Chapter 10 #2
I can sense the powerful current of his magic. I never knew I was attracted to strength, but I remember the way he fought Russell, and my heart flutters.
Rowan turns my way when he hears me come in, his eyes darkening when he sees my sparkles. Perfectly composed, he says to the caller, “Their second flush Darjeeling has always been excellent. I trust your judgment.”
He must be talking to Laverna’s tea buyer. Or…my tea buyer, I guess.
I stand in the doorway, unsure of myself. Our mate bond urges me forward. It begs me to touch him. But do I dare? And if I dare, should I?
I close the door, but instead of moving deeper into the room, I hesitate. My fingers hover near the doorknob. Before I lose my nerve, I set the lock.
Rowan notices the movement and comes to a standstill.
I join him, trying to look anywhere but his bare torso. It’s a battle I’m destined to lose. My mouth goes dry when I take another peek.
“I don’t care for their Assam,” Rowan says, his voice tight, telling me our close proximity is affecting him, too.
I shouldn’t take advantage of his distraction. A nice pixie wouldn’t…
Tentatively, I graze my fingers over his forearm, fascinated by the way his muscles tense under my touch.
“Yes, that would be fine,” he tells the caller, his tone now clipped and rushed.
Encouraged, my fingers stray across his shoulders, down the light patch of hair on his chest, and over his toned abdomen.
Trying to focus on his conversation even though his attention is on me and my featherlight touch, he murmurs a distracted response into the phone.
Done exploring, I press my palms to his warm shoulders and kiss his neck, enjoying distracting him.
“I’m afraid something has just come up,” he tells the caller abruptly, placing his hand on the small of my back to hold me in place. “Can I call you back?”
I smile against his skin, victorious.
As soon as he ends the call, he tosses his phone onto a shelf, firmly presses his hands to the sides of my waist, and hoists me up. Surprised, I instinctively wrap my legs around his waist and loop my arms over his shoulders, laughing with delight.
“Shhh,” he warns. “Nadine will hear us.”
“Like she won’t suspect what we’re doing when I don’t return.”
“We’re having a tea meeting.” He kisses my lips, then the underside of my jaw. He trails down my neck, his mouth hot and soft. “A very important tea meeting.”
“I like tea meetings.” I gasp when he flicks his tongue over my skin. “Almost as much as I like you shirtless.”
“Kit,” he groans when my sparkles flare. “We shouldn’t do this.”
But does he set me down? No. Do we continue doing this thing he’s decided we’re not supposed to do? Absolutely.
He claims my lips, kissing me in that all-consuming way of his, and carries me to the wall. Pressing my back firmly against it, using it to prop me up, he frees one hand and threads his fingers into my hair, setting me ablaze.
Thoughts flee from my head, leaving nothing but Rowan. His five o’clock shadow scratches my chin, my cheeks. He deepens the kiss, coaxing my lips open, gently demanding. Every bone in my body turns to jelly. The bond sings.
“You’re going to flood the entire tea shop with your summer magic,” he warns, softening the kiss but lingering.
I slide my hand over his back, enjoying the expanse of warm, bare skin. “I’m too happy to contain it.”
He breaks the kiss, smiling like he can’t believe we’re doing this in the middle of the day while the shop is open, and then drops his forehead into the crook of my neck. “I’m terrible at keeping my hands off you.”
I comb my fingers into his chocolaty hair, enjoying the feel of the soft, short strands. “Don’t feel too bad. Pretty sure I started it.”
“Pretty sure?” He chuckles. “You absolutely started it.”
He turns his head, kissing the side of my neck, the gesture sweetly affectionate, and then he sighs. I unlock my legs, sensing the delightful interlude is over.
Rowan lowers me to the ground and presses one last kiss to my lips. “It’s almost six. We should get down there so we can close the shop.”
“I suppose.”
But he doesn’t move, and the expression on his face becomes thoughtful—remorseful even.
