Enigma

Chapter 20 Salem

CHAPTER 20

SALEM

The pin-drop silence in the lecture hall was jarring.

So was the complete, utter darkness.

It amplified the slight sound of his breaths over her head even more, magnified the feel of his large, muscular body behind her back even more, solidified the scent enveloping her senses even more.

It all combined, going to her head, messing with the mix of emotions and questions already present there, mixing with the anxiety and the anticipation and the all-encompassing way her blood began to sizzle in reaction to his proximity.

It was pure science, she knew, nothing else. For some insane reason, her molecular structures responded to his, her pheromones to his, her heartbeats to his.

His hand remained over her mouth, the other settling on the curve of her hip, right between the dip of her waist and the floor of her pelvis, the touch passionate, proprietary, possessive, like he had all the right in the world to be holding the side of her hip like that.

Salem felt her eyes flutter closed without her permission, the heat from his palm seeping under the fabric of her sweater and right into her flesh, melting the skin frozen there for lifetimes.

She felt his nose nuzzle over the top of her head, then stop.

The hand from her mouth moved, taking hold of her beanie and ripping it off in one smooth motion, letting her hair explode and tumble down her back. She brought her hands up instinctively to touch it but his hand flashed forward, capturing both her wrists and bringing them down in such a way that his arms completely bracketed her, as though hugging her from the back.

She opened her mouth to speak, realizing the turtleneck was still over it, muffling her.

She was essentially unable to move with him at her back again, this time unable to speak too.

His nose returned to inhaling deeply, scenting her hair, and she felt a rumbling noise in his chest, the vibrations from it touching her back, making it vibrate too, traveling around over to her chest, pebbling her nipples to sharp points that began to ache.

She made a noise, muffled by the fabric around her mouth, and felt his breaths traveling down, coming to a stop right at the crook of her neck and shoulder. He nuzzled the spot over the fabric, like a giant, rumbling beast holding its prey by the neck, petting the latter before opening his maw and eating it whole.

She shouldn’t feel so turned on by the thought of that, by being consumed by him, being the sole object of his attention, the sole recipient of his passion, the sole cradle for his obsession.

Something inside her wanted it with a fury that surprised her.

A fury that didn’t care or want to think about who he was, who he could be.

“It’d be so easy right now, wouldn’t it?” he rasped against her ear, his lips touching the shell and sending shivers running marathons over the length of her body. “So easy to push you against his desk and fuck you raw.”

The image was vivid in her mind’s eye—her pushed over the table, her leggings ripped down just enough to give him access, him holding her hands behind her back as his hips punched into her, moving her over the wood, making her eyes roll back, the tension that had been building between them snapping, swallowing them in the darkness around them, inside them, between them.

Her breasts began to heave at the imagery, fabric stretching taut over them, feeling tighter than it had before, her panties getting wetter with each breath, arousing her to a level she could never remember feeling with another.

“And you’d let me—” His voice, the voice that had lured her into the sea and choked her with the smoke, murmured, sounding lower, raspier, somehow even more tingly to her brain. “—wouldn’t you?”

Yes, she would. Consequences be damned, uncaring at the moment if his hands were covered in blood or paint.

“Look at me,” he commanded, and she turned her neck, suddenly finding his face there, right there, so close their noses brushed and his breaths fell over her, coffee and mint combining together with his own scent of paint and petrichor, the combination so decadent it made her mouth water with the need to consume it.

“Fuck.”

His eyes, those mercurial, glittering eyes, were shining like a wild beast’s in the little moonlight coming into the hall from the windows, the piercing on his right ear glinting.

Their gazes locked in the near darkness.

Her panties were ruined.

He tugged her closer, pressing her entire back against him, the solid evidence of his arousal hard against her back, large, larger than she’d ever seen, the length of him like a rod of steel against the tail end of her spine, heavy and hot and throbbing.

And then he moved his face in, covering her mouth with his with the fabric of the sweater between them.

Her eyes closed and her neck moved, willing the piece of clothing to come down so she could feel him against her lips, naked and willing.

It remained in place.

She tried to pull her hands free. His grip tightened, not letting her go.

