Chapter 8
EIGHT
Mind your own business before minding anyone else’s.
LUCA
Celine is plotting, and it’s painfully obvious.
“She’s going to find a way to get to him,” I tell Alistair. He’s lounging on the bed, his long legs outstretched as he stares out, or more accurately at, the artificial window. Ciprian left a while ago to talk to his mom, and I’m crawling out of my skin.
“I know.” Ali sounds unbothered.
“We have to help her.”
“I know that, too.”
I toss a throw pillow at his head. “You’re chatty today.”
He catches it, then chucks it back at me. “Because I need to think, and I do that best in silence.” Point taken.
“Fine,” I grumble. “But try to come up with something that doesn’t involve her taking off on her own.
” Celine’s energy through the bond is very ‘lone wolf’ right now.
The ribbon of light isn’t curled around my basilisk.
It’s flitting around inside me like a caged animal, testing its limits while my monster sulks from the sidelines. I can’t blame him.
I drop the pillow back on the couch where I got it and assess the piece of furniture with some skepticism.
It has the skinniest legs I’ve ever seen.
Stick-thin, bird-like, and curved. They look too weak to support the couch’s weight, much less mine.
I run my fingers over the white velvet upholstery and yank them back. Awful texture too. This couch sucks.
Fuck, I’m losing it.
I massage my chest, trying to soothe the bond before distracting myself by examining the rest of the room.
It’s the same shade of green as Celine’s apartment.
I lean closer. The only difference is the delicate, whitish accent stuff.
It’s squiggly and raised, like someone tacked an extra layer of wood to the wall for no reason at all.
I run my fingertips over the decorative lines. “What’s this shit called?”
“Wainscoting.”
“Did you have it growing up?”
“Yes.”
“Was it white?”
Alistair sighs. “My family’s estate is quite old. Neoclassical. Somewhat restrained stylistically, but my great-great-great . . .” He waves his hand. “Add a few more greats—grandmother came from France to marry. She demanded golden accents—a big Louis fan, if family lore is to be believed.”
I don’t have a clue what he’s talking about, but it’s better than silence. “Real gold?”
He shrugs. “I never asked.”
“Really?” I face him, my mouth dropping open. “Your walls were covered in gold, Ali, and you never wanted to know?”
“Should I have gnawed on them like a rat?” he drawls. “Forgive me for focusing on the more pressing questions, like why Mum’s eyes kept turning red.” He sounds posher than usual—all this wainscoting talk brings it out in him—hints of his accent creeping past his careful Fringe facade.
I want to keep him talking. “That’ll do it. How’s the thinking coming?”
“I’ll be sure to let you know once I get a chance to do it.”
I toss my hands up in surrender and drop down on the spindly couch, wincing at the lingering ache in my bones. After not shifting for almost thirty years, my body isn’t exactly thrilled by my behavior in the monster realm.
My palms prickle, anxious energy rushing along my skin. I wipe them on my jeans.
The strangest things keep freaking me out.
I walked into the bathroom barefoot this morning, and the cold tile against my toes nearly gave me a heart attack.
Part of me thought about calling my parents and telling them what happened, but I’m worried about how they would react. They would either be traumatized or too numb to care. I’m not quite brave enough to find out.
The door opens, and Celine walks in, closing it firmly behind her. She throws herself back on the bed with a groan.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Did you lose?”
She scoffs. “Of course not.” I wait for her to say more, but her eyes are glazed. She’s deep in thought, and I nearly groan. Not both of them; I won’t survive.
“Where’s Riven?” I ask. I don’t give a shit, but when Celine stiffens, I realize I’ve stumbled onto something.
“In his room,” she mutters, her answer coming a beat too late to be casual.
“Did he have a good time sparring?” I keep my tone bland.
Celine doesn’t respond, but the bond jumps a foot in my chest.
I sit up straighter. “Did he try something?” I demand.
Alistair’s eyes flicker open, flashing red as we both wait for her answer.
“No.” Celine licks her lips. “Of course not.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask if she’s disappointed by that, but I stop myself. My issues with Riven are real, but something tells me I’ll have to get over them. Only an idiot wouldn’t recognize the growing tension between him and Celine for what it is.
“If you wanted to, no one would be angry with you, angel,” Alistair says, obviously following the same train of thought and choosing to act on it. “Working with him to escape the monster realm changed things, for me at least.”
