Adapt: Book Two of the Forgotten Affinities Series

by Analeigh Ford

  He gives my hands a gentle squeeze.

  “And if he does, he will have more than just me to answer to.”

  I know that Flynn wouldn’t ask me to leave, but I keep catching his eyes flickering over to the book he was reading. Something about magical uses for plants, by the looks of it. The words are all too small and cramped for my taste.

  I have a little bit of homework to catch up on before tomorrow, and to be quite honest, I think a nap is in order after all…well…just after everything. I’m sure the little bit of mascara I bothered putting on this morning has run all down my face as well.

  “Can I ask you a favor?” I say as I start to get up to leave.

  Flynn catches me by my sleeve as I do so. “Anything.”

  “Don’t tell the others,” I say, glancing over my shoulder a second. “I know they will worry too much.”

  He frowns a little, but nods and plants a gentle kiss on my cheek—on that place where the blush of my lips meets the skin, and I feel the tingle of it remaining all the way out and across the street to the dorms.

  9

  Draven

  “I know I didn’t ask if I could come up, but I can’t be at the café all day without you there and not come by to visit.”

  Octavia looks like she is about to invite me inside, but I see her hesitate when she looks back into the tiny dorm room. Her eyes linger on the bed long enough for me to know what she is thinking.

  “Don’t worry,” I say, pushing past her to collapse onto the end of her bed. “I’m not going to try to start any hanky-panky…unless you want me to.”

  She cuts me some serious side eye as she shuts the door, but she doesn’t completely dismiss the idea. I can work with that. But rather than sit beside me on the bed, she pulls out her desk chair and sits down. I can see she is at least genuinely trying to study. She’s got dark smears under her eyes where she’s inadvertently smudged her makeup.

  For weeks she claimed to be well enough to leave the infirmary, and as much as I personally wanted her out of there so we could have some…um…alone time, I’m glad they didn’t let her. She still looks tired. Not like that night. Nothing like that night…but tired still.

  Just the memory of that time I almost lost her sobers me for a moment, and reminds me of the real reason I came here.

  “Do you remember what you promised me before Homecoming?” I ask her.

  She seems to wrack her brain for a moment, but then I see her own memory coming slowly back to her. “Yes…” she says, her eyes glancing suspiciously over to my backpack, which I’ve let slump against the bottom of the bed.

  “Good. Then you will also remember you promised you would let me be your first.”

  The words bring color to her cheeks.

  “Draven!” she tries to sound outraged, but I can hear the thrill in her voice.

  “Come on,” I say. “You can’t have a good reason to say no this time.” I wait just long enough to see her resistance waver, and then I reach for her. She is surprisingly light and easy to hoist up onto my lap. She struggles a little against me, but I just hold her tighter with one arm while I reach down with the other and unzip my bag.

  “Shouldn’t we wait until we’re more prepared?” Her voice comes out a little breathless.

  I just grin at her and tug out the little tin box I carry with me for just such occasions. “Don’t worry, I always come prepared.”

  She wiggles a little in my lap in order to see better, and I have to force myself to concentrate hard on opening the box. Her heartbeat quickens against me, even as my own blood flows stubbornly towards the lower regions of my body. My fingers, much too large for such a delicate clasp, struggle to undo the lock until Octavia leans forward a bit and uses one of her nails to pry it open.

  I am about to have to clear my throat and suggest maybe she shouldn’t sit on my lap any longer when, at the sight of the needle inside, all amusement that lingered on her face drains from it. She presses the flat of her palms against my chest and twists away. The touch that might normally prompt me to throw the box aside and toss her fully onto the bed beneath me, instead makes my body freeze. I find no enjoyment in her discomfort.

  Instead, I gently let the lid fall shut so that it doesn’t lock again, and use my second hand to take one of Octavia’s.

  “I’m not going to do anything you don’t want me to,” I say. I lift her long, slender fingers up to my mouth and plant the softest of kisses on them.

