The reflection that greets me steals what remains of my composure.
Beautiful.
The word feels inadequate but emerges anyway, because the woman in the mirror is beautiful in ways I've never quite seen in myself before. The dress flatters in ways that transcend simple aesthetics, the colors complementing my complexion with precision that suggests intimate knowledge of what I would wear best. My hair frames a face that seems sharper than usual, features enhanced rather than altered, everything about my appearance elevated to heights I didn't know existed.
But it's the mark on my forehead that makes my breath catch.
Lines trace across my skin in patterns that start above my brow and extend along my scalp, disappearing into the elaborate hairstyle that suddenly makes sense as camouflage. The design is intricate—woven linework that reminds me of thorns, sharp and defensive, yet softened by hints of rosebuds scattered throughout. Tiny flowers that seem frozen in the moment before blooming, petals furled tight, holding potential that hasn't yet been released.
A bond mark.
The realization arrives with weight that makes my knees weak.
I have a bond mark on my forehead that I've never seen before.
From him.
From the stranger still watching me with patient amusement.
I lift my hand to the marking, finger tracing along the delicate lines with touch that trembles despite my attempts at composure. The contact triggers something unexpected—the mark fades beneath my fingertip, disappearing as if it was never there, leaving smooth skin that shows no evidence of the intricate design.
I draw my hand back.
The mark reappears.
Thorns and roses blooming into existence the moment I stop touching them, the pattern as clear and detailed as it was moments before.
What...
"Unique hiding capabilities for a bond mark, don't you think?"
His voice cuts through my confusion with casual confidence that makes my jaw tighten. I meet his eyes through the mirror's reflection, offering nothing but a side glance that communicates the depth of my current irritation.
He lounges at the table like he owns it—like he owns the room, the Academy, potentially the entire realm. One elbow rests against the polished surface, chin propped in his palm, posture radiating the particular arrogance of someone accustomed to getting whatever they want. Those impossible features continue their subtle shifting in the library's light, never quite settling into something I can definitively categorize.
I say nothing.
Let him interpret my silence however he wishes.
The tension in the room shifts—electric charge building in the space between us, magic responding to emotional states neither of us is fully controlling. The floating candles flicker in response, flames dancing with increased agitation, shadowslengthening along the walls in patterns that suggest awareness of what's about to happen.
One moment I'm standing before the mirror.
The next I'm in his face.
Vampire speed carries me across the distance faster than mortal perception could track—one heartbeat at the mirror, the next with my hand around a butter knife from the table's elaborate place settings, the blade pressed against the vulnerable column of his throat. The motion scatters air in my wake, sending napkins fluttering and candle flames bowing away from the sudden disturbance. The metal dimples his skin with pressure that suggests serious intent, and I watch his reaction with satisfaction that borders on savage.
His pulse beats against the blade's edge.
I can feel it through the metal—steady, unhurried, the particular rhythm of someone who isn't afraid of the death I'm threatening. His blood sings to my vampire senses beneath that thin barrier of skin, carrying notes of power I don't recognize, flavors that promise sustenance unlike anything I've tasted before.
He whistles.
Actually whistles, the sound escaping pursed lips despite the weapon threatening his jugular. The vibration travels through the knife into my fingers, adding insult to the injury of his apparent unconcern.
"Vampire speed always turns me on," he admits, and there's genuine appreciation beneath the flirtation. His eyes sparkle with the particular light of someone who enjoys being challenged, who finds my aggression more attractive than alarming. "But killing me with a butter knife would be treason at best."
The audacity of the statement makes my fangs extend without conscious permission.
