appear, like the calm that reigns over Gorhail right now. As I stare at the sky, my sister’s words swirl at the forefront of my mind. She’s right. Tomorrow isn’t promised.
I turn on my heels, and head straight toward the inner door linking my and Beau’s rooms. My fist hovers over the wooden panel, but I don’t knock. I lower my hand; I can’t do this. I can’t feed into the delusion of a happy ending and rope Viola along. Huffing out a long sigh, I prepare to turn around, but a soft click stops me.
“Sylas.” Viola stands in the doorway wearing one of my shirts, which falls to her upper thigh. My eyes trail the length of her legs, up the curve of her hips, and the dip in her waist. Around her arm, Scar rests peacefully, like she’s always belonged there.
My throat knots, and I nod a second too long.
Viola’s tongue runs over her bottom lip, and… Ireallycannot be here right now.
“I,” she says, and I become a statue. Her voice is like a siren’s song, luring me to her. I’m fighting every muscle in my body not to press my hands into her waist and devour every inch of her full lips.
“It’s late, Viola.” My voice comes out low and hoarse. I don’t know if I’m trying to convince her or myself. Her gaze meets mine, and I can no longer think straight.
“How do you bond?” she asks.
Did I mishear?
“How do Aspieri bond?” she repeats, the sharp edges of her voice demanding an answer.
Walk away. Walk away, my head screams at me.
“May I…” I swallow hard. My tongue needs to be ripped out. “May I come in?”
Idiot.
“It’s your room—you don’t need my permission.” She leads me through the short hallway, under the glares of my ancestors.Fool, their portraits seem to say.You cannot be considering bonding the Imortalis to a Mortemagi.
I wait by my reading nook as Viola walks to the nightstand. The dark fabric of my shirt sways against her skin when she bends to retrieve her cuff. She must have gotten her relics back from the safe while I was in the shower.
Like a guest in my own room, I settle in the chair facing away from her, reaching for the nearest book from the coffee table. I flip to a random page, burying my face into it. I’m afraid to meet her eyes, afraid that if I take one more look at her lips, I will never leave.
“It’s upside down.” She gestures at the book, a smile playing on her gorgeous lips. She sits in the chair closest to me, her cuff in her right hand. My eyes fall to her exposed thighs, and I avert them immediately.
“Different mages bond differently,” I begin as I slide the book onto the low glass table. I ramble about how Arkani bond with tattoos, Mortemagi with intent, and Aspieri with their relic’s venom. I don’t leave a moment for questions, and I move on to how interclass bonding is a combination of both.
“I’m not asking for a history lesson, Sylas. How dowebond?”
I sink farther in my chair, wishing it would swallow me. She wants to bond withme. She is part Mortemagi. Bonding with me lets her pull magic from all three of my aspiers, from Raiek. Perhaps it’d let her live longer. If it does, the moment she masters her magic, the world will be at her mercy. But now, instead of running away, I want to be at her side. What does that say about me—about my loyalty to my House?