Circle of Ashes (Wish Quartet Book 2)

by Elise Kova

  “I preferred to be their prince for just that reason. It seemed much. . . simpler.” His eyes wandered to the window.

  She suddenly wanted to change the topic to something else, anything other than that time. It sparked a sort of yearning in her that Jo didn’t want. “So how does a demigod like you end up in a place like this?”

  Snow stared at her for several breaths, so long that Jo almost began to feel awkward. It was expectant, like he was waiting for something. But Jo didn’t know what it was, and he just shook his head. “It all started with a dangerous magic, a split goddess, and the bravery of someone I loved.”

  All at once, Jo’s original purpose flooded her senses, the opportunity for answers standing barely inches away.

  Just one straight answer, Jo willed herself, though it hardly settled the frantic beat of her heart or the heat steadily pooling in her chest, her stomach, lower. Just get him to give you one straight answer about something important. The rest would come if she could get that out, surely. She could be satisfied for a while if she got something from him, anything.

  “Snow,” Jo began, more firmly. “What magic? Whose?”

  She should have expected it, considering her track record with the infuriating man, but it still settled sour and unexpected in the pit of her stomach when Snow’s expression went blank. He took a step back.

  “That’s enough storytelling for one day, I believe,” Snow said, his voice cold. Jo couldn’t help but bristle.

  With a huff, she took a step forward, regaining the distance he’d put between them in a single step. “You can’t keep doing this.” She frowned, putting her hands on her hips and looking up at him with what she hoped was an intimidating glare. “You can’t keep opening up just to push me away when I get too close. Or, I don’t know, just take an interest in you like a normal friend, at the very least. This back-and-forth game of emotions—it’s not fair to you, and it sure as hell isn’t fair to me.”

  Though Jo saw his resolve crumbling just slightly at the corners, Snow refused to back down. “It would be best if you left.”

  “There!” Jo snapped, digging a finger into his chest. “Right there! If you don’t want me around, then why let me in at all?”

  All at once, the atmosphere in the room shifted, a heavy but not uncomfortable weight settling between them. Snow’s expression hardened to the point that it cracked, then softened, and his eyes scanned her expression. Slowly, slow enough that Jo could have backed away if she wanted to, Snow raised a hand to her face.

  The touch was light, barely there, but it set Jo’s cheeks aflame, her heart nearly leaping into her throat. His thumb rubbed a single line against her cheekbone, the tips of his fingers resting against her neck. It reminded her vaguely of how he’d touched her in the Ranger compound. But this. . . this was different. There was a familiarity to it, a boldness, a (dare she think it) slightly sensual nature to such a light caress. Jo couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like when—if—he ever actually did touch her.

  His words were barely more than a whisper. “It’s been so long.” It had been, since he’d last touched her. “I wanted to have a solution for you this time, one that would work.”

  “This time?” Jo whispered back, leaning into his touch. “A solution for what?”

  Somewhere deep in the back of her mind, she really wanted to know the answer. But all she could seem to focus on currently was the feel of his fingers, the warmth of his body. She could smell a hint of him in the air between them, crisp like rain or a fresh bar of soap, but as he leaned in closer, there was something like cloves resting subtly underneath. She could drown in his presence, she realized, and while the thought should have scared her, all it made her want to do was lean in the rest of the way, press her lips to his, and—

  All at once, his presence was gone, and when she blinked away the haze of desire, it was to find him back by the now-open door. At first, he said nothing, simply stood there waiting for her to leave, and while she wanted to be angry, more than anything else she was just. . . hurt.

  “Why did you stop?” she asked, because she couldn’t help herself. “You want it, too. . . don’t you?” She didn’t know if she wanted to hear the answer to this, not when her heart already felt so dangerously invested, but once it was out in the open, there was nothing to be done. “You feel it. I know you do, you must.”

  At this, Snow frowned, his grip on the door handle visibly tightening. “Don’t get involved with me. Not. . . Not now. It’s too dangerous. I need more time. Especially at present.”

  The confusion and hurt from before began to morph once again into anger. “What does that mean? What does any of the cryptic shit you say actually mean?”