She tried to pull away and turn. The hand on her hip kept her in place.

She glared at him, tugging her neck back, pissed that he was denying her.

The smirk she hated, the one that twisted just a side of his mouth, graced his face, pushing her anger higher. She made more noises, struggling against him, and nothing changed except the offensive smirk—it just deepened.

Before she could think of something else, his face came into her personal space again, and he did something she couldn’t have predicted, rendering her still with surprise.

He took the top of her turtleneck between his teeth, and inch by inch, second by second, heartbeat after heartbeat, pulled it down.

Slowly.

Torturously.

Maddeningly.

His lower lip brushed against her lip as he continued on his way, his eyes half-lidded on hers, sending little shocks of sensation from her mouth to her core, making it throb with emptiness that wanted to be filled. His teeth never let go of the fabric, his lips brushing over hers on the way down, until his neck was bent and the sweater was off her face completely, snug against her neck, warm from being in his mouth.

It was the most sensual experience of her life.

“You wanted to say something?” he asked, referring to the noises she’d been making before, his tone tinged with both mild amusement and mad arousal.

Salem tried to remember what she’d been wanting to tell him, but the wires in her brain were fried, her system short-circuited after that bizarre semi-kiss that had left her lips tingling, wanting more, wanting it all.

Her lips parted, and before she could stop herself, she smashed her mouth to his.

Bliss.

That’s what it felt like, what he felt like. The closest she could come to compare to the word that had been a part of her vocabulary but never her experience.

The restlessness in her system seemed to mute itself, the endorphins in her body taking over, making her feel high as he took possession of her mouth.

And that’s exactly what he was doing.

He was possessing her.

Stroking her tongue with his, filling her with his venom, venom that penetrated her skin and went into her vessels, carrying it right to her heart, infecting it too until it pumped it out to spread all over her body, priming her for his possession.

But venom had never tasted better, like the mint and coffee she smelled on his breath, like the desire and deviance she saw in his eyes, like the sin and seduction she heard in his voice.

She felt herself become his vessel, eating the fruit in the form of his mouth, nipping, sucking, and binding herself to him for an eternity in his underworld.

He let out another of those rumbling noises, and a responding noise left her throat in response.

She hadn’t realized he’d let her hands go until she found them around his neck, holding and hanging onto him as her knees liquified and they continued consuming each other, her fingers touching his hair, feeling the strands between her fingers for the first time as he fisted her hair in one of his hands.

His other, the one on her hip, traveled over her stomach to cup one of her heavy breasts, squeezing it in his large grip, and she felt her hips move of their own accord, humping the dry air as a shot of pleasure arrowed straight down to her core. His fingers, his tattooed, skillful fingers, circled around her nipple, not touching it, passing over it, teasing her, torturing her, and she let out a sound, something sounding so much like a pleading mewl she surprised herself.

She felt his smirk against her mouth and did what she’d wanted to do for a long, long time.

She bit it.

His hand fisted in her hair tugged her head back in response, the domination in the move heating her blood to a frenzy.

She wasn’t done.

She wanted more.

She needed more.

She looked at him with feverish eyes, and his roved over her face, mapping her out like he always did.

“Let me paint you.”

The words didn’t process over the rush of blood in her ears. She saw his mouth move but she was stupid with sexual frustration, and it took her a few moments to come back to herself, for his words to penetrate her mind.

His words.

Other things.

Everything.

She suddenly pulled her hands away and took a few steps away from him, heart thundering as she took deep breaths to calm herself down, her flesh finally flatlining from the frenzy it had become, the ghost of his touch haunting the places on her skin.

He crossed his arms over his chest, and she didn’t let herself look down at it, keeping her gaze on him. Him and his reddened, swollen mouth.

Damn it.

She turned, putting some more distance between them for good measure, walking over to the large desk and leaning on it, hiding her face in her hands.

What had she done?

How could she have done this? Right after finding everything she found at Merlin’s office? With him, of all people? Right after understanding the very real possibility that he could be working with Merlin? But why would he have hidden her if he worked for Merlin? But then, why would Merlin vouch for him if he wasn’t working with him in some capacity?

It made no sense.

