Darkly Sweet

by Juliann Whicker

  It took me a long time to realize he’d asked me a question as he walked into the common room, filling up the space with his dominant energy. Zach paled when he looked at Drake. The look on Zach’s face, the memory of him dangling like an ornament before Drake beat the crap out of him spurred me to action.

  I leapt between Zach and Drake, my arms outspread like a vulture about to strike.

  Not a vulture. I wasn’t going to wait for Drake to die before I struck. “What are you doing here?”

  My voice came out wrong. I expected angry, fierce, but instead it was breathy and high-pitched. Ew. Drake stared at me, withering me with that look because I was an idiot to think that he’d wear that jacket to beat the crap out of someone. I lowered my arms

  and edged away from Drake. He smelled good enough that I got confused about whether I wanted to bite him or light him on fire.

  “That depends on the tea.” His green eyes glinted as he smiled, his lips curling slowly, decadently while my stomach tightened for no rational reason.

  Macaroons. Cupcakes. Cheesecake. I fixed the smile on my face and forced myself to focus. I had to be cute and nice, even if my heart pounded and adrenaline rushed through my body in fight or flight response, mostly fight. “The tea is Orange Bergamot.

  It’s weird. Viney and Zach are going to play video games, so no tea party.”

  He glanced at Zach, arching an eyebrow before he shrugged. “I was going to have Zach teach me a guitar lesson. If he’s going to be busy, then I’m willing to be the perfect guest at your little tea party.”

  I stared at him, at the way he gazed back at me evenly, like he was challenging me to not freak out and smash his face against a table. He’d noticed me leaping between him and Zach. He thought it was funny, called my tea party ‘little’ like I was a five-year-old or something. I’d left the door of my room open. While I tried to think of some reason he couldn’t possibly come to my ‘little’ tea party, he walked languidly towards the door, like no girl in her right mind would ever turn down anything he suggested. Luckily for me, I wasn’t in my right mind, but I didn’t want Zach to know that.

  No. Drake couldn’t come to the party I’d prepped so carefully for the guy I was going to marry, but I couldn’t just scream at him to get out and never come back. “Wait…

  You’re not wearing a hat. Your jacket is lovely, but what kind of tea party would it be if the gentlemen didn’t wear hats?”

  He smiled slightly as I walked over to him. He ran his fingers over the red ruffle on my bodice, a simple quick movement that completely paralyzed me.

  His voice was low, mesmerizing while he leaned close, breath fanning across my parted lips. “I’m sure someone who created something this elaborate can make me a hat without any effort.”

  My heart pounded and black cherry scent overwhelmed everything. I backed away from him, stumbling into my open doorway. “I guess I could make you a hat.” I stopped and held out my hand, palm on his chest. “There are rules. You can’t grab anything.”

  He smiled slightly as he leaned closer, putting pressure on my wrist as I tried to hold him back. He wasn’t really pushing, just letting his weight press against me so I could feel the muscular outline of his chest beneath his suit. “What kind of tea parties are you used to?” His voice was low and the way he said that made my skin prickle.

  I chewed on my lip and tried to give him a stern look that wasn’t a glare. I wasn’t sure how well I pulled that off, because my whole body was doing this dancing rebelling

  thing from being so close to this decadent piece of pie. “I need you to promise. It’s important.”

  He shrugged and gave me a devilish look, leaning even closer. “I promise that I won’t grab anything until you beg me to.”

  I couldn’t say anything as he brushed past me, into my glorious bower. I glanced at Viney and Zach hopeful for a moment before I let the door swing closed between us.

  Chapter 5

  I stared at Drake while he looked around my room, walking over to examine all my tubes and jars, the tapestry between the glass and the window, the security system attached to that window, the greenery hanging all over, and then the bed. He spent a long time staring at the bed before he pushed it and sent it rocking gently back and forth.

  I tried to feel something other than panic, anger, and the ridiculous awareness I had for him. Finally, he finished his circuit and came back to me where I stood trying not to frown. Macaroons, bonbons, truffles… He was such a delicious package of poison.

