Chapter 23
Harrisford
I can’t even look at Gwendolynne as we ride to the gala in the back of my father’s car.
And it’s not just because my body instantly reacts each time I so much as glance her way…
it’s also because I’m absolutely mortified for fucking up the glamour.
If only she knew why, she’d probably think me a total loser. Though, to be fair, she already does.
It’s not that I don’t know how to cast glamours.
I do. In fact, I’m rather good at them. Danny Wong and I used to mess around with them all the time when we were teens.
On certain occasions, when we were bored, we’d enchant each other’s faces for a laugh.
It was a waste of magic, sure, but we’d always had enough surplus for that not to be an issue.
What I’d forgotten about glamour charms is that the final effect lies with the person casting it—not the person receiving the spell.
If it were listed in a textbook, the section under glamours would read: This spell alters the recipient’s appearance, allowing their features to change in such a way that is most desirable to the caster.
That is, it can be someone else you find attractive, or the most pleasing version of oneself.
This is why most of the time people cast glamours on themselves.
Danny and I, on the other hand, used to turn each other into girls and guys we fancied, and then give each other total shit for it. Until the last time I’d cast a glamour back in fifth year…It had gone badly, and I’d sworn off them for good.
But tonight, so desperate to put Gwendolynne out of her apparent misery, I’d put a glamour on her, not stopping to think about what the end result would be. And when she opened her eyes and saw her unaltered reflection…
Well.
Sure, I’d tried to cover up my mistake by immediately pivoting to a hair and makeup spell, and even though it had been clumsy spellwork she’d seemed happy enough with the result.
But I was shaken. I’m still shaken. It was the sudden, horrible realization that what I desire most is Gwendolynne—exactly as she is. Loose hair, ugly cardigans, beat-up trainers, jeans. And that if she knew anything at all about glamours, then she would know exactly what I had done.
It was even a revelation for me, though it shouldn’t have been, considering the elaborate fantasies I’ve been having about her of late.
In fact, when she’d mentioned taking off the dress, it took all of my willpower not to grab her and growl, There’s only one person that’s allowed to take that thing off, Chan… and that’s me.
Somehow, I’d managed to restrain myself.
To stop myself from blurting out those foolish, foolish words.
I know she doesn’t think about me that way—she’s both told me and shown me on a number of occasions how hateful she thinks I am.
And to be honest, she’s right. I’m not a good person.
I’m cocky, I’m short-tempered, I’m extremely judgmental.
I’m the son of a harsh, murderous tyrant, and I’m quite sure my genes are just as rotten as his.
I’m so fucked up that I can’t even bring myself to feel bad about the fact that my father is in a coma.
I’m so fucked up that not even my own mother considered me worthy enough to stay.
And even if Gwendolynne didn’t detest me—even if by some miracle she got past her deep-seated hatred—then I still wouldn’t want her falling for me.
After what happened with Isla, I can’t guarantee that I wouldn’t break Gwendolynne’s heart.
I had lost interest in Isla after less than a year, until even looking at her sickened me.
What if that happened again? I simply cannot risk it.
No. I’m just going to have to appreciate that Gwendolynne is an extremely attractive woman without ever letting her know how I feel.
“Can you pass some water?” Gwendolynne says, jolting me out of my thoughts.
I push one of the chilled bottles into her waiting hand, and for the briefest of moments our fingers brush.
Hers are so warm, her skin so smooth. Uncomfortable, I shift in my seat, then go back to staring out the window and jiggling my leg.
I’m nervous. It feels as though a lot is riding on tonight. Plus, after what happened at the museum last time I’d begrudgingly left Pudding back at Heywood Hall.
“Hey.” Gwendolynne leans over and puts a hand on my knee, stilling it. “Don’t stress. It’s just one night—Pudding will be fine.” It’s as if she can read my fucking mind.
It’s lucky she can’t, though, because if she could, she’d know that there appears to be a direct connection from my left knee to my groin.
She’d see that my brain is thoroughly preoccupied with images of me grabbing her face and kissing her.
Pushing her back against the leather seats, her legs wrapped around my waist. Sinking to my knees, lifting her dress, worshipping her with nothing but my lips and hands and tongue…
I blink, forcing myself to look away. I’m both glad and not glad that I ordered that dress; she looks fucking good in it, but it is really not helping my composure.
“I’m not stressed,” I say curtly, tugging on my collar and studying the scenery outside.
It’s started to rain, that heavy, muggy rain that wets the windscreen in big, round, splashy drops.
It streaks across the car windows as we zip along the motorway far faster than a normal car.
There’s an awkward tension in the air; Gwendolynne keeps fiddling with her hair, twisting the elaborate curls, and several times she opens her mouth and then closes it, as though unsure of what to say.
Finally, she spits it out. “I think we should make a plan for tonight.”
“Very well,” I say, throwing a glance at her. “We go in, look for a powerful magical object, and then get out again.”
She scowls at me. “That’s not very comprehensive. How about we split up and try to interrogate people? I’ll start with Nora Chapman, I can probably get Heli to—”
“Chan, this is a gala, not a fucking police procedural. We can’t just round up the guests and start firing questions at them.”
The words explode out of her. “I wasn’t going to—” She stops short, pauses, then continues. “I didn’t actually mean interrogating them. I just meant trying to eke out some information by asking a few questions, that’s all.”
I raise one eyebrow. “That sounds an awful lot like interrogating.”
She folds her arms across her chest and glowers. “What’s your plan, then? If we don’t find any tethers, how do you propose we best make use of our time?”
I can think of many activities I’d rather do with her, but I don’t say it.
I just narrow my eyes, staring back, silent for a few stretched-out moments.
Then I say, finally, “We drink. We eat. We socialize.” I pull an open wine bottle out of the ice bucket and start to pour myself a glass.
“We charm people. Get them all buttered up, loosen their tongues with champagne, and wait until they spill their secrets.” With the bottle still poised, I tilt it at her, offering her a drink.
She ignores my offer, her irritation tangible. “It doesn’t actually work like that—”
Very deliberately, I replace the wine bottle in its bucket, then lean back and take a sip. “Of course it does.”
I can almost see her inflating with rapidly expanding anger; can almost see actual sparks flying from her eyes.
She uncrosses her arms and flings them out until both hands are braced on the car seat. “It doesn’t for me!” she hisses. “Just because you can get away with your charm and good looks doesn’t mean the rest of us can!”
My stomach dips at her words; my fingers tighten around my glass. Uncrossing my legs, I lean forward until I’m entirely too much in her space. Our breaths mingle, my lips parted, a gasp hitching in her throat.
I grin, cocking my head to one side. “You think I’m good-looking?”
She stares at me for a moment, then looks away, out the window. “Some people might think so,” she mutters. “Not me, though. I happen to think you’re dead disgusting.”
My heart is thumping so hard I can almost taste it, and I can’t stop my smile from spreading. Reaching up, I cup her cheek with my hand, turning her face to mine. “Yes,” I say. “I am disgusting. But then again, Chan…all humans are.”
Our eyes lock. My gaze drops to her darkened lips. My breath feels trapped in the labored rise and fall of my chest.
Good god. This woman…This woman. She is utterly impossible.
She infuriates me constantly, more than anyone else has, ever.
If something were to happen—if I were to kiss her, right here, right now, right in the back of this limo—then I’m quite sure yet another hole would tear right through the universe.
But then what? If we were together, we’d bicker all the time, much like we’re doing now. We’d be frustrated, and miserable, and probably wind up loathing one another. And hating Gwendolynne, after all these years, is not a valid option.
So I force out a breath, let her face go, and lean back—just as the car pulls up to the curb.