Chapter 8
Severin
IT’S BEEN THREE WEEKS AT the academy. Three weeks since I first met Maeve Vandermere and lost control to the thought of her.
And now I’m standing at the front of the classroom, forcing my body not to react to her as she stares down at me from the elevated seating, challenging me yet again, this time regarding blood magic.
“It sounds like the witch’s mistake wasn’t using her blood,” Maeve says. “It was casting her spell without focused intent.”
“With ordinary magic, this may be true,” I say, keeping my attention fixed anywhere but on the thrum of Maeve’s pulse in her smooth pale neck, which I can see clearly despite the space between us in the lecture hall.
“With blood magic, the stakes are much higher.” I pull my gaze away from Maeve, letting it track across the other fourth-years in the room.
“Blood magic doesn’t weaken when you lose focus or have diluted intentions; it commits. ”
“To what?” another witch in the class asks.
“To the lifeblood closest to the spell. Blood calls to blood; it’s drawn back to itself.”
“So, the problem is proximity,” Maeve says, drawing my gaze back to her again. “If the witch had been more controlled, she wouldn’t have caused the accidental bond.”
I give a subtle shake of my head. “Incorrect, Miss Vandermere. Had she demonstrated more control, the bond would have been guided, chosen. Not avoided.”
There’s a slight feathering along her jaw, and she narrows her violet eyes at me. I can hear another argument already poised on her tongue, but before she can get it out, the deep chime of the academy’s clock signals the end of the class period.
As my students launch into movement, packing away their books and quills, I say, “Your essays on failed containment spells are due next class period. They’re to be on my desk before the lecture begins.”
Some students look worried at the reminder; it’s always easy to tell who’s prepared and who isn’t.
I step behind my lectern and turn the page in my journal to glance over my notes for my next class of the day. But my fingers fall still on the parchment when her smell wraps around me.
I’ve spent three weeks trying to control my reaction to her smell, and it’s been about as easy as grasping the wind.
“Professor,” she says, her voice lined with that gritty edge I’ve started to hear in my dreams.
I don’t look up. “Yes, Miss Vandermere?”
“My essay.”
There’s a rustle of paper, and I finally flick my gaze up to find her standing there, offering me a scroll.
“You’ve completed the assignment already?”
Her lips are painted a dark plum today, and they beckon me to stare as they pull up on one side. “Yes, sir.”
A burst of heat goes through me, and my gaze meets hers. She offers the scroll again, holding it out to me, and I finally accept it. Her fingers brush mine, and immediately, a static discharge sparks at the contact, making us both draw back suddenly.
The scroll falls to the stone floor beneath our feet, and Maeve shakes out her hand. I look down at mine, wondering if storm witches are always so electrically charged or if it’s just this one in particular.
“Sorry,” she says. There’s a hint of frustration in her voice. “My magic has been . . . unpredictable lately.”
She bends to retrieve the parchment, and I take a moment to grit my teeth and clench my fingers into a fist, fighting back the urge I have to touch her, to sink my fangs into her smooth throat and—
“Professor? Are you all right?” She tips her head as she straightens, and her long purple hair slips over her shoulder with the movement, the glossy strands catching the morning light streaming through the classroom windows.
And I almost reach out to see if her hair is as silky as it looks. I have to force my hands to remain at my sides.
“I’m fine.” This time, I’m careful not to brush her fingers when I take the offered scroll. “Good day, Miss Vandermere.”
Her plum lips press into a tight line, and what looks like a spark of determination or irritation flashes through her violet eyes.
Then she turns, her hair swaying behind her as she goes, and she leaves me holding my breath, my body going rigid as her scent swirls through the warm air.
I feel my control wanting to slip, feel my predatory desire to chase after her, to pin her to the door and tip her chin back so I can drag my tongue across her throat.
I grit my teeth against it, making my jaw ache.
When the door closes behind her, I immediately gasp and reach for my new flask, then lift it to my lips, downing half of it in one go. The last three weeks, I’ve consumed much more blood than I typically do, trying to keep myself satiated.
But the blood tastes like water compared to Maeve’s scent, and it takes everything in me not to imagine how her blood would feel going down my throat.
Because I know without any shred of doubt that it would be rapturous.
It would be my undoing.