by Theresa Kay
One of the shifters crashes into the wall behind me, and some of the books topple from their shelves. I’m running out of time.
My gaze lands on the window. The thing probably hasn’t been opened in years, but I don’t have any other options.
I slide the pictures, the letter, and the flower inside the blank journal and tuck it into the bodice of my dress. Or I try to anyway. The action that looks so simple in the movies leaves the top of the journal poking me in the chin because the form-fitting dress doesn’t allow the book to go any lower. I remove it from my bodice and hold the journal in my hand instead.
The window is one that slides to the side rather than up and down, so I grab the edge and push against it as hard as I can. The damn thing won’t open. I shove against it again, and this time it makes a cracking noise as the side of the window pulls away from the frame.
Just in time. Another crash cracks the door, the sigil destroyed.
“What the . . .” one of the shifters says. “Where did this door come from?”
That answers my question then. The sigil hid the door completely so apparently sigils can be used on inanimate objects, but figuring out how all that works will need to wait for another time. There are constant thumps coming from the direction of the door, and that wood didn’t look strong enough to hold up to shifter strength for long.
I slide the window open as far as it can get and swing my legs over the sill, my stomach twisting when I see how much open air is between my feet and the ground. I may be on the first floor, but this section of the house is on a slope, and the drop to the ground is at least ten feet.
A loud cracking noise echoes through the room, the door finally giving up.
Tucking the journal under my arm, I push off the windowsill and jump to the ground.
Pain flares up my leg as my stupid, stupid shoe rolls under me and my ankle twists in a direction it’s not meant to. There’s no time to baby the injury though, I have to get moving. Clutching the journal tightly, I press my back against the house directly under the window.
The shifters are moving around and talking quietly back and forth in the room I just escaped from. I can’t make out anything they’re saying, but they don’t sound as worked up as they were when they were breaking into my hiding spot. One of them moves closer to the window.
“Maybe it was just the wind,” says Zeke from right over my head.
I swallow and take deep, even breaths, trying to calm my racing pulse.
Teegan says something I can’t hear, and Zeke leans out over the windowsill.
“Nope. No one,” says Zeke as he pulls his head back inside.
There’s more shuffling around above me, but then all goes quiet. I wait to be sure they’re gone, then I hobble-hop along the outside of the house, praying I’m headed in the right direction. Well, at least in any direction that includes a door I can enter so I can find Tristan and get the hell out of here.
At best, those shifters are casing my grandparent’s house. At worst . . . I don’t know.
Either way, I need to talk to Connor. This particular piece of property isn’t on pack lands, but it is in his region. He needs to know there are shifters around who clearly aren’t planning on living peacefully, shifters who may or may not be responsible for deaths. With the way things are right now, if Zeke and Teegan and whoever else they’re working with were to get caught, if the witches had irrefutable proof that there were shifters working against them . . . It would be a disaster.
Moving as quickly as I can on my twisted ankle, I edge around to the back of the house where I find a large slate patio. Adrenaline and the pain in my ankle have burned away any lingering effect of the champagne and any warmth it provided, so I’m grateful for the heat lamps lining the edges. The space is most likely an overflow area for party goers, but there’s only one person out here, a dark-haired guy with a glass of champagne in his hand.
I smooth my hair away from my face and walk as not-limpingly as I can manage. “Hello,” I call out. “I was wondering if you could tell me where I could find Tristan St. James?”
The guy turns to face me, the glass of champagne at his lips, one dark eyebrow arched, and the corner of his mouth twisted with amusement. “I believe he’s inside somewhere.” He glances at the journal in my hand, and then his gaze goes down to my feet before coming up to meet mine. “Have you injured yourself? Do you need assistance?”
I let out a nervous laugh. “I twisted my ankle when I was walking the grounds.”
That sounds innocent enough, right?
“And your date, he let you do that alone?”
“He’s not my date,” I say quickly, almost automatically. “He’s a friend. A classmate.”