  Her eyes stay trained on the needle. “I don’t remember it being so long, or so sharp,” she says. “Is it going to hurt?”

  “The first time, yes. And all the other times. It’s a tattoo; of course it is going to hurt.”

  She scrunches up her nose at me, but I am glad to see a little of the softness return. Now I do have to move her off my lap.

  Octavia crosses her legs and scoots into the center of the bed. I place the tin box between us and take out the implements I brought just for the occasion. There is no ballpoint pen and borrowed handkerchief this time. This time, I have proper tattoo ink, alcohol swabs, and even a little jelly in order to numb her skin. I see her eyeing this in particular, and I say, “Not all things have to be magical in order to work, you know.”

  “I bet there is a potion that works better than that. What about your friend, the one who makes that little green bottle? The one I used on you.”

  “It would interfere with the ritual aspect,” I say. “Sometimes pain is a part of magic.”

  This time, the darkness that flits across her face is more than apprehension. It is a memory, I realize, probably of that night. She was made to cast a ritual that could have, no, should have torn her apart.

  This time I do not grab her hand, but instead I roll my left sleeve up past the elbow. I am still a new Ritual Mage, only practicing for a little over a year now, but already my skin is covered in dozens of marks in the name of magic. I watch the trail her eyes make across the black ink.

  “The scars I leave on my body give me power,” I say. “It is the only way you can become a truly great mage. Not all magic leaves a physical mark, but each affinity requires you to constantly push past your limits, to leave a little damage, a little scar, in order to improve. Pain is just a part of that.”

  Her voice comes out small. “What if I don’t want the pain?”

  “Then you’ll never be a great mage.” There is no real way to sugarcoat it. After all, why would I? If she were to ask any of the others, they would say the same.

  She thinks about this for a moment, then sticks out her hand. “Fine. Then do it.”

  I can’t help but chuckle.

  A little line appears between her eyebrows. “Stop it,” she says. “I’m serious!”

  “I know, that’s why it’s so funny.” I reach over and tilt her chin up to make her look at me. She swats me away, but I do it again anyway. The second time, I see the corners of her eyes crinkle up, and a smile hidden behind a bitten lower lip. “You can’t fool me, Octavia Hadley.”

  I lean my body toward her, I let my thumb graze across the full roundness of her lower lip. And then, before she is close enough to even feel the heat of my breath, I slam shut the lid of the tin box and go to pack it away.

  “What are you doing?”

  I glance up at her, the box half stowed inside my backpack already, the needle and all the rest packed inside. I’ve swung my body around so my feet at back on the floor, one step closer to packing up and heading back out.

  “I’m not going to tattoo you unless you actually want it,” I say.

  “I do want it.”

  “Uh huh.” I keep shoving it inside, but she reaches for me. Her hands wrap around my wrists, my forearms, trying to coax me back onto the bed.

  “Please,” she says. “I want to do this. I want to be the best mage that I can be.”

  She readjusts herself onto the bed and puts on a brave face. This time when she offers me her hand, it is not out of fear or defiance, or even a misplac
ed sense of duty—it is because I believe she genuinely wants it.

  And that is what I needed. I never planned on actually leaving.

  She gasps at the sting of the needle on her right ring finger. The black ink stains her blood before it can even bead, one dot at a time, in a tiny vertical line. Three in all. I swab the area with alcohol and she cringes.

  I catch her eye and grin at her. She glances from me to the needle, and then back.

  “Wait, that’s it?”

  “That’s it. Not too bad for your first time, eh?”

  She lifts her hand up to the light and tilts it from side to side. “What does it even do?”

  “It wards off evil,” I say. “But it isn’t permanent. You’ll have to redo it each time it starts to fade.”

  Now that it is actually over with, confidence returns to her voice. “Are you telling me you have to do all those, all over you, again?”

  She uses her finger to follow the trail up my arm that only her eyes made before.