Nudging him with a smile, I say, “You’re thinking awfully hard about something.”
He slowly exhales a measured breath. “I feel guilty. I keep succumbing to the pull of the bond—and I’m frustrated I’m not strong enough to fight its pull. Worse, I don’t want to fight it.”
“I haven’t helped any,” I say quietly. “I’m sorry.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “I love being close to you. I just need…”
“To know that it’s real.”
Swallowing, he meets my eyes. “Yes.”
“I need that, too,” I admit. “I want to know that after the magic fades, you’ll still choose me.”
Rowan touches my arm, quietly affectionate, offering gentle reassurance, understanding my fear.
“We need to break the bond,” I say, finally acknowledging that Rowan is right. We can’t continue like this forever.
“I don’t know if it will work, but I have a theory that I’d like to try. It’s overly simple, but sometimes mages overcomplicate magic, making things more difficult than they need to be. It’s worth a shot.”
“Okay,” I say, resigned. “What do we need to do?”
“Let’s go see Ansel, and we’ll talk about it together.”
Ansel is just as excited to see us as usual. The sorcerer looks up from his bench when we walk into his workshop, scowling.
Personally, I believe it’s a friendly sort of scowl. We’re annoying, certainly, but part of him likes us despite that.
“You’re not even knocking these days?” he says, his tone as flat as the diagram that’s spread out on the bench in front of him. He’s handsome in a sharp, haughty sort of way, with his dark hair and green eyes.
“We did knock,” Rowan says.
And I add, “Three times.”
“You left the door unlocked.” Rowan gestures toward Ansel’s project. “So we decided to come in and make sure you didn’t fall victim to one of your spells.”
Ansel rolls up his diagram with a put-out sigh. “You know all about that, don’t you?”
Ignoring the jab, Rowan walks to the workbench. “How do you feel about depleting your magic and trying something stupid?”
Ansel perks up, his interest piqued. “How stupid?”
“Only a little.”
The light leaves the sorcerer’s eyes, making me think he would prefer to attempt something wildly stupid. “What do you have in mind?”
“I’m going to siphon some magic into an amulet. While I’m connected, I want you to draw from it and see if you can spot the link between Kit’s magic and mine.”
Ansel looks intrigued. “What do you want me to do if I can?”
“I’d like you to try to unweave it.”
“Sounds too easy.”
“I agree, but it’s a good place to start.”
“I have a question,” I say. “Why must you siphon your magic into a holding amulet for Ansel to work with it?”
“We can’t access someone’s magic directly.” Ansel takes a peppermint from the bowl on the workbench and untwists the wrapper. “I can only attempt to manipulate it through a connected cache.”
“Okay… But why can’t Rowan siphon his magic into a cache and then manipulate it himself?”
“Once the cache is disconnected from my magic, it’s no longer tied to us,” Rowan answers. “Whatever I do to it won’t affect us. It wouldn’t sever our link. The best I could do is separate our magic in the sample.”
“You can’t manipulate the cache while you’re hooked into it?”
“I can’t do anything while hooked to it.”
I nod slowly. “So, in theory, if Ansel draws from an amulet while you’re still tied to it, he should be able to manipulate your internal magic directly.”
“Correct,” Rowan says. “That’s what we’re hoping, anyway.”
“So, it’s kind of what we did when we turned you back, but in reverse. You will be connected to the pendant this time instead of me.”
“That’s right,” Ansel says. “Though mages use holding amulets, not dust pendants.”
“Would it be helpful if I connected to a dust pendant as well?”
“It won’t be necessary. I should have access to your magic through Rowan—assuming you two are truly bonded.”
“We are,” Rowan says grimly.
“All right—let’s try it,” Ansel says. “If nothing else, it will give me a chance to examine your bond. Rowan, begin siphoning into an amulet while I drain my magic, and we’ll begin.”