  “Is this supposed to be a swing?” He bent down and held up one side of the rope that I hadn’t been able to talk the maintenance guys into hanging. They were angry enough after they had to hang up some stupid princess’s bed from the high ceiling; they weren’t about to hang a swing too.

  “Not at the moment. I’m trying to convince myself that a bed swing is enough, but I’m not sure I’m buying it.”

  He stood up on the chair and stretched up and up, tapping at the ceiling like he was doing Morse code. He wasn’t. I was very adept at Morse and there was no way he was saying, ‘horse nuts, horse nuts.’ Unless he was. I giggled slightly and earned a sharp look from him.

  “Aren’t you going to make me a hat?”

  The whole thing was beyond ridiculous. If I wasn’t going to light him on fire, I’d have to pretend to be the sweet and slightly idiotic girl everyone would learn to love. If I wanted a nice mage, I had to be a nice witch. “Right!” I stopped staring at him and pulled a trunk out from under my bed with sewing and other makery things in it. I found some red felt, and some paperboard for the hat frame, and then I was ready but I needed to measure his head.

  He’d taken off his jacket and his long, lean body stretched above me, chest outlined beneath his white shirt. He was using a pocket knife, a Swiss army knife to be exact, to screw my swing into the ceiling.

  I swallowed before I could ask, “can I measure your head?”

  He looked down at me, giving me an arch look. “You expect me to allow such a double standard when you made it so clear that I can’t touch you?” He glanced down at my bodice, reminding me of his fingers so close to my chest.

  I blushed. I could feel my cheeks get hot, and my fair skin blushed beautifully. “Your head couldn’t possibly be as large as it looks. For the sake of a well-fitting hat…” I flinched because saying he had a big head, while something I found funny, was definitely an insult, and I wasn’t going to waste all this energy pretending to be delightful only to spoil it on weak slurs.

  His lips twitched. “Fine.” He stepped down off the chair and bent forward, but I lifted his chin, straightening his shoulders before I stood on my tiptoes and wrapped my tape around his crown. I didn’t notice how strong and broad his shoulders were, how close I was to him with my elbows propped on his shoulders and my bodice brushing his suit coat. No, I focused on the feel of plastic inches in my fingers as I added the right amount of ease and pinched the tape before turning away only slightly breathless.

  “Was that so bad?”

  He cleared his throat before he shrugged and climbed back on the chair. “You smell different.”

  I glanced over my shoulder at him, but he wasn’t looking at me. His focus was entirely on the ceiling and the effort needed to screw something in with a Swiss army knife.

  I smelled like a subtle floral mixed with a slight aphrodisiac, because this whole thing was supposed to be a romantic tea party to get Zach to marry me. “Not everyone can smell like black cherries.”

  He cleared his throat but kept standing there with his arms up, working on my swing.

  “Who smells like black cherries?”

  I stared at him, because I didn’t understand what he was talking about, not because I liked looking at him. “Not Señor Mort. Do you like the way I smell because I can give you my lotion if you’re tired of black cherry. In fact, I’ll trade you. Black cherry is one of my favorites.”

  He flicked a glance in my direction, a look that mad
e my stomach coil into a ball of something explosive. “You like the way I smell, Penny Lane? What else do you like about me?”

  I blinked and blushed and wanted to hot glue the hat to his face. “Nothing. I mean, you seem perfectly nice,” ha! “But you’re not really my type. No offense. I like black cherry, not you.”

  He nodded with a smooth expression like that explained everything, but there was still a glimmer in his eyes that said it didn’t explain anything, and that I was secretly completely aware of how incredibly delectable and delicious he was. At least he didn’t fake tears again.

  I shook my head and focused on stapling the base of his hat together then plugged in my glue gun while I knelt on the floor in my ridiculous dress. It was ridiculous and yet, I kind of liked it. It had been my favorite tea party dress back when Poppy…

  He laughed and the sound wiped away everything dark in the world. I looked up at him where he stood, surrounded by dangling leaves I’d wrapped around the swing ropes. I stared at him and the knot in my stomach tightened like a corset so I couldn’t breathe.

