Lena turned and sat on the edge of the tub, balancing somewhat. “You were all I had. I mean, there was Ingrid, but she didn’t know how it felt to…do what I did. You were the only thing I had, the only one who told me again and again I wasn’t bad. You convinced me that I was good—but look at what I’ve done. Would a good person, a good mage, have done this?” The tears fell more freely now. “Would an old god of death want a good bride, or would he want an evil one?”
Her hands shook as they gripped the tub. New, darker thoughts entered her head, too powerful and black to ignore. “What if this is my destiny? What if I’m fated to fall?” It was almost too much to bear.
A warm presence appeared beside her, arms so familiar and strong went to hold her as Bastian sat near her. Now, it was her turn to cry on him, her turn to cling to him, to hug him and want him never to leave her again. Her arms went under his, around his torso.
“I don’t want to fall,” she muttered quietly.
“You won’t,” Bastian’s voice was firm. “I will not let you, little one.” He stroked her hair. “I will not leave you again, Celena. You have my word.” His arms held onto her tighter, pressing her harder against him.
“I’m sorry,” she spoke, her forehead resting against his neck.
“Don’t be. If anyone should be sorry, it is I. I did not try my hardest to get back to you, and for that, I am the one who is sorry.” Bastian heaved a sigh, a hand moving to her face, his thumb wiping away the tears she’d cried. “Please, do not cry. You are far too beautiful to cry.”
That got her to chuckle. She leaned away from him, wiping the rest of her tears away. Lena had to hold it together better than that, especially if she had any hope of returning to the College and letting them know what had happened with the High Enchanter.
“I am not beautiful,” Lena said, out of habit. She knew she wasn’t the ugliest thing around, but growing up next to Ingrid, well, men’s eyes were always on her dark-haired friend. She was never jealous of it, but she was mindful and aware of it. She did not have the curves her friend had, nor the outgoing personality. She was always trapped in herself with a constant reminder of what she’d done to her parents lingering in the back of her head.
No man would want to be involved with a woman like her. At least, not until Vale and Tamlen.
Still…hearing Bastian call her beautiful wasn’t the worst thing in the world, regardless of how the man meant it.
“You are,” he whispered, staring hard at her. His eyes lifted to her hair. “Even though you’ve…experimented on your looks. I must say, I like your yellow hair better, and your blue eyes.” His gaze had fallen, though his stare did not meet hers. He instead stared a bit lower…
Lena felt herself blushing, but for what reason she didn’t know. She turned her head away from him, saying, “Ingrid had me test out a potion for her. She wants to sell it to nobles as a sort of party favor, I think. It’s been weeks, and the effects haven’t worn off—” Okay, she was kind of rambling, but she only rambled because she could not stop long enough to think and wonder if Bastian’s eyes had been on her mouth.
That was…
It was just…
There were no words for it.
A bit awkward, a whole lot of weird, and…perhaps, entirely welcome.
Bastian had tried his best to ignore it. He was not the type of man who gave in to such things. Somehow, though, after commenting on her hair and her eyes, he’d allowed his gaze to fall to a precarious position. He looked at her lips.
He most certainly should not have looked there.
He should not have even thought to look there, for though she was older, she was still his Celena, his little one. He could not think of her as anything but. To do so would be to…to face that everything had changed.
Everything had changed.
Celena was…not little anymore. She was grown in all the ways a woman was, and he felt drawn to her in all the ways he knew he should not be. Bastian watched as she turned her head, knowing he had gone too far by lowering his gaze to her lips. He spoke, “How many years has it been?”
Truly, it didn’t matter how long. No number of years passed would make the thoughts that had flitted through his mind okay. She was Celena, not a woman he could look to for such…physical things—comfort and desire.
“Over four,” she said. “Maybe almost five. It’s hard to keep track of time in the College.” She fiddled with her fingers, drawing his attention to her dull yellow robe. Bastian knew what the color meant—she was still an initiate. She hadn’t graduated to an apprentice yet, which she most definitely should have.
