58
Why Lilac?
Melody
I hadn’t realized how fast the semester end has been drawing closer. How close it actually is . I have made progress in my magic-wielding, because Kyrith, as hard as it is to admit, is actually a good teacher. And fun.
Caryan hasn’t shown up again to train me, and most of me is relieved. The smaller, more pathetic part—the one bonded to him—is quietly disappointed and aching, but hells, I’m not ready to face that yet.
He checks in with me regularly about his brother and my progress in finding him, sending snow owls with gold-specked feathers to my windowsill, their golden necklaces carrying tiny scrolls written in Caryan’s elegant, elaborate script.
I run my fingers through the owl’s incredibly soft feathers—almost as soft as Caryan’s wings—and tuck my reply into the tiny golden box on its necklace, telling him, once again, that I still haven’t found anything in the archives.
He also asked me about another artifact—whether I could sense it.
And I can. Close. Too close. Liar that I am, I told him it was far away, on a different continent, and that was enough to make him drop the subject.
With the queen ill, he has other things pulling at him, I suppose, because I’ve never seen him this distracted—though I don’t know how long my lie will hold.
Or what Caryan would do to me if he found out I’d been lying all along.
But fuck it. I can’t risk him finding another artifact and claiming it, so even though I can feel it close, I don’t go looking—for what it is or where it lies.
I also know it’s probably protected by vicious magic that would try to kill me before I could retrieve it.
So, for now, I push the thought away, figuring I can deal with it once my exams are over.
Because if I failed those, I’ll break my contract with Caryan for good, and no matter what, I can’t risk Aris’s and Blair’s lives.
I shove my fingers into the pockets of my pants and flinch when I feel the stone’s smooth surface. Of course that treacherous, evil thing is back. It must have somehow crawled its way into my pocket again—and that is not a good feeling.
Gods, if Caryan ever found out what secrets I’m keeping from him, he would probably flay me alive for it. Let’s just hope he never does.
The consistency in my weapons training and workouts is finally showing, and Blair has started putting Shay, Faye, and me through our paces with wooden swords and sticks.
I’ve also started training with the other students in magic-wielding in Riven’s class.
He’s gone back to treating me like a regular student, and honestly, I’m too done with the hot-and-cold treatment he keeps giving me to let myself cry over it.
I tell myself it doesn’t matter—right up until I spot him walking down the corridors with Professor Evanalora always close by, clinging to his arm as if he were driftwood and she a damn drowning fae.
I’ve almost finished painting my room, and I can tell the campus is delighted, because it spoils me with all sorts of tempting offerings—spicy romantasy books, clothes, and other tiny gifts, most of which I absolutely don’t need.
Shay, Faye, and Blair, however, adore them.
They regularly dissolve into squeals and even full-on arguments—especially over the books and dresses—when they come to my room almost every other night, sometimes staying over.
In my free time, I scour the archives for every book on the Nine Hells and dragons that I can find, but so far nothing has led me beyond what I already know.
I’m in the middle of magical combat, swinging a wooden stick while struggling to keep a shield of magic around myself, when shadowfire devours my stick right out of the air.
I spin just in time to see Shay’s stick dissipate as well—a split second before it would have hit me, because I damn well forgot about my shield. I glower at Riven, who looks smug as hells, as if any of this is remotely funny.
“Defenses and concentration. You should work on both,” he says.
I stare at him incredulously when he saunters closer, looking so picture-perfect I could cry, in a black tunic, leather breeches, and combat boots. Hells, I can practically hear the swooning sighs of my classmates at the sight of him before all drop to a knee. All save for me.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with her,” I hear a woman muttering to her friend. “I’d go down on my knees for him in every position. I’d even fall on all fours for him.” Both women giggle behind my back.
Riven doesn’t seem to notice them, but if I heard it, no shit he heard it too. I want to slap her, with my nails, leaving a nice trail in their wake all over her face.
Suddenly, my mood just hits the ground hard. And won’t rise again.
“What gives me the distinct pleasure?” I ask when he curls a finger, beckoning me closer.
I step out of the ring, wiping sweaty hair from my face.
“What?” I add when I catch him staring—too late remembering the lilac sheen of my hair and the fact that I forgot to dust it with magical brown powder this morning.
Shit. Of all days.
