Chapter 10
Kade
Too many warring emotions all at once. I hate them all.
She has a sister. A sister who needs to be protected.
The realization is like a kick straight to the ribs, but instead of blooming pain, it’s a vicious reminder of my past, haunting me still.
Worse than any physical pain could ever be.
Fuck, it makes me wish I could go outside into the fresh air and run through the forest to forget it all.
Then there was the overwhelming rush of jealousy at seeing those texts—who the fuck is “third date guy”? She is mine. The thought of any other “guy” being involved makes me want to snarl. It’s irrational, but after reading that, the mate bond is demanding I stake my claim.
I need to stay calm. And remind myself that she’s not mine; it’s just the instincts talking. Can’t teach her if I’m acting like a rabid idiot.
She’s more powerful than I thought. And that makes this whole thing a bigger problem than I expected.
This “Cognitive Resonance” is serious magic, not like the dime-a-dozen minor psychics dotting the globe.
They couldn’t draw an echo-beast if they tried.
Meanwhile, the Librarian is going to be a feast for the damn thing unless I can help her. So it’s on me.
And if anything happens to her, the mating bond will send me into an uncontrollable rage.
Fucking inconvenient. I didn’t ask for this, didn’t want it.
There’s no room in my life for any attachments, let alone a mate.
And she doesn’t want me, anyway. She’s a normal human with a normal life.
All I’ve done is scare her and trap her in my den.
She’s probably counting the minutes until she can get away from me.
But she can’t go, not until she learns to control her magic.
First things first, though. I made her rest to recharge after that surge. Even if her “rest” consisted of reading for three hours straight at her “research station” (aka my staging table).
Now, after deflecting her when she asked every half hour until I said yes, it’s time to begin.
I’m standing as far away as I can pass off as normal, so I won’t catch any more of her scent than necessary while we do this.
My hands are shoved into my pockets as I try to project an air of detachment that I do not feel.
Her auburn hair, back in its customary ponytail, has escaped in wisps around her face while she pores through my books, giving her a slightly manic look that’s more alluring than it has any right to be.
There’s determination in the set of her shoulders, squared and tense, and her hands are clenched tightly at her sides.
She is small—tiny compared to me—yet there’s an adamant strength in the way she holds herself, like a sapling braced against a gale.
“All right.” I lean on the far wall, resisting the urge to step closer.
It’s the last thing either of us needs. “Put everything that’s not right here and now out of your mind.
Including the books.” I fix her with a knowing look.
“And including anything outside of these walls. Less focusing on what’s happening outside, more focusing on what’s happening inside.
We start simple. That surge was chaotic, at best. You need to channel it. Ready?”
Alanna nods, her jaw tight, those keen eyes now alight with a surprisingly fierce resolve. She’s scared, sure, but not paralyzed. A flicker of respect, separate from the bond’s relentless pull, stirs in me.
“Reach for it,” I instruct. “That hum you feel, that tremor. Bring it to the surface.”
I inspect every subtle shift as she follows my directions. The slight crease of concentration on her forehead, the rise and fall of her chest, the tremor of exertion that runs through her. She’s trying too hard, forcing it.
“Not like that. Try again.”
A few more tries, all the same.
“What am I doing wrong?” she asks, aggravated.
With her arm held out like it’s on display for wrongdoing, she marches across the space I’d created between us.
I think about holding my breath, but I know there’s no avoiding her scent now.
With frustration rolling off her in waves I can practically taste, she shoves the arm toward me.
“I don’t understand how to feel it. Show me. Please. How do I do this?”
She’s holding out that arm without hesitation, putting it practically under my nose. She’s my prisoner, trapped in this den—she shouldn’t trust me so easily. Does she have any idea how divine she smells? Christ, I need to get a handle on this.
The smart thing would be to step away. Put distance between us again. The last time she touched me, her magic exploded like a damn bomb going off. But the way she’s looking at me—like I’m her only path to figuring this out—makes something twist in my chest. I stay.
But I cross my arms (what a fucking victory, I know). Clearing my throat, I say, “Try closing your eyes.”
She does, without question. And I shouldn’t be watching the way her brow furrows when she concentrates.
Shouldn’t notice how she worries her lower lip, or how the afternoon light catches the red in her hair.
Shouldn’t be imagining gripping that hair in my fist, the brutal satisfaction of claiming her mouth, pulling her against me.