Had she purposefully been avoiding the exams because she was shattered by his death? Bastian felt even worse.
“Still an initiate, I see,” he commented, not knowing what else to say, even though there were plenty of feelings in his heart. “How is Ingrid? Other than the whole potion thing.” He watched as she stood, wandering to the wooden closet in the washroom’s corner. She yanked it open, searching for something. As she bent down, Bastian’s gaze once more went somewhere it most certainly should not.
Her backside.
Instead of being a wiry little girl, she was a full, curvy woman, even if she was on the thin side. Gods help him.
“Ingrid is fine. And yes, I’m still an initiate. Gregain offered to promote me to an apprentice, but I don’t think I’ll get to keep the rank, since he defected and used blood magic. I’m sure his last few edicts will be reversed, or at the very least looked into.” Celena returned to his side, clutching something to her stomach. He saw it was a straight razor. “Shall we get you cleaned up?” She gave him a smile, and it was a smile that warmed his entire body.
“As you wish,” he whispered.
He sat in silence as she worked on his face and hair. Bastian did his best not to stare at places he shouldn’t, not to linger too long on her face as she moved left and right. He held back from tensing when she ran a hand over his smooth cheek after she was finished. Hair, matted and dirty, sat in small piles on the floor, both from his face and his head. She’d cut his curly hair shorter, as best she could. She was done with him far too fast.
The fingers on his cheek moved down, grazing his chin as she said, “I’ve always adored the cleft in your chin.” Her voice, soft and soothing, entered his ears, flooding him with warmth. He didn’t want her to stop talking, to stop touching him.
What, in all the kingdoms, did that make him, then? Was he a sick individual for wanting, for craving her touch on his skin? Did it make him bad to want more? She was Celena, she was a child—but she wasn’t.
His mind was so awfully confused.
As Celena withdrew her hand from his chin, he grabbed her wrist. Such a small, flimsy wrist in his grip. Bastian did not let her retreat as he stepped closer; she did not try to pull away, her eyes—though they were a startling hue—sparkled with something he could not name. Her face stood at the level of his chest, her expression one he could not read.
Gods, was she beautiful. Utterly and completely beautiful. So pretty he forgot who she was, who he was. He was not Bastian LeFuer. She was not Celena, his little one. He was simply…hers. And he wanted, desperately so, her to be his.
Such thoughts were wrong, and yet he could not change them. He did not want to.
“Please forgive me,” Bastian whispered, meaning something else, something other than the way she took it.
“Of course,” she was too quick in saying, not comprehending his true meaning. “You weren’t in your right mind when you woke up.” She moved her other hand atop his, the one that still held onto her wrist. “I know you would never hurt me, Bastian.” The way his name sounded on her tongue, like honey. Sweet honey.
It took every ounce of his willpower to hold back, to not pull her closer and do something he could never take back. It was far more difficult than it should’ve been for him to say, “You think me a better man than I am.” Truly, she always had. Growing up, when she’d look a
t him, he knew she’d see him with stars in her eyes. She’d respected him, adored him, loved him for saving her.
And now look at him. How the mighty had fallen.
The truth, though, was that he was not a good man. He was a spy, a double-agent, a liar. He’d lied to King Philip, lied to Empress Namyra, lied to the enchanters who interviewed him about Celena all those years ago. The truth was that she’d always been dangerous, but he was too foolhardy to see it. The truth was he had been surrounded by lies for so long, he never knew when to tell the truth.
Bastian was not a good man. A good man would not think of doing the things he currently wished he could do to the woman near him. A good man would put distance between them, for though she had aged and he hadn’t, she was still his little one. A good man would not wage war within himself against doing such things.
A good man was simply that.
Good.
Bastian was not good.
Right now, actually, Bastian wanted to be very, very bad.