“Look at me,” she heard him command again, and she ignored it, trying to streamline her thoughts. Yes, there had been tension between them for a while. Yes, she was insanely attracted to him, and she could admit now it was beyond the physical. She found his fire attractive, his mystery and his reputation, the way he watched her with that wild, deranged look and the way he consumed her like she was elixir and he was dying. She found him, all of him, attractive.

Except maybe the smirk, or the way he goaded her, or the way he fed their rivalry.

She found him attractive and she wanted what had happened to happen again.

And for that, she needed to know some things.

They needed to have a long overdue conversation, and it wasn’t like they could walk away from it, trapped as they were.

Making a decision, she put her hands down and looked up, only to see him standing by the window, looking outside.

Fuck, he was magnetic.

The feminine appreciation in her deepened seeing the figure he cut in the pale moonlight, his frame filling out the windowsill, light blocked out by his massive shoulders that tapered down a muscular back to his waist, everything in proportion like an artist had painted him to rugged, masculine perfection.

She shook herself.

Focus.

“Why do you have a different student card than regular students?” she opened, asking the one question that would decide how this conversation was going to go. If the answer wasn’t to her satisfaction, she was going to be done with him.

He didn’t turn to her, but rather continued watching outside the window, his face somber in profile, his dark sweater almost blending with the shadows. The tattoos on his neck seemed to shine in profile, the swirls and curves like vines climbing up his muscular neck that his hair exposed.

“It’s a membership card,” he told her succinctly. Of course it was. She wasn’t an idiot.

“To?” she prodded, watching his face closely for micro-expressions.

It didn’t change, not much. Just infinitesimal tightening around his slightly swollen mouth. “None of your business.”

The words, and way they were delivered, tickled something in her memory. She pushed it aside and hopped back on the desk, her legs dangling above the floor.

“We can have an honest conversation,” she told him. “Or we never see each other again. Choose.”

He turned at that, giving her a dark look. “You can’t stop me.”

Salem agreed. “No, but I can ignore you.”

“Like you already haven’t been,” he scoffed.

He had no idea how frosty she could become. Even with her ignorance, she hadn’t been indifferent to him, not deep down. But she knew she could be. “It can get much, much worse. You can cease to exist for me.”

His eyes bored into hers, the look on his face fierce. “No, I can’t. You can try as much as you want. Whatever this is, infecting both of us, it’s not going anywhere. Trust me, I’ve tried. I’ve tried so fucking hard to stay away from you.”

Salem blinked at the vitriol in his voice. “Why?”

He let out a breath, leaning against the window, his arms crossed over his chest, one foot propped on the wall behind him. He looked like he wanted to say something, almost began to, but then exhaled again, letting the words die.

She tried changing tactics. “Did you follow me tonight?”

“Yes,” he answered simply.

“Why?”

He shrugged. “I had nothing better to do.”

She doubted that. “So, what? You decided to stalk me instead?”

“Why not?” His tone had zero remorse. “You’ve been acting weird, and I wanted to know why. Which brings me to my question. What are you doing here?”

Salem considered him for a long moment. She didn’t trust him, not emotionally, and she didn’t trust his intentions. But they could talk circles around each other all night if one of them didn’t give an inch.

“The answer depends on what you tell me next,” she told him honestly.

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“Do you know the deaths?”

The words landed like a bomb going off, booming for a while, and then leaving silence in their wake. She waited, with bated breath, as he considered her for a long moment with the same distrust she had for him.

“Yes,” he replied succinctly.

“And do you know Merlin might be connected?” she asked, keeping her cards close to her chest.

“Yes.”

She took a deep breath and swallowed. Now for the hard one.

“And do you… help him with them?”

He gave a brisk shake of his head.

The breath she’d been holding escaped her. Her tensed shoulders relaxed slightly. She tilted her head to the side, considering him curiously. “Why are you assisting him, then?”

The side of his jaw visible to her clenched. “I have my reasons. Why were you in his office?”

Salem gripped the side of the desk she was on, looking down at the shadows moving on the floor. “My sister.”

There was silence for a beat. “Your sister?”

Salem looked up at him again, to see him facing her fully.