Ansel chooses a wand from the stand on the side table, spells the perimeter of the room with what I suspect is a noise ward, heads to the large fireplace, and points at the charcoaled bricks.
He mutters something, and then a stream of red-hot fire erupts from the tip of his wand like a firecracker.
It screams at first and then quiets to the gentle roar of a flame thrower.
Last time, I was mostly unconscious during this step. But I’m fully coherent now, and I stumble back, startled by the heat and intensity of the depletion process.
Meanwhile, Rowan pulls an empty glass amulet from his pocket. Wand in hand, he works a spell, and purple magic begins filling the bottle.
I gasp when I feel the internal tug.
Rowan looks up. Loud enough I can hear him over Ansel’s magic, he says, “Can you feel it?”
“Yeah.” I lean against the workbench.
“When Russell was pulling your magic, I felt it as well. It’s subtle but present.”
When siphoned, my magic is a gold dust, but Rowan’s looks like a viscous liquid.
“Does it hurt?” I ask.
“No more than a blood draw hurts a human.”
A minute later, Ansel’s flames die down. The sorcerer stumbles to the workbench, breathing hard, close to passing out. “Let’s do this.”
“Why didn’t you just send your magic into a cache?” I ask him.
“Takes too long.” He clenches his eyes like he’s dizzy. “I’d need a dozen amulets.”
Rowan eyes the sorcerer. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” Ansel straightens. “Let’s hurry before my magic begins to regenerate.”
“Would that be a problem this time?” I ask. “You’re not performing a spell on Rowan.”
“Yes, but his magic would be impossible to manipulate if mine were in the way,” Ansel says. “Mine would repel it, and I’d never be able to get a good look at what’s going on.”
“Is there enough to work with?” Rowan asks.
Ansel contemplates Rowan’s amulet. There’s barely anything in it. The thick liquid magic moves like molasses.
“Did you work the spell correctly?” Ansel asks. “It’s siphoning slower than usual.”
“It always siphons this slowly.”
“Maybe that’s because you always work the spell incorrectly.”
Rowan rolls his eyes. “Do you have enough or not?”
“I don’t know. Let’s try it.”
Ansel points his wand at the amulet and mutters a spell. A second stream of liquid leaves the cache, twisting like a vine until it reaches the sorcerer.
“How are you doing that without magic?” I ask him.
“Wands are elven crafted, charmed to access magic. I’m using its enchantment to pull from the cache.”
He directs the magic toward a large wooden tray on the workbench. Slowly, the magic puddles on the surface. When Ansel has what he decides must be enough, he mutters a charm and suspends the transfer. It remains connected, but no additional magic flows into the tray.
“All right,” the sorcerer says. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”
He examines the magic, using his wand to prod it. Frowning, he reaches for a magnifying stand that sits nearby on the table.
“Any sign of Kit’s magic?” Rowan asks from his seat next to the workbench.
“Yes,” Ansel says thoughtfully. “But there’s no distinct point of connection like you were hoping.”
“Describe what you’re seeing.”
“There are thousands of shimmering pixie dust particles integrated into your magic.”
“Dust particles,” Rowan says dumbly.
Ansel grunts.
“What’s wrong with that?” I ask.
Ansel’s eyes flick up to me. “Imagine spilling a bottle of glitter into a pool of glue.”
“Okay…”
“Now imagine getting that glitter out of the glue.”
Impossible.
It would be…impossible.
I inhale softly, my heart beating faster as a smile tugs at my lips. My summer magic floods the room, blanketing my companions.
“Kit,” Rowan groans. “You’re not supposed to be happy about it.”
“I think you have a more pressing concern than the mate bond,” Ansel says. “Why is your magic so blasted sticky?”
When I realize his expression is scrunched with true worry, my happy magic snuffs out.
“Sticky?” I ask. “Is that bad?”
Ansel shoots Rowan a look. “It’s usually a symptom of an advanced stage of an illness.”