  “I’ll do my best to explain things when I can. For now, trust me, the less you know, the better,” he said softly, mostly to himself, as if he was the one who needed convincing. Snow blinked, a slow fall and rise of his eyelids, then straightened, as if catching himself in a spot he hadn’t ever intended to be—all traces of his previously open demeanor completely gone. “The wish has yet to be completed. It would probably be best for you to use your time more wisely.”

  The sincerity in his first comment evaporated at once amid the heat of Jo’s anger. “Yeah, all right.” She sighed, stalking past him and back into the hall, though not without taking one last glimpse at his face. “I get it, King Snow—or is your proper title ‘demigod’ now? Either way, sorry to take up your precious time.”

  She wasn’t sure, but for a split second, she could have sworn he looked upset to see her go.

  Chapter 19

  Needs and Brodies

  JO THREW HER watch on the shelf outside one of the recreation rooms and stormed in.

  She expected to find her usual hacker set-up. But what Takako had said about the rooms (now seemingly forever ago) held true—the rooms gave what was needed at the time. Or, at least it seemed to be trying. Whatever magic the rooms used to pick up on specific needs, it was obviously trying to provide what it thought might help Jo take the edge off.

  Unfortunately, Jo had never really been one for bondage.

  So, after taking a moment to stare at the rather outlandish sex-dungeon inside, Jo walked back into the hallway and slowly closed the door. She might have needed to let off some steam, but maybe not quite in the way the room was offering. Still, she opted for giving it another chance, inching the door back open and peeking inside.

  Jo choked on an inhale at the sight before her. This time, instead of a BDSM lair, it was an almost perfect replica of Snow’s room. So eerily similar that Jo felt inclined to glance down the hall and prove to herself she hadn’t blacked out and wandered back to Snow’s door instead. She hadn’t.

  “No thank you,” she insisted (though she didn’t know if it was more to herself or the room), pulling the door shut and taking a deep breath. “I’ll give you one more chance. Something simple, please.” Jo opened the door. “Much better.”

  It was the same replica of her apartment bedroom she’d first woken up in when she came to the Society. There was the hamper of dirty clothes, the wallpaper of posters and out-of-date calendars. And—what she needed most—a familiar bed.

  At once, Jo jumped onto the sheets and let out a mighty groan of frustration. She felt like a kid throwing a temper tantrum. Basically, that was what she was. But it was a cathartic outlet for her frustrations; better than letting them stew and risk taking them out on someone else in the Society.

  Her initial agony unleashed, Jo gave a hefty sigh.

  “Why?” she asked to the silence in the room. “Why am I like this?”

  There was a fire in her stomach that shed light on a vacant ache between her thighs. Jo closed her eyes, letting a hand trail down her chest, absently rubbing against her stomach.

  He’d been so close; the smell of cloves still lingered on each soft inhale. Whether it actually clung to her clothes or was instead a psychosomatic memory, she didn’t know. What she did know what that
all he did was touch her, the lightest and simplest of gestures, and she’d nearly drowned. And she wanted to, she realized. She wanted to drown in him, wanted to feel the crash of his waves beneath her skin and further, deep, deep within.

  She wanted him to fill her completely.

  She wanted him to erode away the haze of confusion that surrounded them and finally relinquish the truth.

  Without really giving it much thought, Jo slipped a hand beneath the waistband of her jeans. Her breath caught in her throat as her fingertips skimmed the line of her underwear, a teasing implication. The frustration from earlier was still palpable, her fingers coming away damp when she reached further between her thighs.

  Part of her tried not to think about Snow, desperately reaching for any other fantasy, any other face that might get her to where she wanted to be. But another part of her knew it was pointless. When she finally gave in to the sensation she’d been longing for, relaxed into the rhythmic friction she’d been craving, it was with an unavoidable fantasy behind her eyes.

  Snow’s hands on her bare skin, his lips grazing her jaw, her collarbone, her chest. His body pressed against hers, as hot and needy as she was, grasping for the same release.

  Snow’s tongue instead of her fingers.

  She wanted to breathe nothing but that damned scent of cloves.