Celine frowns. “I don’t want him.”
I might believe her, except I sense a flicker of pain through the bond as her magic punishes her for the lie. Her face twists. “No,” she gasps. “I-I can’t.”
She flinches again, arms twitching all the way down to her fingertips.
“It’s okay, baby.” I force a smile. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. We just want you to know that we see something, and if you decide you want to see it too, no one will be upset with you.”
“Ciprian—”
“Probably already has a pool going for when it will happen.”
She swallows. “But Malach . . .”
I sigh. “I don’t know Malach as well as you do, but there’s nothing in the universe that he wants more than your happiness. He made room for me, Alistair, and Ciprian. If he could do that for us, he could do it for Riven, too.”
“It’s not happening.” Celine wraps her arms around herself and faces the wall. “And I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
The silence is heavy. A riot of emotions buzzes in my chest. Some of them belong to Celine: confusion, anxiety, worry, and grief. Others are all mine, boredom and jealousy merging with my concern for her.
Damn. I’m not in the mood to self-reflect.
What I’d really like to do is get drunk.
Except when I imagine cracking open a six-pack, I think about Malach.
First, the fucking cold ass tile, now beer? Is everything ruined?
One thing at a time. I can only fix one thing at a time.
Kicking off my shoes and socks, I march to the bathroom. The floor isn’t as cold as it was this morning, but there’s enough of a temperature difference to give me a jolt.
I shift back and forth from tile to tile, never staying put long enough for the ceramic to warm up.
Teeth gritted, hands fisted, I keep at it despite my crawling skin and shaky limbs.
Maybe it’s not the most efficient plan, but it’s all I’ve got.
I’ll keep touching this tile until I don’t associate it with ice pellets, eclipses, and monster roars anymore.
I don’t care how long it takes.
Ciprian finds me hours later, lying face down and shirtless on the bathroom floor.
His shoes come into view, and I roll my head, pleased when the cool tile doesn’t bring anything to mind at all.
“Is this a cry for help?” he asks.
“Nope.”
“Thank fuck. Budge over.”
I shuffle until I’m pressed against the bathroom cabinet.
Ciprian closes the door behind him, toes his shoes off and kicks them toward the shower, then drops beside me with a groan. He’s on his back and I’m on my stomach, but we’re pressed tightly together. His warm body is a sharp contrast to the cold floor.
“If I asked you to make me a drink tonight, would you?”
“Obviously.”
“I’m not trying to escape reality.”
“Okay.”
“Talking to my mom was stressful, but I don’t need to drink to forget or anything.”
“That’s good.”
There’s a pause before Ciprian sighs. “Sorry I got weird last night.”
I nudge my shoulder against his. “It’s already forgotten.”
He groans. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re too accommodating? It’s okay to pitch a fit sometimes, Luca.”
I grunt. I hear him, and I appreciate what he’s trying to do, but I’ve always found the energy it takes for me to be mad is too hard to maintain. I’d rather put effort into solving the problem.
I turn my head so I can see his face.
Ciprian’s nose tilts slightly up at the end in a cute contrast to the angular lines of his cheekbones and chin. His eyelashes are thick and a few shades darker than his white-blond hair.
“I like it when you look at me,” Ciprian says, his voice deeper than usual.
I pull my lip ring between my teeth and wink at him.
Then his lips are moving against mine, soft and sweet. The stubble on his chin scrapes my skin in a way that should feel bad but is somehow perfect instead. When he pulls away, he’s wearing a crooked grin.
“Why are we on the floor, Luca?”
I raise one eyebrow. “I know why I’m here. I don’t have a clue about you.”
Ciprian chuckles. “Easy. I’m here because you are.”
My heart thumps unsteadily in my chest. It’s a simple statement and not particularly romantic, but that’s why I like it so much. There aren’t many straightforward things about Ciprian Casanell. If his feelings for me are, that’s a win.
“Where’s the booze?” I ask.
“I’m not sure, but I’ll find some,” he says. “If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s sniffing out alcohol.”
I hum in the back of my throat. “I think you’re good at a lot of things.”
Ciprian smiles, and the expression lights up his entire face.
He shifts his weight, pressing closer to me before wincing when his bare arm grazes the tile. Shaking his head, he sits up and flips a switch on the wall before laying back down. “The floor is fucking cold.”
I grunt, letting my eyes drift shut as the ceramic heats beneath me.