  Then hot glue dripped on my fingers. I hissed and looked away from him, focusing on the hat. I put much more concentration into it than was strictly necessary for a one-time hat, but I needed to focus on my hands so I didn’t focus on his.

  The laugh apparently signified that he’d finished hanging the swing. He sat down on it, watching me until my hands shook, traitorous things, and I finally finished the hat,

  tying a pink ribbon around it with a few roses and cupcakes that matched the ones in my hair. He would look ridiculous in a red and pink hat.

  I stood and placed it on his head. He swung forward and his knees brushed my bare legs. I stumbled back with that stupid blush again. When I glanced down I could see my entire chest had turned pink above the bodice. I should have worn something higher, not that I had a lot of décolletage or anything, but still, I did not need Drake to see the weird places he made me blush.

  “Stay right there. I’ll move over the tea table.” I held my hands up, needing him to stay in place so I could get some distance, some space.

  “I’ll help.” He ignored the whole ‘stay there’ thing and grabbed one side of the table, lifting it over to the swing so someone could swing and drink tea at the same time. He offered me the swing and I was tempted, but I couldn’t be swinging when my most important guest hadn’t arrived yet. I would have to swing and drink tea after he’d left, and after I’d lit something on fire.

  On the table, I rearranged the plates and tea things, poured Drake a cup of Orange Bergamot, moved over the stacked serving tray full of delicious goodies and then got down my cage from where I’d hung it in the corner between the bed and the window. I put it on the table and untied the edges of the floral cover and opened the gate so that Señor Mort could slink out looking dignified and unamused. He sniffed the air and, with

  his beady brown eyes, studied Drake for a long moment. Finally, he scampered across the table between plates and saucers to the small chair where he curled up and lifted the small teacup in his little paws, opened his mouth, and took a sip.

  I exhaled and took my own seat while Drake leaned forward to stare at my pet weasel. It was a little bit funny because Drake’s hair was a lot like Señor’s coat, and their eyes were both glistening dark and dangerous.

  Drake whistled softly as I broke up a ladyfinger and slid the pieces carefully onto Señor Mort’s little platter.

  “Señor Mort, meet Mr. Huntsman.”

  Drake glanced at me then back at the weasel. “How do you do, Señor Mort? It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He turned to me and whispered, “Why isn’t he wearing a hat? Doesn’t he know that there’s a dress code?”

  I choked on my tea and took a second to answer after I cleared my throat. “Señor Mort is still a little bit testy after his recent adventures. He only puts up with his vest and hat when he’s in a very good mood.”

  Drake grinned as he picked up his teacup, the tiny thing ridiculous and delicate in his large hands. “I see. Well, since he’s not feeling well, I suppose we have to make allowances.”

  I smiled at him then buried my face in the scent of Bergamot and orange. It was fine to smile at him, but only to cover up a glare, not because he was funny.

  “Do you have tea parties often?”

  I looked up at him over my steaming cup of orange tea. “I used to. My grandmama loved them. She would dress up in pink feather boas and enormous hats.” I took a slow sip, focusing on the color of the liquid, golden, deep and rich, like roasted orange peels.

  I missed her so much. She was the only one who didn’t think it was stupid and infantile to have tea parties and wear elaborate gowns. I should have known that Zach wouldn’t like tea parties. I was too weird.

  “That’s what your outfit needs, a feather boa.” He shook his head and a soft smile fluttered across his face.

  I took a bite of a cookie, chewing slowly while I stared at the table, my gaze drawn towards Drake, his fingers pinching a crumb before he carried it to his parted lips. I inhaled cookie and coughed for a minute before I smiled brightly. “What are you doing here?”

  He raised an eyebrow. Well, yeah because my face expression didn’t match the slight accusation in those words. “Zach was going to give me a guitar lesson. Didn’t I say that?”

  I took a deep sip of tea and then clinked my teacup back down in a hopefully ladylike expression of distaste. “I had a conversation with Mr. Stoneburrow explicitly about how he felt regarding the crowd with which you associate.”

  A sexy smile flitted over his lips before he licked them. “Do you always talk so elegantly at your tea parties?”

