“Not at all.” He chuckles darkly. “I felt sorry for him, actually. Poor bastard, panting after you day and night only to have you reciprocate when your judgment is impaired. It probably killed him to deny you.”
“That’s ridiculous. Zadyn has neverpantedafter me.”
Jace gives me a dubious look, angling himself to face me. “Either you are willfully ignorant or even more unobservant than I gave you credit for.”
“Neither. Maybe you’re just wrong.” I dare a step closer.
“Mmm, not so. Where’s that famous Blackblood intuition?” His golden eyes dance, the moonlight refracting off of them.
“Buried with the rest of my magic, probably.” I sigh, leaning back against the window sill. “I don’t know what we’re going to do.”
“It’s a problem that won’t be solved by two wine-addled minds in the darkest hours of the morning.”
“It’s just frustrating.” My eyes burn into the back of the sofa. “To have this power inside of me but not be able to understand how it works or how to free it.”
“We will keep trying.”
“All I have done is try.” I turn to look at him. “I’m bending over backward to be what you want—what the king wants. I’m playing the part of courtier, the part of warrior, the part of witch. I feel like an imposter.” He studies me as I vent. “I’m none of those things. Not really. I’m just pretending to be part of this world, and every day, it becomes clearer that I don’t belong. That I’m nothing like the rest of you.”
“That’s because you aren’t.”
I look at him as he pushes off the window sill and comes to stand in front of me, arms crossed over his chest. His golden eyes burn into mine.
“You, witch, are more powerful than any of us. At least you will be when we figure out how to unleash your magic. And we will.”
“How do you know that?” I grumble.
“Because you’re the most stubborn person I know. And you’re smart. Smarter than you give yourself credit for,” he adds quietly.
“Okay, now I know hell’s freezing over if you’re giving me a compliment.”
“They’re not compliments. They’re facts.”
“Right, because you don’t do compliments.”
“Oh, I do compliments. I could bullshit you with odes dedicated to your eyes. I could write songs about the color of your cheek—” He brushes a loose tendril of hair off my shoulder, leaving it naked and exposed to him. “I could tell you that the tiny freckle just beneath your bottom lip haunts my dreams.”
For a moment, I think he might touch me.
Might take my face in his hands.
Might set me on fire.
“But you won’t.” My words are barely a whisper. There is more spoken in the look between us than either of us is able to voice.
“No. I won’t.”
“Because you don’t actually believe any of that or because it would be inappropriate given the fact that you’re courting my ‘cousin?’”
He says nothing.
“Do or die,” I dare.
“I’m not playing with you.” His jaw is set.
“Then just answer my question!”
“Both!” He suddenly explodes. “You suffer from the impression that your willfulness is charming—endearing—when in actuality it is infuriating and obnoxious. I don’tlikeyou. I am not your friend. I am here to train you, not to reign praises upon you. I am meant to harden you. To make you strong. I’ll leave the coddling to your familiar.”