But here I am, supposed to be teaching her control, and I can’t even control my own damn thoughts.
“Relax,” I say, hypocritically. “Get out of your head and into your body. Feel, don’t think. It’s part of you.”
“What if—” she starts, then stops, opening her eyes.
“What?”
“I don’t know how to explain this. It’s going to sound, um, weird.
Could you, touch me?” she says hesitantly, and I wonder if I’ve just hallucinated.
Reality reasserts itself quickly, though, as she continues, the next part coming out all in a rush, “I think that somehow triggered it earlier, and I can kind of feel it again now. Like maybe if you just, um, put your hand on it, it would help, I don’t know, activate it?
” There’s something underneath her words that sounds almost hopeful. Anticipatory.
I only manage a vaguely discouraging grunt, too caught up in the thought of touching her for coherent speech.
My mate is asking me to touch her and there’s nothing I want more.
But she’s not asking me to touch her the way I want to touch her, and I am worried I’ll have trouble remembering that.
My hands twitch at my sides. I have to be careful.
If I touch her the way I want to, she might think that it’s a requirement.
That she has to let me put my hands on her just to get the training she needs to survive.
The power dynamic between us is totally skewed—I’m so much older, and stronger, and I’m her only protection.
I refuse to take advantage. I won’t be that guy.
“I know you want your space, and I totally respect that. I’m sorry to even ask. Oh! Did you know that it would react that way, is that why you didn’t want me to come near you, earlier? Is it something to do with your abilities?”
“Yes,” I manage, a ragged quality creeping into my voice that I wish wasn’t there. She is getting uncomfortably close to the truth now.
“But do you think it will work? Can we try it? Please?”
Her plea claws its way into my ribs and wraps around the organ pumping blood through my veins. Every instinct is telling me to fix whatever is upsetting her—instincts don’t care if that’s what I am already trying to do.
I think I’m succeeding at pushing down the feeling, right up until the moment when I’ve reached out and placed my hand on her. Shit.
My hand is wrapped around her delicate forearm, over the mark, and her skin is warm. Electric. Suddenly, all I can think about is how easily I could lift her onto the table and drag my tongue up her neck while I bury myself inside of her.
Her breath hitches at my touch. When she meets my gaze with those beautiful hazel eyes, the mate bond ignites with a possessive heat.
I ruthlessly suppress it, sickened by the dark direction of my own cravings.
But it’s not just the bond that’s flaring.
Beneath my palm, the raw magic in her jolts, a sudden, uncontrolled spike, like a wildfire trapped under her skin, threatening to erupt. And I’m the fucking arsonist.
She gasps. “It’s responding!”
“Magic recognizes magic.” It’s a half-truth at best. This isn’t just magic recognizing magic—this is the mating bond amplifying her power, making her more dangerous.
The mark beneath my palm pulses brighter, and I can feel her magic responding to mine in ways that have nothing to do with teacher and student. The connection between us hums with potential, perilous and intoxicating.
“Now,” I say, forcing myself to focus on the lesson instead of her pulse hammering against my fingers. “Try again.”
She closes her eyes again, and I wait until her tension eases. Imperceptibly at first, then with a clear loosening of her shoulders.
The magic, however, continues to flicker erratically with the constant threat of unrestrained release, my touch as the fuel. Her focus narrows, drawing inward, until she’s completely absorbed by the sensation.
“Good,” I murmur, my thumb unconsciously brushing the pulse point on her wrist. Her skin is soft, too soft. I clench my other hand in a fist at my side. Control.
“I can hear the books again. And not just whispers this time,” she says breathlessly.
Her magic settles into a steady rhythm, and the light expands out, bathing us in gentle radiance.
“And I can see it! Relationships, between the details. Six . . .? Six key entries in the Examination of Latent Aether book. But what’s the connection? ”
Without even hesitating, she pulls away from me, the magic dissipating around us. The mate bond, which flared so hot, turns into a cold blade. She doesn’t want me. I already knew this, but now the mate bond is getting the message.
I take the opportunity to twist the blade a little deeper. That’s right, I tell myself. It’s the magic she seeks, the understanding. Not my touch. Not me. Good. This is what I want. It’s what she wants. It’s what’s best.
I’m congratulating myself on getting the perspective I need on the situation, when I see she’s launched herself back to the table, and is making notes with a kind of furious eagerness that I can’t help but smile at.
Goddamn it.