by J. Lynn
Lyra turned her head aside. “Please forget I said anything.”
“Look at me.” He paused until she met his gaze. “You’re the only one now. I swore to it several days ago, but I’ll swear it again if you want me to.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t it?” He arched a brow. “We’re handfasted. Bound for life. Your faithfulness matters to me.”
“You already have it.”
“And you have mine.” He lowered onto her body until she was pressed into the mattress. His solid weight brought with it an odd sense of security, and she slipped both arms around his broad back to pull him closer. Before their lips met, he told her, “There are no ghosts inside this chamber. I’m not thinking of anyone but you.” He brushed her mouth. “Can you say the same?”
Of course she could. “Yes.”
“Then we won’t speak of it again.”
She nodded in agreement.
“More?” he asked, brushing his thumb over her mouth.
By way of answer, she tangled her fingers in his hair and brought him down for a long kiss. Moments later, he used a knee to gently part her thighs and positioned himself in between. He held there motionless for a while, extending their kiss until he began to tremble. Then, peering down at her, he swallowed hard and begged with his eyes.
Lyra didn’t make him ask. She told him, “More,” and held tightly to his shoulders as he made them one.
True to his word, he was remarkably tender. He tipped their foreheads together, his eyes clenched shut as he moved so slowly that she barely noticed the brief stab of pain. He repeated unnecessary apologies and fisted the bedding in a clear struggle for control. She knew he held back for her benefit—his rigid muscles said so—and she thanked him with reassuring caresses along the length of his spine.
After, he rolled them to the side and held her tightly against his chest, where his heart pounded a staccato for her. Lyra pressed a hand above his rib cage to feel the beats slow with each of his deep breaths, amazed at how much had changed between them tonight.
“Are you all right?” he whispered tentatively, as if afraid to dispel the magic.
“Better than that.” She rested her cheek in the hollow where his shoulder met his chest. She wanted to tell him that she felt freed—that fear of the unknown had consumed her for days, and now he’d lifted that burden from her back. And she wanted to say she felt foolish for having been so frightened in the first place. The act of love was rather magnificent. But she couldn’t seem to force the words off her tongue, so she said, “I’m glad you beat me to the bedchamber tonight.”
His quiet laughter shook the mattress. “Not as glad as I am.”
Lyra doubted it. He had given her more than physical affection—he’d given her hope. While her heart still ached for home, her new connection with Kai dulled the pain, because she found what she’d been missing in this strange land. An ally. She could bear the heavy Seryn robes and choke down their unfamiliar food as long as she had a true companion by her side.
Propping her chin atop his chest, she studied the look of satisfaction on his face, pleased with herself for having put it there.
Kai smiled when he noticed her watching him. “What are you thinking?”
“Are you sure you want to know?”
“Always.”
“What if it’s embarrassing?”
His eyes warmed. “Then we’ll laugh about it later. You can tell me anything.”
Lyra felt that truth deep inside, a trust that shouldn’t have formed so quickly, but did. She didn’t know what the future held for the two of them, but she was eager to discover it. She skated her fingers over his chest. “What you and I just did . . .”
“Yes,” he prompted.
She peeked up at him from beneath her lashes. “I’m wondering how soon until we can try it again.”
Dark eyebrows bolted up his forehead, his smile widening. “Really?”
She bit her lip and nodded.
“So it wasn’t unpleasant for you?”
“Not at all.”
He seemed to turn that over in his mind for a while before confessing, “I was worried you would hate it—and by default, me. My stomach was so knotted tonight that I couldn’t eat my supper.”
“Me too,” she said. “I drank my meal in the form of melon wine.”
“Next time will be easier, because we won’t be strangers.” Thoughtfully, he rubbed a lock of her hair between his fingers. “But I think we should wait at least another day to see how you feel.”
“Tomorrow, then,” she said. “Assuming you can beat me to the bedchamber again.”
Amusement danced in his eyes. “You can count on it.”