  I gripped a butterknife tightly then picked up a scone and buttered it instead of shoving the curved end through his throat. “Always. Why would you want Zach to give you lessons if you aren’t friends?”

  He raised an eyebrow archly. “Zachary informed you that we weren’t bosom friends?

  I’m shocked and appalled. What word would you use, flabbergasted or flummoxed?”

  I exhaled slowly while I pressed the knife against the table. He was trying to be annoying. The trouble was, something about him made me want to smile, maybe even giggle. He was kind of funny, extremely charming and utterly irresistible. “So, you’re saying that the two of you are friendly? Maybe he was talking about other extremely popular students that he didn’t get along with.”

  He shrugged elegantly, looking seriously attractive instead of ridiculous beneath the brim of his red top hat. “It’s possible.”

  “You take music lessons from your friends?”

  “I may not be the finest musician in the world, but I am very good at practicing.”

  I stared at him, trying to make out something genuine in his expression. He looked beautiful, but something else, something wild and untamed, like Señor Mort, who I focused on instead of Drake. Was it possible for Drake Huntsman to actually think that hanging Zach from a tree and then beating him up when it didn’t kill him was friendly?

  But Zach hadn’t seemed terrified of him, had he? I’d forgotten to pay very much attention to Zach once I’d seen Drake. It wasn’t my fault. I was genetically predisposed to be mindlessly attracted to the most dangerous, wicked, seductive and amoral man I could possibly find. The only way around it was to find another man who wasn’t half as hypnotizing, and marry him instead. How much I liked looking at Drake, hearing him, smelling him, well, that told me everything I needed to know about him, as if I didn’t know enough already.

  The rest of the tea party went along as well as could be expected until Señor Mort knocked a macaroon off his plate and Drake thoughtfully, I mean thoughtlessly, reached out to put it back.

  “No!” I said, but there was nothing to do besides what any good host would do, and that was cover his hand and the macaroon while Señor Mort sank his lovely teeth into me.

  Drake froze while I held my hand still and picked up the cage with my other ha
nd, setting it on the table for Señor Mort to scamper into. I dropped the door closed and set it on the floor before I looked up at Drake. He stared at my hand which was still over his while my blood trickled down between our fingers, staining both of us pink.

  “I’m so glad I picked those colors. Pink and red are always a good idea.” I pressed my lips in a thin line because the scent of blood went so beautifully with black cherry. He looked and smelled utterly edible, so much so that my mouth watered and my teeth ached to sink into his skin.

  He took a handkerchief out of his pocket, the one with the rose on the corner, and wrapped it around my hand with his, still slick with my red blood. “Is it bad?”

  I inhaled that intoxicating scent before I shifted my fingers to see if I could gauge the depth of the injury, rubbing against his skin in the process. “Probably a level four bite. I don’t think it will need stitches, but it might leave a scar.” I sounded distant, dreamy. I needed to focus on whipping up an incredible lotion and putting on a disinfectant, but with him leaning over the tea table, the glovelets and lace cloth specked with my blood, I couldn’t seem to do anything other than stare at him with my heart pounding in my throat, mouth watering, and teeth aching.

  He frowned at me, a sudden furious lowering of his eyebrows that made me sit back, pulling my hand away from him.

  His frown lessened as he studied my hand while he slid his own to his lap. “That’s what you meant about not grabbing.”

  I nodded. “It’s my fault. I should have been more specific.”

  He shook his head. “I’ve never been to any party with a weasel. It’s my fault for my lack of sophistication and inability to follow simple instructions.”

  I shrugged. “It’s fine. Unless you’d like more tea, I kind of need to clean up and wash out the bite and…”

  He stood up and started stacking plates. “Go ahead. I’ll take care of things here.”

  I stood there with his handkerchief tied on my hand hesitating because I couldn’t trust him not to destroy everything in my room. There was part of him that liked to needlessly destroy things. I knew that desire intimately and could recognize it in him as well as his need to create, to bring order and beauty to something. He’d hung my swing like someone who knew how to use his hands. He could build up and tear down. Which was he in the mood for right now?