  It didn’t take long before Jo was arching off the comforter, mouth slack with panting breaths and barely concealed moans. When she finally slumped, heart clamoring up into her throat and hammering away, it was with an even more frustrating thought: despite the urge that had hurried her hand, she still felt supremely unsatisfied. In fact, the aftermath mostly just left her feeling slightly hollow, her hands cold even as her face grew hot. She was either very sick, or she might be—

  Jo groaned again, a sound which turned into a loud proclamation of, “No!”

  She refused. Feelings of any sort beyond the carnal would only complicate everything. Especially feelings for the one member of the Society who had the emotional aptitude of a toddler. Then again, she wasn’t really in a position to judge someone else on their ability to express emotions.

  What she needed was to scratch this itch and be done with it—that’s all it was, she insisted, an itch. Her head would clear and she’d be back to normal, of that Jo was certain. But Snow refused to help and her own attempts hadn’t done the trick, so that left one last option. Pulling herself up, Jo yanked open the door, grabbed her watch, and went in search of a worthy distraction.

  Hands in the pockets of her hoodie, Jo descended the stairs to the Four-Way. Her feet moved on instinct, pulling her toward the common area. She could hear the sound of Takako’s voice echoing towards her and Jo’s heart skipped a beat. As if by some act of kismet, she and Wayne were back. Her feet picked up speed, and Jo sprinted into the living room to find the Society—sans Pan and Snow—all gathered around the large island in the kitchen.

  Takako and Wayne stood, while the other three men sat.

  “. . . they seemed receptive to the machine,” Takako was reporting to Samson. “There was little issue once it was hooked up and they saw it working.”

  Jo’s eyes switched from one member of her team to the next. Wayne stood, hands in his pockets, looking every inch the epitome of self-satisfied smugness. He was in more modern clothes than he usually wore, no doubt fresh off his mission to Japan. It was a simple black suit, clean-cut as usual, but with a 2057 flare—no pocket square, pencil-thin tie, his usually gaudy cufflinks replaced by simple silver ones that arced over the hem of the cuffs.

  He looked. . . good. Really good. Good enough to satisfy the needs of any hot-blooded female.

  She couldn’t really say if what she was about to do was necessarily a positive decision, but it was certainly better than sulking.

  Without a word, Jo crossed the room in wide steps.

  “. . . preliminary tests came back—oh, hello, Jo.” Takako was the first to notice her.

  Jo gave the woman a nod, hoping things didn’t come off as too rude. She was on a mission, and didn’t have time for anything else. This was the distraction from the wish (among other things) that she’d needed.

  “Hey, dollface, wh—” Wayne was cut off with a soft “oof” as Jo grabbed him by the wrist, tugging him away from the room. “I guess the lady needs a word with me,” he called over his shoulder.

  Jo didn’t even listen for any comment or reactions. She was too focused on the one thing that was certain to finally clear her head.

  “Everything jazzy?” Wayne asked.

  No, everything wasn’t. Her stomach was in knots, her head hurt, her chest ached, and all she wanted was relief.

  Jo opened the door to Wayne’s room and pulled the man inside.

  A penthouse suite greeted her, if the lavish furniture, expensive layout, and floor-to-ceiling panoramic view of New York City were any indication. A lush, tan carpet spread the length of the floor from wall to wall, disrupted only by the glass stairway that swirled up from its center to a second story. Leather couches in a deep maroon took up the corner with subtle but well-placed lamps on either side.

  Jo didn’t have much time to take in anything further. Because for all its luxury, the space felt lived in—comfortable, even. And comfortable was something Jo had every intention of making herself.

  The door barely had a moment to shut before she had him pressed against it.

  To Wayne’s credit, he didn’t startle. His hands fell on her waist, thumbs stroking up her stomach, fingertips already indenting her skin. His eyes searched her thoughtfully, the beginning of a crease forming at his brow and chasing away the drunkenness that had already begun to weigh on his eyelids.

  “What is it, doll?” he asked, and Jo willed herself to focus on the part of his voice already dipping thick and low. The genuine concern lingering beneath, she ignored vehemently.