For the first time since her exile from home, Lyra felt that tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough. She marveled at how quickly that tiny kernel of sentiment had taken root and bloomed into something more.
Perhaps the gods hadn’t been so perverse after all.
About the Author
MELISSA LANDERS writes romantic science fiction for teens and the young at heart. Look for her Alienated series, now available from Hyperion. Additionally, she publishes adult contemporary romance for Penguin Random House and Sourcebooks under the name Macy Beckett. She loves to hear from readers, and you can find both of her personas on Facebook and Twitter.
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How to Be a Heart Breaker
LAUREN LAYNE
One
THERE ARE ALL of these books and movies about good girls gone wrong. What’s that about?
Actually, I think I know what it’s about, and even worse, I’ve seen it happen.
Take Lisa Kelley.
Graduated from my high school two years before me. Cheerleader, debate club champion, and salutatorian. Went to Arizona State on a cheerleading scholarship (yup, that’s a thing), and where is Lisa Kelley now, you ask?
Jail. I’m not even kidding. She and her boyfriend robbed a Lovers Package shop.
Actually, that last part is urban legend. But Lisa Kelley’s definitely in jail. For something. Her parents go to church with my parents, and my mom does a lot of praying for poor Lisa’s soul.
But I digress.
Lisa Kelley is just one of many pretty, perfect girls who went all wrong-side-of the tracks. And for what? Because they got tired of being likable and respected? They up and decided that being eligible for a good job sounded unappealing?
Or did they think, Hey, I’ve got a great idea . . . why don’t I deliberately make life difficult for my parents and people that care about me?
I don’t get that.
Look at Pollyanna, the relentlessly optimistic preteen from that sixties movie. Sure, she gets a bad rap for being, oh, I don’t know . . . kind of annoying. But I like to think she had the right idea by being optimistic and refined. And yes, she did have that little bad-tempered setback when she (spoiler alert!) fell out of the freaking tree. But did that drive her to go get a tramp stamp of a dragon on her lower back? Do you see Pollyanna doing body shots and making out with girls just to get a rise out of Aunt Polly?
No. No, you do not.
Now, I’m not a Pollyanna. At least not in the unending optimism type of way. Truth be told, I’m a bit of a cynic, although only in private.
But I am a good girl.
That’s right.
My name is Annie Gilmore, and I’m a good girl. And proud of it.
Case in point? It’s Sunday night, and everyone else in the dorm is either watching TV or eating ice cream or gossiping. Me? I’ve been on the phone with my mother for the past forty minutes, like I am every Sunday night.
“And you’re staying on top of your studies?” Mom asks.
I lightly bonk my head against the wall of the stairwell where I’ve hunkered down with my cell phone for some privacy from my roommate.
“Yes, I’m staying up on my studies. We’re only a week into
spring semester. How behind could I be?”
“Well, this is your chance to get ahead. Your father and I aren’t paying to have you flunk out.”
Actually, my parents aren’t paying at all. I’m at Fordham University on a full ride scholarship (academic, not cheerleading. Told you I was a good girl.), and even my housing is paid for. My parents are paying for my books, but everything else is on me, and my twice-a-week stint as office monkey in the president’s office is barely getting me by.
But I am getting by.
And I am grateful for my parents.
I’ll just be way more grateful after I get off this phone call . . .
“Danny’s mom asked about you on Sunday. Says he’s seeing another girl, but she thinks it’s only to make you jealous.”
I tuck the phone under my chin and pull my blond hair into a messy knot at the top of my head and try not to scream. Danny Arnstadt and I’d had exactly two dates.
Prom. Mine, and his.
But if you listen to my mother, we were the greatest love since Elinor Dashwood and Edward Ferrars from Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility. The book. Not the movie. Because that, apparently, had been a “sham.”
Danny is a perfectly nice guy, and I’m grateful that he took me to prom, because, when you attend an all-girls high school, coming by prom dates is harder than one might imagine.
