I couldn’t stop myself from studying his handsome features, his straight nose, his mouth soft and yielding even when it was sad.
“I’m down because of Jaxan and the Echelons. They’re not going to be nice to you. Things are only going to get harder. And if you don’t let me help — ”
“Leland?” It had been a long day. If he wanted to help, fine. I was willing to let him. “Will you Refresh my things again?”
Leland winced. “I ran out of spells. Can’t cast until tomorrow.”
“Sure,” I said, again irritated by his lying. When a light witch hit their spell count, the body forced them to rest by inducing a sleep-state called depletion. But Leland still had energy to cast more spells. I knew he did.
“Here — ” He slid off his backpack and leaned down to search it until he found a white T-shirt. “Take this. Leave what you want Refreshed on the porch tonight. I’ll come by in the morning.”
I took the shirt from him but had to hold it down at my knees to stop myself from inhaling it. Still going through his bag, he systematically parted things out of his way, searching, searching. I wanted to drown in a bath of his pine scent.
“Do you always carry this?” I asked, meaning the T-shirt.
“Yes.” Still searching.
“Why?”
“Why?” he repeated, eyes suddenly dangerous. “In case I sweat through mine. In case I need to tie off a wound. To give to you. To use as a gag. In case I’m out of zip ties and need to restrainsomeone — ”
Something warm and intense flared through me, my blood sending unwelcome images to my brain of Leland participating in a verydifferentkind of bondage. “Leland. Please stop.”
He tossed gray sweatpants at me.
“Is this one spelled?” I asked, balling up his sweatpants to hold down by my knees with his T-shirt, pretending to be more interested in his backpack. There was no way it fit an entire change of clothesanda thousand syringes. He was large. Lean but large — they were large sweatpants.
“Yup.” He closed the bag with a sharp, cleanzip.
My shoulders tensed when I realized he was leaving. “Wait,” I said. Inside, there was a trail of dishes I hadn’t bothered to pick up, and that was going to be unfortunate. But he was a Creator who could repair things, and if he could fix it . . .
Leland glanced sidelong at me. “Yes?”
“There’s something else I need help with. Will you look at the letterbox? I think I broke it.”
“Magical artifacts are gifts from the Goddess,” Leland said. “They can’t be broken.”
“Does that mean” — I tilted my head, trying to understand him.Hated how I didn’t ask for help. Not exactlyjumpingto provide it— “no?”
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
EMBER
When Counterparts become family, wards become welcome mats.
— Helen Blackburn, Echelon to the
School of Mental Magic
It’s broken,” Leland said, hardly one foot in the door.
“You said I couldn’t break it.”
“And that was correct,” he stated, taking a closer look at the shards piled on the floor. “You didn’t. Something else did.”
I was avoiding looking too long at him — at his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and showing off the dark beauty of his Death Bonds. They wound up his flexed forearm as he leaned casually on the kitchen table. Two days ago, I swore I’d never invite him inside again. Now we were mere feet apart, our arms mirroring each other as, standing directly across from him, I braced my hands on the curved back of the couch for support.