“Ah, Ravencrest.” He smiles, and his tongue darts out to catch a drop of champagne on the edge of his glass. “You might know my brother then.”
“Your brother?”
“I’m Louis Dumont.” He smiles again.
“Adrian’s brother?”
“Yes.” He smirks, and now I can definitely see the resemblance. “I’m the older and much more interesting Dumont.”
And there’s the Dumont ego.
I grin as I hold my hand out. “Nice to meet you. I’m Selene. Adrian’s a friend of mine.”
“You poor, poor thing,” says Louis, chuckling. “I suppose my dear brother has had much to say about me.”
“Well, he said you weren’t too awful, and I guess I can agree with that.”
Louis laughs, the sound putting me at ease as he takes my hand. “Glad I can live up to your expectations.” He pauses. “If you and my brother are such good friends, how did you end up here with St. James?”
“Well, Adrian was going to ask you to bring me here, but Tristan offered, so . . .”
He studies my face before nodding slowly. “I see.” He threads my arm through his bent elbow. “Let me escort you back to the party.”
“Sure,” I say, following him as he leads me in the direction of the house.
Five minutes later, I find myself in the noisy, crowded room from before. My nose wrinkles.
“Not a fan?” asks Louis, an amused smile on his lips.
“Not particularly,” I reply.
“I have just the thing then.” He releases my arm and strides over to a server, grabbing a glass of champagne off a passing tray and then turns to hand it to me.
I wave the drink away. “I think I’ve had enough of that.”
He gives me a mischievous grin and presses the glass into my hand. “This is different. Just try it. I’m certain you’ll enjoy it.”
He stares at me expectantly and, not wanting to insult him, I take a small sip. My eyes widen as the taste hits my tongue. This drink tastes much different than the earlier champagne, sweeter and thicker. The liquid flows down my throat, warming me all the way down to my toes. It tastes of honey . . .
I take another sip and before I know it, the glass is empty. My tongue flicks out to lick the excess from my lips. I lean toward him, suddenly unsteady on my feet. “What was that?”
“They call it fae wine. It’s how most everyone under the age of thirty makes it through these boring parties,” he says. “I mean, champagne is fine and all, but magic makes everything better.”
Magic? What does he mean by that? I blink at him.
“You looked like you enjoyed it,” says Louis. He moves closer to me, his dark eyes sparking with . . . something.
“Yes,” I say, my head starting to spin as heat fills my limbs. I grab Louis’s arm to hold myself steady.
“Are you okay?” he asks, placing a hand on my shoulder.
“Yes. I’m just . . .” I give my head a brisk shake. “That was . . . I wasn’t . . .”
My fingers dig into his arm, and he winces.
“Perhaps an entire glass was too much for your first time.” He studies me as I sway in place. “Ah well, nothing to be done about it now.” He places a hand on my lower back, the point of contact between his skin
and mine almost burning. “Why don’t we find St. James? Perhaps he can look after you.”
I nod, the motion making my head spin in the most delicious way. My lips still taste of honey as I smile, and the image of honey-colored eyes flashes through my mind.
Yes. Let’s find Tristan.
Louis leads me deeper into the room, and the crowd parts around us. Or at least it feels that way. My ankle no longer hurts, and I feel almost as if I’m walking on air, floating through the party on a cloud.
And there’s Tristan, standing in front of a large window, framed by the night sky. He’s alone, his back to me with his arms braced against the windowsill. His shoulders are tense, but as he hears us approach, he takes a deep breath, and the tension drains away. He turns, a smile plastered on his face, but with weariness in his golden-brown eyes. He catches sight of me, and those pools of honey brighten then darken again as they swing to Louis at my side. Tristan’s eyes narrow, and his mouth twists into a scowl.
I guess he’s not a fan of Louis.
And Louis knows it. At my side, Louis’s grin has gone from friendly to predatory, and his gentle guidance turns into a hard press against my lower back.
