Chapter 33 Taera
Taera
The first thing I notice when I wake is a steady hum through my entire body, tickling my skin. It makes me smile. The next thing I notice is my head tucked under someone’s chin, my face nuzzled up against a warm neck, breathing in sage and the scent of someone distinctly male.
I freeze. My arm is snaked around Nikolai’s middle, and his arm is draped over my shoulders. He’s curled protectively around me, exhaling rhythmically against my hair. He smells warm and safe.
This feels anything but safe.
My skin is electric.
I have to keep my emotions under control.
I deliberately slow my breathing, but my body doesn’t listen.
My heart speeds. I’ve never felt so exhilarated.
Magic pulses like a shivering heartbeat up my spine.
My cheek tingles against Nikolai’s neck, and without thinking, I rotate my head so my nose and lips brush him.
My breath catches. My magic roils, alive between us, racing over the sensitive skin of my lips and making me squirm. It’s excruciatingly pleasurable. I wriggle closer, quivering with magic.
Nikolai shifts, tightening his arms around me.
I gasp, and he moans in response, pressing his hips forward against my stomach.
My eyes leap open. I can feel him hard against me.
He rolls his hips again, groaning into my hair.
Every part of my body flames and coils with tension.
With need. I writhe beneath the crackling energy, tucking my nose into the nook at the base of his neck and rubbing against him for more contact.
Tension ripples through him.
I whimper, my mind consumed beyond coherent thought.
“Taera?” Nikolai’s deep voice is rough with sleep.
I go still. He shifts to unravel far enough that I’m forced to meet his hooded green gaze. The heat in it travels straight to my center. I squeeze my legs together, still wound in his, and can feel the firm evidence of his desire through the sheets between us.
As though he’s in pain, Nikolai clenches his jaw, squeezing his eyes closed.
The pulsing web of magic ebbs between our intertwined bodies, until only a trace of current flows across the skin where he’s clasping my wrist hard. His eyes fly open again, dark with lust and fierce concentration.
I’m still catching my breath. Now that the intoxicating rush of magic is muted, I’m left with the unwanted clarity of how much I still crave him. Seeing him flushed and rigid with restraint thrills me, and a soft voice—the part of me that belongs to the desert—wants to see it snap.
“Do you want this?” He rocks his hips once before holding himself perfectly still.
Scorching heat that has to be lust surges through me.
Sparks flicker, and my core tenses. I want to say yes, I want to say no, but my mouth won’t function.
Every sensation is too new, too raw, too consuming. I can’t breathe.
“Are you okay?” Nikolai’s heated gaze pulls back to concern.
I force myself to nod. My neck is so rigid I’m surprised it doesn’t creak. Everything feels like too much—the magic, the magician, the fire in my veins. I try to think of something to say, but my tongue remains thoroughly tied.
Gently, but surprisingly quickly, he untangles our bodies until he’s barely holding my hand. I ache for his warmth, but I gulp down the cool morning air and the lucidity it brings.
It’s like a slap to the face.
This is Nikolai.
Liar. Magician. Tormentor.
I rubbed up against him like a cat in heat.
I wanted to say yes.
I feel the blood drain from my face. I stare at the crinkled sheets, appalled at myself. Thank all the sand of the desert that my body was as surprised as I was, and I only gaped at him like a lizard rather than taking things any further.
Nikolai lets out an uneven breath, running a hand through his hair.
“Magic can be intense,” he says lamely.
I can’t even look at him.
“Ready to get up?” He props himself upright. “We can read until dawn.”
I glance around. It isn’t dark, but it isn’t quite light, either. “It’s morning?”
“Not quite,” he murmurs. “But I doubt I’ll be able to fall asleep again.”
I cringe, but a tiny corner of my mind delights in affecting him the same way he affects me. I kick it.
He reaches off the side of the bed, then passes me the same introductory textbook I was reading last night. I open it and re-read the same paragraph over and over while I simmer.
“You aren’t quite ready for that part,” Nikolai says, amused.
I glance at the heading. Chapter 15. Flustered, I flip back to the correct section. I scramble to regain the appearance of composure. I can pretend nothing happened.
Nothing at all.
“Should I do every exercise?” I ask.
“No, but they’ll help you get a feel for your magic. If you were in first year, you’d be assigned all the odd ones.”
“I can already feel my magic,” I mutter.
He gives a low chuckle. “So can I.”
I scowl down at my book.
“It changes with your emotions.”
My stomach drops. He has to mean vague, imprecise emotions.
Amusement dances across his lips. “It’s difficult to concentrate when you’re aroused.”
I stare at him, mortified. “I am not aroused.”
“False.”
I forgot about the stupid marble. I wish I could swallow it and choke and die.
“I can read the emotions of even highly trained sources. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. What you felt this morning… it just means our magic is compatible.” He clears his throat. “Very compatible.”
My anger and humiliation swim together, mixing like chalk and acid in my throat. I pinch my eyes shut. But I have to know.
“You can read all my emotions?” I demand.
He smirks. “Yes, Taera.”
So he knew. He knew about every single inappropriate reaction I had in the labyrinth, and afterward. And he didn’t tell me.
“I need to… change,” I mutter, and shuffle off the bed. Otherwise, I’m going to punch him.
“I can come with you, if you don’t want the itching,” he offers.
“I’d rather not.” I glare back.
“I can wear a blindfold,” he says, very seriously. His lip twitches again.
I frown at him. Is he upset by this situation?
He presses his lips firmly together, his eyes dancing, and I realize he’s trying not to burst into laughter.
Blinded by rage, I rip my hand out of his and storm off to his bathing chambers.
As soon as I’m through the door, it’s like I’m a human anthill. I need to scratch every inch of my skin. I try to rub it instead, so I won’t make it red and angry, but the awful prickling consumes me.
Nikolai is experiencing every moment of this agony.
This knowledge gives me a vicious spark of satisfaction.
I smile smugly.
With excruciating effort, I stop scratching. I clean my teeth and brush my hair, breathing through the distress. I even trim my nails for good measure. The image of Nikolai suffering the same unbearable discomfort—of wiping that smirk from his face—helps me push through.
Finally, I can’t stand it anymore.
I return to the bedroom, stepping as calmly as I can manage. I find Nikolai pacing outside the door, looking haggard and disheveled, with his skin pink from scratching. He grabs for my hand, letting out a pained groan of relief.
I try, truly try, to hide my smirk.
A tiny one escapes anyway.
“I deserved that,” he mutters.