But we have about as much romantic chemistry as a vegan and a rib eye.
“Well, I’m glad to hear Danny’s doing well,” I say. See what I mean? Nice girl.
Out of nowhere, there’s a pair of flailing arms in my face as my roommate tries to get my attention with her typical overenthusiasm.
I put my finger over the voice piece of my phone. “Parents.”
“Oh right, sorry,” Corrie whispers.
Then: “ANNIE! You’re late for study group!”
I roll my eyes, but my mother is all over it. “Was that Corrie?”
“Yup.” Not for the first time, I’m grateful that Corrie had been relatively conservative when my parents met her on move-in day back in August. If my mom could see Corrie now, in her low-slung sweat pants with “SASSY” across the ass, and a tank top that did nothing to disguise C cups, she’d probably start resending the e-mails for local churches she’d sent at the beginning of the year.
“Study group, honey? You should go.”
Corrie plays my mother like a fiddle, but I’ll happily take the out. Plus I don’t know for sure that there’s no study group. And it’s not lying if you can’t say one way or the other, right?
“Okay, Mom. Good talking to you. Tell Dad I’m sorry I missed him and I’ll catch him next week . . . Mmm-hmm. Love you too.”
“Finally,” Corrie says, where she’s been rocking back and forth on her flip-flops for the entire end of my conversation. Then her hands are in my hair and she’s yanking out the rubber band and fluffing my hair around my shoulders. Only my hair doesn’t really fluff, so it’s more just like rearranging really straight, really boring shoulder-length hair.
“Zach’s up there,” she says, taking a step back to look at me, smacking her gum as she does so. “He’s asking about you.”
My footsteps falter. Be cool, Annie.
“For our study group?” I ask, following her up the stairs toward our shared room
“Please. Nobody has study groups this early in the trimester.”
I’m not sure how she knows this, seeing as we’re both freshmen, and our experience is limited to the fall trimester that just ended, but she’s got a point. I’m a very—okay, really—diligent student, and even I don’t have much to work on this early.
Corrie, on the other hand, is not so much in the diligent student category. There’s no Greek life at Fordham, but if there were, Corrie and her identical twin, Haley, would be the poster girls for it. They’re both five feet, eight inches of toned legs, big boobs, and long, Victoria’s Secret–model brown hair.
“Cor,” I ask suddenly. “Do I look okay?”
She gives me one of those aww-honey looks. “Of course. You look adorable.”
Adorable. A word I’ve gotten a lot of over the years. Cute. Adorable. Sometimes pretty. Never gorgeous, beautiful, or hot, but adorable is better than “But you’re so smart!” so I guess I’ll take it. I’m a five-foot-four blonde, with blue eyes that I’d been told looked like “doll eyes” (awesome, not), and adding to the cutesy image? Dimples.
Sexy I’m not.
But Zach Harrison doesn’t seem to mind.
I put a palm over my fluttering stomach. Zach and I have stats and Introduction to U.S. Politics together this trimester, so I’ve seen him in class this past week, but we haven’t really had a chance to talk.
And we definitely haven’t had a chance to talk about the almost-kiss the night before we’d gone home for break.
I can hear the music coming from my and Corrie’s room all the way down the hall, and as I’ve grown used to, there are like six, maybe seven people crammed into our tiny shared space.
But my eyes only land on one person.
Zach Harrison is this really beguiling combination of cocky jock, and sweet, smart guy. That combination is pretty much the epitome of my type. Plus, he’s got this crazy-good wavy dark hair, blue eyes, and always has just the slightest bit of scruff to keep him from looking too pretty.
Since we live in the same coed dorm (he lives in the room right above me), I sometimes get to see him in his PJ pants and glasses, both of which he’s wearing right now. Corrie says he’s got a Clark Kent/Superman thing going on, and she’s not wrong. In other words . . . Zach Harrison is smart and gorgeous.