  “These, and all the rest,” I say. “Some you can get permanently done, if you want, but their power still fades with time.”

  Her hands don’t stop at the edge of my shirt, but my words do. She continues running one hand up the folds of the fabric, across my shoulder, to fiddle with the top buttons. She begins to undo these, her eyes fixated hungrily on the bare skin she knows lies beneath.

  One at a time, her hands work hard to reveal a little more of the inked and scarred skin beneath. By the time she gets to the last one, I am about ready to just rip it off and be done with the anticipation. But I force myself to be patient, and then she undoes the final button, gets up on her knees and peels it back and off over one shoulder at a time.

  Only once she’s freed both my arms does she fall back to sit on her heels and admire me.

  I’ve never been examined this way before. Her eyes move across my body, taking in every muscle, every line, until they land on the trail of hair leading from my navel to the top of my jeans. I can’t take it anymore.

  I spring forward, catching her up in my arms even as I push her back onto the bed. She lets out a soft cry in surprise, but I muffle it by pressing my lips against hers. There is no struggle, or resistance—even in jest. She pulls me closer, parting her legs and wrapping them around me, drawing me to her.

  Her hair is in my mouth, brushing against my cheeks, caught and tangled up in my hands. I give it a little tug, and her lips part. I take the opportunity to venture my tongue inside her mouth. At first, I feel her purse her lips and then, with another gentle tug, she reciprocates.

  The space is cramped, the bed so small I cannot move without knocking my head against the wall—but that doesn’t stop me from pressing harder up against her. I feel her hips move against mine, her hands rove from the back of my neck, to my shoulders, my chest, the buckle of my belt. It comes unclasped in her hands, her fingers tugging at the gap between my pants and boxers.

  I want her. I want her with every fiber of my being. I know she knows it. I know she feels my body responding to hers. She wants it too. She wants me.

  And I can’t have her.

  I draw back and sit up, one hand darting down just in time to stop her fumbling with the top button of my jeans as well.

  “Stop, stop!” I say. She falls back, confused. It takes me a second to find the words I need. In that short time, she goes from confused, to angry, to embarrassed.

  Her chest is still heaving when she is finally able to ask, “Why?”

  I sit back again, quickly grabbing my shirt and pulling it on over my head before I lose my resolve. Part of me can’t believe I’m doing this, turning her down. She is right here, laid out before me, underneath me. Moments before I could feel every curve of her body against mine, every angle, every softness. I nearly lose it. I nearly finish the job she began.

  But something reminds me to stop, again. I have to close my eyes. My hands run through my own hair, pulling at it so hard that the pain helps still my raging body. “It isn’t fair,” I say. “To the others.”

  When I open my eyes, she has scooted herself up into a sitting position. For another moment there, all I can remember is our two bodies, so close. So close.

  At the mention of the others, she has stilled. Her eyes flash over to the door, and then at me, and finally, herself. She nods a little, but neither of us are convinced she means it. “Right,” she says. “It wouldn’t be fair.”

  I take a deep breath, and then let it all out at once. I catch her eye and my sigh turns into a breathy laugh. “Don’t look so disappointed, darling. Desperation isn’t a good look on you.”

  10

  Octavia

  Wednesday squints up her eyes at me when I slouch into the seat beside her for Earth Magic class in the morning.

  “You look all too happy for his time of day. What happened last night?” she asks, before she quickly puts one finger in the air and starts waving it around. “Wait, let me make an amendment. If it has something to do with Kendall—I don’t want to know. I don’t ever want to know.”

  I have to giggle at the absurdity of it. “If something did happen with Kendall, which I’m not saying it did, wouldn’t you have sensed it? You know, the whole twin vibe thing?”

  Wednesday just nods down towards the front of class, as if somehow the new Earth teacher is going to start explaining to me how twin instincts work.

  “We haven’t had any of those in years.”