My classmates and friends are used to my not-so-new-anymore look, but for classes I usually cover it—just in case I run into Riven. Or worse, Caryan. The powder wears off slowly over the day.
“Why did you dye it?” he asks. Is his voice…rough?
“That’s what you wanted to ask me?” I cross my arms over my chest.
“What else would it be? So—why did you?”
“Why not?” I shoot back. “Don’t like it?”
“I do. But—”
“But what?”
His teeth flash in a warning. “But why that color?”
“Because it’s my favorite color,” I chirp lightly, bumping my shoulder against his when I pass him, heading for the campus.
He catches up to me. “Why?” he asks my back, his voice low and demanding enough to raise goosebumps.
“Why what?” I shoot back. “Why dye it? Or why it’s my favorite color?
” I snort. “Oh, don’t flatter yourself. It’s not because it’s the color of your eyes.
” It so is. “And if you really must know why I did it—it was an accident. Ryder’s cauldron exploded.
But the color angered Caryan so much that I decided to dye all my hair the same shade. ”
I smirk at him over my shoulder.
“What?” He scowls. “Stop making jokes, Melody.”
“Wasn’t one.”
He exhales sharply, frustration bleeding into something rougher, then growls, “I can’t tell when you’re lying. It’s not funny.”
“Must be terrible,” I tease. “Poor high lord.”
“Where are you going?” he asks—serious again, the playfulness gone like it never existed.
“Gods, do you guys ever laugh? Or does Caryan feed you some kind of humor suppressant every morning, along with your muesli and your dose of blood?”
He says nothing after that—just stares at me like he’s trying to piece me together, like sometimes he truly doesn’t know me at all.
And I suppose he doesn’t.
When I’m fairly sure he won’t justify my nonsense with an answer, I say, “I’m going back to the university. I’m guessing you didn’t come all the way out here, risking your carefully maintained, aristocratic complexion, just to watch me swish my lilac hair around.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” he asks irritably.
A grin spreads over my face because I’ve obviously hit a vain spot. I don’t bother hiding it when I stop and turn to look at him. “The part about humor,” I ask sweetly, “or your complexion?”
He bares his fangs in warning. Doesn’t work on me. If anything, the sight turns me on. Gods.
“It means,” I continue innocently, “that I think you smile even less than you get out in the sun these days.”
I keep my face carefully neutral, not letting an inch of the heat betray me when I imagine him tanned—fangs bared, fewer clothes involved. Preferably none. Abyss. Blair really is rubbing off on me.
“Astute,” he snorts, arrogance curling around the word. “I wasn’t aware a new hair color came hand in hand with a particularly prickly temper.”
“Oh, it doesn’t,” I say lightly. “It’s always been one of my loveliest attributes.”
“Oh no,” he counters darkly. “There are far lovelier attributes.”
The sudden heat in his gaze steals my breath—sharp, possessive, unmistakable.
Then it’s gone, shuttered away as he says coolly, “You might want to rein it in regardless,” strong, long fingers adjusting the lapels of his shirt.
The fabric hugs his throat just right, framing that mockingly beautiful face—those haughty, full lips curved in permanent smug amusement.
His ink-black hair glistens in the morning sun.
My breath catches in my throat when he suddenly steps up to me. “If you insist on provoking me,” he murmurs, eyes lingering, “at least have the grace to do it properly.”
Abyss help me—I don’t know whether I want to throw something at him. Or throw myself at him. Hells, even when he’s talking down to me like this, I find him utterly, infuriatingly sexy.
Urgh.
I turn and keep walking.
He snarls at my back, clearly not amused by me walking ahead of him and having my back turned on him for the second time today.
But if he wants to go all alpha-fae and challenge me one on one, that would suit me just fine—I feel like releasing some of my magic on him.
Oh, how much I wish to push him in the dirt.
Just once. And see his face when that immaculately tailored suit of his gets ruined by a grass stain.
“Caryan wants to speak to you,” he declares.
Even though I knew it was coming, it squashes what’s left of my mood. Really great that I forgot my hair powder today. But I guess it’s been time for the truth anyway.
“Oh, who would have guessed. About what?”
“I don’t know.”
I bite back a sharp, cruel remark when I spot the jolt of pain in his aura—clearly the relationship between them is still far from good, and it’s hurting Riven like a knife carving him up anew every day.