“No,” Celena spoke. “You are a good man. You are the best man I’ve ever met. Don’t doubt yourself, Bastian, because of me. No one knows what it was like for you, dying sick and alone. I don’t hold any of it against you.” She meant how he’d choked her.
And of course he was apologetic about that. The remorse he’d felt over it would haunt him for a long, long while. But it was not why Bastian asked for her forgiveness. Not at all. He was not a good man, and soon enough, she’d witness it for herself.
Celena would see he had lied to her, that she’d been lied to the entire time. Bastian didn’t die of the plague. He was buried alive, and the traumatic experience would follow him for the rest of his life—his second life, rather. However long it turned out to be.
All Bastian could do was give her a smile. What else could he say? What more could he do, short of pushing her against the wall and showing her just how good of a man he wasn’t? Certainly, he could prove her wrong within a few moments.
The hand holding her wrist moved slightly so that his thumb pressed against her inner palm. Her skin was so warm, so smooth and soft. What would the rest of her feel like? Such thoughts he should not entertain, but he did. He moved his other hand to her face, cupping her cheek. She did not recoil, did not pull away, even as his other thumb grazed her lips. He heard her exhale, and her eyes fluttered shut.
Oh, if Celena knew how badly he wanted her in this moment, Bastian knew she would take back what she’d said about him being a good man.
The hand cupping her face fell to her neck. The small neck he had wrapped both his hands around and tried to choke. Bastian ached inside, knowing he’d done so to her. Even if she was a necromancer, she was Celena. She was not evil, not vile or a criminal. Magic and her simply did not get along. One could not blame a child for using powers it held but did not understand.
His fingers grazed her collarbone, eliciting a breathy, “Bastian.”
Oh, his name sounded even better when it was spoken like that.
“You’ve grown into a beautiful woman, Celena,” he told her, stepping closer. He was measured in releasing her wrist, and she did not back away once she was free. She remained close to him, her eyes closed, her head tilted ever so slightly, as if welcoming him to her luscious, full lips. “I find myself,” he whispered, bending his neck, angling toward her, “weak in your presence.”
And then his mouth crashed down upon hers, and it was everything he wanted it to be.
Everything and more.
Lena knew it was happening before it happened. She also knew it shouldn’t happen, at least not yet, not until she was used to Bastian being back, until after she spoke with Vale and Tamlen about it—because Vale was right. She loved Bastian. Maybe she’d loved him ever since he showed up on her parents’ farm in that metallic, multi-colored armor with growling lions for shoulder plates and a lion’s head as a helmet.
But she didn’t stop it. In fact, she more than welcomed his lips on hers. He was Bastian. He was everything she’d ever wanted. The perfect man, a young chevalier in shining armor, her friend, her savior and her confidante. Before there was Ingrid, there was Bastian. There was always Bastian.
His lips were warm, igniting the embers of her soul. It was a kiss like none other. Every emotion, everything she could not say, was put behind the weight of her lips as she kissed him back. It was both wrong and right. It was everything. Her body melted into his the moment his arms snaked around her. Her chest heaved against his as her hands roamed up his arms and looped around his neck.
Really, once she’d given him a good shave—once he seemed more like the Bastian she knew—Lena knew she was done for. Lena knew Vale was right. She’d gone to his grave, sought out his corpse and risen him from the dead because she loved him, just as she always had. It was madness to say otherwise.
Lena was so very stupid. The only thing she seemed to be good at was making bad decisions, and surely embracing Bastian before speaking to Tamlen and Vale about it was a terribly bad decision.
They’d hate her, wouldn’t they? They’d think she threw herself at anyone who walked by. Lena hurt inside, thinking such thoughts, but the negativity was clouded and pushed away by the sun that was Bastian. By the man that made her entire body tingle by just holding it.
The way he held her so tightly—it was bliss. Pure, unadulterated bliss. Lena’s body felt light, feathery and useless. She could hardly stand; if he hadn’t been holding her, she knew she would’ve fallen. How he kissed her, slow and hesitant at first, as if he did not wish to break her. She showed him just how much she wanted it, too. Lena returned his affections hungrily, moaning deep within her throat as he must’ve realized he would not, could not harm her by kissing her harder.