“Hey Annie,” he says, sitting up when he sees me. He nudges my neighbor Tammy on the leg to move over so there’s room for me. And for a split second, I think she gives me the stink eye, but then she grins and pats the seat between them. “Sit!” she says. “I haven’t seen you like at all since December!”
“Uh-uh,” Corrie says from the other side of the room, as she kicks the door shut with her foot. “Don’t get too comfy over there. I have an idea.”
“Because Corrie’s ideas always work out well for everyone,” Zach says in my ear.
I hide a smile. Corrie is definitely the idea girl—most of them leading to trouble. But harmless trouble. Not the weird jail-variety trouble I was talking about earlier.
My roommate is rummaging around in her desk drawer, bending over at the perfect angle to give Matt and Ian a perfect view of her tiny butt.
Finally, she pulls out a wine bottle. “Ta da!”
“Yay,” Zach says drolly. “An empty wine bottle.”
She points it in his direction with a warning glare. “Don’t be that guy, or you won’t get to play.”
“Play?” I ask stupidly.
I’m not the only one staring at my roommate in confusion, but then I see the slightly predatory gaze she is giving Matt—Matt who thus far has been impressively immune to Corrie’s come-ons—and I put the pieces together at the same time as everyone else.
Tammy groans. “Corrie, tell me you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking.”
“Spin the bottle!” Corrie announces, oblivious to everyone else’s horror. “I haven’t played spin the bottle since eighth grade.”
Zach gives her a dark look. “Nobody plays it after eighth grade, and for good reason. It’s ridiculous.”
I relax a little, realizing that everyone else is seemingly reluctant to get on Corrie’s creepy time machine and go back to middle school. But then I realize that Tammy’s already scooting forward to sit cross-legged on the ground, and even worse, Zach is also moving to join the circle.
“Tell me you have some sort of alcoholic beverage to make this more tolerable,” Tammy says, tucking her short black hair behind her ears.
Corrie is one step ahead of her, already digging out a bottle of her favorite vanilla vodka from her sock drawer.
“Is that all you have?” Ian asks dubiously.
�
��Take it or leave it,” my roommate says, waggling the bottle at him.
He takes a quick glance around the room, and apparently his potential kissing partners are unappealing enough to warrant the girly drink, and he shrugs and reaches for the bottle. “Got nothing better to do.”
“Gee thanks,” Tammy mutters.
I swallow nervously, wondering if there’s any possible way to get out of this. I’d played spin the bottle before. Once. And I’d been kissed before. More than once.
I know it’s old-fashioned and stupid, but I’d always been one of those girls that thought that a kiss should mean something, not a token to be given away in a game.
I try to catch Corrie’s eye, but she’s busy ripping open a bag of M&M’s, and not looking at me.
But someone is.
Zach.
He’s crouched on the ground as though he was about to sit down, but then his eyes lock on mine as he freezes. He knows I’m not into this.
I don’t know how, but this guy I’ve only known for a few short months, and who’s been my favorite part of college so far, knows me.
He gives a little wink. And then.
“Shit!” he says out of nowhere. “Shit!”
Everyone looks at him. “What’s up?” Tammy asks.
He puts a hand to his forehead in annoyance. “I just remembered I never finished my stats assignment.”
“Do it later,” Ian says, throwing a Chee-tos at him.
“I can’t,” Zach says as he flings the chip back and wipes the fake-cheese powder off his gray T-shirt. “Stats takes me forever.”
He’s already moving toward the door to loud boos. Sorry kids. Gotta call it a night.”
He pauses then and turns back, as though it’s an afterthought. “Um, Annie. I hate to even ask this, but did you understand Friday’s lecture?”
My mind goes blank for a second. “Friday? Lecture?”
“Yeah, I took a ridiculous amount of notes, and I still didn’t have any clue what Professor Mayors was talking about.”
Ohhhhh . . . “I—um—I’m good at stats,” I blurt out.
Everyone laughs, but Zach just gives me a private little smile. “Think you can walk me through one homework problem? I’ll be a fast learner, promise.”