Tristan strides toward us. “Where have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
His hair is mussed, as if he’s been running his fingers through it, and I’m dying to smooth it away from his face. To touch him. I sway forward, but Louis’s hand catches my arm, holding me in place.
“Aren’t you going to thank me for finding your date, St. James?” Louis’s fingers dig into my arm. “Though it’s not like you to pick up my little brother’s cast offs.”
My cheeks are hot now. In fact my whole body is hot, and this dress . . .
“Go on then, pet.” Louis shoves me in Tristan’s direction.
I fall against Tristan, my cheek resting on his hard chest, my nose inhaling the most delicious scent. Of mint and pine and him. A noise makes its way from the back of my throat, and I nuzzle against him. He swallows. Audibly. And I watch the path of his throat, the desire to lick it nearly overwhelming.
Tristan inhales sharply, and his whole body goes rigid.
I giggle. I guess the desire to lick him was more overwhelming than not.
Tristan pulls me away from his chest, moving me to his side with a steadying hand on my waist.
I melt against him with another giggle then slide the journal into the pocket on the inside of his coat. “Hold this for me.”
Tristan ignores my actions, his attention solely on Louis. “What did you do, Dumont?”
Louis laughs, a bright sound so very similar to Adrian’s. “Only a little fae wine.”
“You didn’t . . .” Tristan’s gaze flicks down to me.
Louis shrugs then taps a finger against his chin. “I am curious though. How did you come to be here with a little nobody who didn’t even know what fae wine was?”
My brain ponders those words, and my mouth speaks up. “I’m not a nobody. I’m—”
“Selene, hush.” Tristan’s hand tightens on my waist.
“But—”
“Unless you’re prepared to have a very awkward conversation, you need to close your mouth and be quiet,” says Tristan into my ear, his breath a delicious heat against my skin.
I shiver and try to catch his mouth with mine.
Louis lets out a chuckle “You might want to take her elsewhere before she embarrasses herself.” He smirks, a vengeful look in his eyes. “Or yourself. You wouldn’t want Bernadette hearing about any misbehavior.”
I don’t know if I like Louis so much anymore. People who upset Tristan make me angry. I scowl at Louis and open my mouth to tell him so, but Tristan’s hand on my waist tightens.
“Please,” he says. “Let’s just go.” He pulls me away from Louis and out of the room into an empty hallway. Picking a door seemingly at random, he opens it and pushes me inside.
“A bedroom?” I ask.
He lets out a slow breath as he closes the door behind him and then rests his forehead against the wood for a couple seconds before whirling on me, the heat of anger sending sparks through his eyes. He’s magnificent.
“What the hell were you thinking?” he whisper yells.
So, maybe he’s not so magnificent when that angry fire is directed at me. I tilt my head to the side. “When?”
He throws his hands up in irritation. “I don’t know. Maybe when you wandered off on your own, maybe when you decided to talk to Louis Dumont of all people, or maybe when you took a drink from a stranger. Don’t you know anything?”
I wrinkle my nose and pat him on the cheek. “Louis was nice. Mostly.”
He scoffs. “Louis gave you a spelled cocktail.”
“Yes. And it was very good.”
He lets out a huff, yanks away from me, and paces to the other side of the room. “Do you know nothing? I would have thought that shifter cousin of yours you’re so fond of would have warned you about taking drinks from strangers.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s dangerous!” another whisper yell, his hands opening and closing at his sides.
“Shifters don’t drink.”
He rolls his eyes and curls his hands into fists as if holding himself back from grabbing my arms and shaking me. “You don’t take drinks from people you don’t know. Ever.”
“Why are you so mad at me?”
“Because I was worried, dammit!” He’s inches from me now, his chest rising and falling with harsh breaths, his jaw tense, and fire in his eyes.
Okay, maybe angry Tristan is hot too.