  “And why do you think that is?” Kendall’s voice appears right over my shoulder.

  I start a little, and turn to greet him, but he wraps his arms across my shoulders and plants a kiss on the top of my head. He lets his chin rest there for a moment. His voice is low and soft, and the warmth of him pressed up against me, holding me in his arms—it makes me want to just curl up and go back to sleep.

  But Wednesday’s voice, quite the opposite in that it is both loud and quite abrasive, breaks the spell. “Probably because you’re never listening.”

  “Only because you never stop talking,” Kendall says. He slips into the other open seat to my left, leaving me as the only barrier between him and Wednesday’s wrath.

  “Why don’t you go ahead and—” I start.

  “And what?” Wednesday interrupts me, meeting my gaze with a challenge.

  I was preparing to remind Wednesday to go join the rest of the unpaired students before Flynn arrives, when I realize I am mistaken in more than one way.

  First of all, Flynn is not here, though he’s never been late before. Even as the bell rings and the last few usual stragglers make their way to the front of class, he doesn’t appear. I don’t know what to think of it. He’s not the type to just not show up.

  But I am wrong in another way too.

  While my eyes are scanning the front of class for some sign of Flynn, perhaps a stack of books, a well-worn notebook or something, they land on someone else. I almost forgot.

  Mathilda sits in the front, far to the side. The seats beside and behind her are unoccupied, much like those around us. I catch several people glancing her way, only to turn back to their friends and whisper. For once, I am not the center of attention.

  I like it this way, but I also feel kind of bad for her. It isn’t her fault that this school can’t handle anything even slightly outside the usual. I would have once thought mages would be more understanding, but speaking from personal experience, it is not the case.

  I feel Wednesday stiffen beside me when she catches me staring. She mutters something about a “mistake” again under her breath, but then she stops. Both our eyes flicker back over to where Mathilda sits. She is no longer sitting completely alone.

  Camilla stands in front of her, her books in her arms. Mathilda looks so grateful, I almost hate her for it. But why should I? She has no idea what Camilla did…and to her paired too.

  “Ah, hell no.” Wednesday practically climbs out of her seat faster than I have ever seen her move. Despite her avoidance all weekend, t
his is one thing it seems she can’t ignore.

  Even the teacher stops unpacking her things for today’s lesson and stands, frozen, while Wednesday marches down to where Camilla is starting to slip into the seat beside her new pair. It seems the two girls are the only ones who have yet to notice what is going on—or else they wouldn’t look so pleased to no longer each be sitting alone. I find some small solace in the fact that while I’ve been somewhat ostracized because of my abilities, at least the same courtesy has been extended to Camilla for her betrayal.

  Bur right now I feel nothing but empathy for those two up front for what’s about to happen. In fact, they should look terrified. I know I would be.

  Wednesday stops just short of bulldozing through the both of them. Even from all the way across the classroom, I can hear the grating rage in her voice.

  “How dare you!”

  I am not entirely certain who it is she’s speaking to, but I suppose it doesn’t matter. Both Camilla and Mathilda swivel around to see who’s speaking. Where Mathilda only looks mildly surprised, Camilla goes absolutely white.

  So it’s her who Wednesday targets. “You have no right to be here in the first place after what you did. Let alone talking to…to…” She struggles for the words to use, and then finally just settles for “her!”

  “I told you, I’m really sorry—”

  Wednesday gives her no time to apologize. She slams her hands against the back of the girl’s chair so hard that the whole thing rattles. “Get the hell away from her,” she growls.

  Camilla scrambles out of her seat so fast she is a blur. She doesn’t just find another seat to sit in—she runs out of the classroom entirely.

  Wednesday is satisfied. She straightens up and turns to go when another voice catches all of us by surprise.

  “I can fight my own battles, you know.” Wednesday stops, but she doesn’t look at Mathilda as she continues. “And I will make friends with whoever I please, so I will thank you to remember that. Your paired or not.”