  Instead, she pressed their hips together, relished the feel of the growing firmness in his pants, and took a deep breath.

  He smelled so different.

  Jo shook her head in a futile attempt to dislodge the scent of crispness and cloves from her nose. “Just shut up and kiss me.”

  But when Jo leaned in, eyes already fluttering closed, she wasn’t met with hungry lips and panting breaths. Instead, she was brought up short by a hand pressed firm and unrelenting into the meat of her shoulder. Jo looked up at Wayne in confusion, startling at the seriousness that had now fully overtaken the man’s expression.

  “Wayne?”

  For a long moment, Wayne only seemed to scan her face, looking for something that Jo couldn’t even begin to place. His frown persisted, lips drawn in a hard line that was utterly uncomplimentary to his usually kind expressions. It drew on long enough that Jo began to feel self-conscious, pulling herself away from his now half-hearted embrace to hug her arms to her chest.

  The motion seemed to snap Wayne out of whatever analysis he’d been conducting, an exasperated sigh falling from his lips.

  “Look, doll,” he said eventually, reaching out to pull one of her hands away from her chest and linking his fingers with hers. He gave them a squeeze, smiling in a way that somehow managed to be both fond and also pitying. It made Jo’s heart warm even as her hackles rose. “I’d like to think we’re both still on the same page here, but you might have the wrong idea.”

  Jo’s chest squeezed painfully, suddenly not wanting to hear another word. This wasn’t what she’d come here for, and he knew that. So then why wouldn’t he just give her what she needed?

  “We are on the same page,” Jo said, and if the scoff at the end of her words sounded less than believable, Wayne didn’t comment. He did, however, take a step back the moment she went in for another kiss. Even if he didn’t let go of her hand, something in Jo still fractured a bit.

  “We covered this before,” Wayne explained, rubbing the inside of her wrist with his thumb. The motion soothed her, though only enough to hear him out instead of running away in embarrassm
ent at the feeling of being so utterly rejected. “I’m here for you if you want to have fun. But this. . . this doesn’t feel fun. There’s more than that here. I don’t know what’s on your mind right now, doll, but I don’t touch broads that can’t even see me when they look at me.”

  “I can see you right now.” You enigmatic ass, Jo wanted to add, but didn’t for the sake of her cause.

  “No, you’re looking, doll. But you’re seeing something else.” He gave a small shake of his head. “I don’t touch brodies like you with a ten-foot pole.”

  Jo’s heart jumped into her throat, words spilling from her mouth like vomit as she scrambled into the defensive. “I don’t know what you’re— There’s not— What did you just call me?”

  At this, Wayne had the audacity to laugh, using his free hand to run fingers through her long, dark hair. When he rested his palm against her cheek, she couldn’t help but lean into it, keeping her eyes locked with his in determination.

  “A brodie is a mistake, doll face,” he said, letting go of her hand only to wrap his arms around her waist and pull her in closer. “And whatever it is that’s got you all caught up? If I had to put a name to it, I’d say it definitely screams ‘brodie’.”

  The genuine look of sympathy finally had her breaking eye contact. Jo’s breath caught, wavering slightly. Sure, she knew that a quick release, however satisfying, wasn’t really what she was looking for, but she didn’t know what else she could do.

  Jo took a breath, feeling Wayne’s body shift alongside hers. It felt intimate but casual, like a hug from a very close friend. She didn’t know if it made her want to laugh and lean in or go back to the recreation room for another tantrum.

  “I’m more than happy to help you,” Wayne said suddenly, low and sincere. “But I don’t think you want my help.”

  “Try me,” Jo challenged reflexively, feeling her face heat when Wayne only smirked.

  “My advice?” He was right, they weren’t on the same page. Because the help she wanted did not come in the form of ominous advice. “You’re chasing a fool’s yearning. Doll, you and I? We’re friends, thick as thieves, have been—on my side at least—from the moment you woke up. We work that way. And yes, we fell into bed once, still enjoy a good flirt. But all of that works because we know it’s casual and not what defines us. It’s auxiliary, in no way an expression of something deeper.”