I dart forward, pecking him on the lips. When he doesn’t pull away, I lean forward again, this time working my lips against his. He’s still rigid, non-responsive. But his eyes close, and he takes a shaky breath through his nose. And he does not pull away.
“Tristan . . .” I nip at his lower lip and place a hand on his chest, slowly pushing him until his back hits the wall.
I press my mouth against the pulse in his throat, run my tongue over it, and inhale deeply. The smell of mint and pine and magic floods my senses as I lick a line up the side of his neck. He tilts his head back, a low groan vibrating in his throat. I take the sound as an invitation, pressing kisses to his neck and nibbling on his ear.
His eyes are closed, his hands at his sides, every bit of him under careful control. Control I want him to lose.
I grab his lapels and pull his mouth down to mine. A second. Two. Three. Four. That’s how long it takes for him to give in, for his lips to respond, for him to finally release his hands from the fists they were in and curl them around my waist. I push closer to him, my arms coming up around his neck as I run my tongue along the seam of his lips and then slip it inside his mouth.
Another pained noise rumbles in his chest, and his fingers tighten on my waist, tugging my lower body closer, closer, closer . . . He yanks his head away.
“I can’t . . .” he pants out.
“You can.” I press myself more firmly into his body, wanting as much contact as possible, wanting to relieve this fire in my blood, wanting him to be against every part of me. Magic sparks at my fingertips as the heat between us rises, and my veins buzz with power.
“Selene. Stop. Selene.” Tristan shoves me away. He’s panting for breath and looking at me like he has no idea who I am. Or maybe like he has no idea what I am. “Your eyes . . .” he whispers, his tone either fear or wonder. I can’t tell.
The force of the magic in my chest continues to grow and I panic, my breath coming in short bursts. This shouldn’t be happening. Nikiforov’s potion was supposed to take care of this problem, had been taking care of this problem.
“What do I do?” I ask, holding my shaking hands out in front of me.
He grabs my hands, his gaze locked on mine. “You need to calm down. It will be okay. All you have to do is let it go.”
“I don’t . . . I don’t . . .” The talisman. I fumble for the necklace with one hand. T
he original spell is supposed to dampen my powers, but they don’t feel very dampened, so I need to use the other, the one that helps me find what I’m looking for. Well, what I’m looking for is a way to safely get rid of this magic. I rub my thumb across the stone.
And then Tristan kisses me and everything around me fades until there’s only him. He cradles my face as he moves his lips against mine, as if I’m something precious that he can’t bear to part with, and I fall into the kiss. Something in my chest loosens, opens, and reaches for him, my magic wrapping around both of us as his lips work against mine. Power flares in my center, and the talisman around my neck grows hot as the wave of magic crests, falls, and then slowly drains away.
He gently brushes his thumbs along my cheeks, still kissing me even though that out of control feeling is gone and whatever lingering effects of that stupid drink have been burned off. Pulling back, he rests his forehead against mine, his breaths—and mine—coming in short, sharp bursts. His gaze meets mine and bright, pure gold flashes in his eyes, the moment so brief I’m not entirely certain it wasn’t some kind of reflection.
I let out a shaky laugh. “Well, that was . . .”
“Sorry. I wasn’t sure how else to get you to calm down,” he mumbles. He ruffles a hand through his already messy hair, and his cheeks redden.
So, he only kissed me to keep me from blowing something up? After I . . . my face suddenly feels like it’s on fire as my brain catches up enough to replay the last few minutes. I’ve never had a sense of absolute mortification make me want to vomit, but I suppose there’s a first time for everything. Though, this roiling nausea could also be another side effect of that stupid drink.
I cough, fighting back the embarrassment clogging my throat so I can speak. “Sorry. For accosting you. And, um, losing control like that.”
Tristan huffs out a quiet laugh. “I can’t complain, I suppose.” He pauses, as if debating. “Are you . . . sober now? I’ve never seen anyone have quite that strong of a reaction to the stuff, and it normally takes longer for the effects to wear off, but you seem a little more coherent.”