And so he did. It was marvelous. The deep kiss made her tingly in places a kiss had never made her warm before. Lena wanted to rid herself of her clothes, but she couldn’t. Not yet.
Just as she parted her lips to allow his tongue to slip in, Bastian abruptly pulled away. His normally dark, tawny tanned skin was flushed, a pinkish hue in an otherwise earthy tone. His hazel eyes widened, and he shook his head. “Forgive me, forgive me.” He repeated it over and over, retreating backwards, nearly tripping himself on the tub.
“Bastian, wait,” Lena called out for him, not sure what went wrong. They were embracing for what felt like eternity, and then…he denied her? Why? How? It didn’t make sense, and she hurt from his sudden rejection. Had she done something wrong? Did he not like a woman who wasn’t afraid to take charge? Had she messed up?
“I need…to be alone,” Bastian muttered, turning his back to her as he climbed over the tub and flung himself out of the open square that was the washroom’s glassless window.
Lena rushed to the window, shouting, “Bastian!” Don’t go far, she willed, unable to lose him again. She did not want to command him using magic, but he was too erratic to let be completely. Did he feel her command? Did he know that she needed him?
He paused, stopping only to turn and look at her. His expression was heavy, as if the world was on his shoulders. He only gave her a nod before he spun and sprinted off, needing to be alone…for what? For air? To contemplate how kissing her had been a mistake?
Lena sunk down, laying in the empty, dirty tub. She felt rejected. She felt defeated. Sad. How foolish was she to feel so downtrodden after a spurned kiss. A kiss she didn’t even start—Bastian had initiated it, hadn’t he? Yes, they’d touched and hugged, but they had a history. She didn’t have any walls when it came to Bastian.
She looked up as Tamlen and Vale pushed their way into the washroom. Tamlen looked angry, though his anger lessened somewhat when he noticed Bastian was not in the room. Vale seemed mostly unperturbed, though he did furrow his brows.
“I thought I heard shouting,” Vale said, moving to her side. He offered her a hand, and she was slow to take it, standing and stepping out of the tub. “Where is Bastian? I didn’t see him leave.”
“He left t
hrough the window,” she said. “He said he needed time alone.” She felt emotions threatening to take her over once more, and she fought them, wrestled them down as best she could. Still, she found her nose running a bit.
Tamlen scowled. “Why would the bastard leave through the window?” He pushed past Vale. “Did he hurt you again?” From the look on his face, she knew he expected him to—and he hadn’t, not physically, anyway. Running away after kissing her like that…well, it hurt. But in a different way.
“We kissed,” she admitted, spotting the momentary hurt and annoyance on Tamlen’s face. Vale, on the other hand, barely reacted, as if he’d known. “We kissed, and he pulled away saying, forgive me. Then he ran away.”
“You kissed,” Tamlen muttered, frowning, while Vale said, “Only a fool would run away after kissing you.”
Lena shook her head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Or betray you. I just…I missed him so much. He was all I thought about growing up. He was like family to me—”
“Clearly,” Tamlen muttered under his breath, “not exactly like family.”
“—and I…” Lena turned to Vale, who surveyed her with a quiet wisdom. “You’re right, Vale. I think I love him.” She winced at the string of swearwords Tamlen let loose, focusing instead on the other man’s pensiveness. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “I don’t know what to do to fix this.”
Truly, she’d never been in this situation before. Never had one boyfriend, let alone two. Never had feelings for another man who wasn’t in her pair of men…never realized before this moment how much she cared for Bastian.
Vale tilted his head. “Fix what? We are not broken, are we?”
“A little enraged,” Tamlen admitted, “but not broken.”
Blood and Sorcery: A Reverse Harem Fantasy (Unfortunate Magic Book 2) Page 3