“Yes,” she told him. “I was in his office one day and saw something of hers in there. I just wanted to check my eyes hadn’t been mistaken.”

She saw him trying to figure out what it could be, going through a list of things in the office she had no doubt he’d been in countless times. He mentally mulled over it, and his gaze sharpened on her. “The jewelry.”

She nodded. “He told me it was his ex-wife’s. But I know it wasn’t. It was Olivia’s.”

One of his hands came up to the bridge of his nose, pinching it between his fingers as he closed his eyes and thought on something, the air around him tense, serious. He walked to the desk in the corner, the one he sat in during class, and planted his ass in the chair. She looked out the window, letting him think about whatever it was, waiting for him to be done.

“Salem.”

The word surprised her. In all the time she’d known him, she couldn’t remember one time he’d called her by her name directly. The tone, and the fact that he’d used it, lent even more seriousness to the matter.

“You need to withdraw your application for the awards.”

The words surprised her, though after eavesdropping on his chat with Aditi, they shouldn’t have.

“Why?” she asked him, turning fully on the desk to face him, curious about his answer.

“You know why,” he told her, his tone grave.

Because all the dead students had been applicants.

“The deaths,” she supplied. “You need to give me more, Caz.”

He leaned back in the chair, pushing it back on its hind legs, rocking it in motion, his hands on the sides. “You’re in danger,” he told her bluntly.

“From whom? Mortemia?” she asked, the name slipping from her lips.

Caz blinked at her. “What?”

His reaction confused her. “Mortemia? The group for legacy students?”

He cursed. “I’m not talking about some idiotic student association, Salem. This is serious. Life-threatening. And you need to take this more seriously and stop gambling with your life.”

She’d always, always reacted adversely to that tone, the one that reminded her of others telling her to behave properly for her own good.

She hopped off of the desk, brushing any lint from her ass, and marched up to his space, where he stopped rocking in the chair, stilling it, watching her, alert. Pressing one palm flat against the top of the table and curling the other over the back of his chair, she leaned forward, lowering her voice.

“You seem to have a mistaken impression that you have a say in what I do with my life,” she began. “Let me make it very clear. You don’t. If I want to walk off a cliff, I will. If I want to take early morning walks with a handsome stranger, I will. If I want to apply for an award knowing it makes me bait, I will. You don’t have a say in it.”

Her chest was heaving by the end of the tirade, the number of words coming from her mouth surprising even her.

He sat still, watching her with icy eyes burning, the side of his mouth curled in that damn smirk. “Try it. Try walking off a cliff, I will block you. Try making yourself bait, I will catch you. And try being with another man, I will use his blood and make you the canvas.”

Suddenly, his hands flashed forward and pulled her, making her fall on him, sideways on his lap, his hands going into her hair in a move she had come to recognize and associate with him.

“I might not have a say in what you do,” he declared, his eyes fierce on her face. “But I damn well will have my hands in it. Understand that.”

She glared at him, right back at the impasse they had started from, her body shaking with adrenaline and something else.

And suddenly, out of the blue, a yawn cracked her jaw open, rendering her glare useless.

His lips twitched, not with the smirk but with amusement. His hands began to play with her strands, in the way that she’d found hypnotic, lulling, on the street. It still was. She didn’t understand why her brain felt it was safe for her to fall asleep, why it was sending those signals to her body. She didn’t want to fall asleep, not like this, not with him and so many unsaid secrets between them, not when she didn’t know what could happen.

But somehow, suddenly, her arms were like lead, her body heavy, her eyelids sluggish, made even more so by the gentle, repeated movement of his hands on her hair.

“We’re not done,” she mumbled. They weren’t done talking. They would talk. But maybe after a nap. He was hard but so comfortable. And the spot under his clavicle was nice. His steady heartbeat under her ear was nice too. It felt so nice, just to stop her brain and let go.

She’d take a nap and then get back to him.

Okay.

Just a short nap.

The last words she heard, right before she drifted, were in his soft, low voice.

“And we never will be.”

Almost dead yesterday, maybe dead tomorrow, but alive, gloriously alive, today.

—Robert Jordan, The Fires of Heaven