“Well, what happened then? Why were you slumped in the chair like that?”
He rises to his feet and takes a step toward me. “Do you need me to spell it out for you?”
I lift my chin. “Maybe. I’d like to know whether I should feel bad for you or not.”
“Why would you feel bad in the first place?”
I gesture toward the broken armrest. “I clearly made you feel uncomfortable.”
He holds my gaze, a smirk playing over his lips as he absently runs a hand over his jaw. Right where I kissed. “It wasn’t discomfort that made me do that. At least not the kind you’re imagining.”
“Then what kind was it?”
My pulse ratchets up as he slowly closes the distance between us, but I force myself not to react. I know what he’s doing. He saw my moment of weakness—of doubt—and he’s using it to get back at me. I won’t let him. This ismywin. Mine.
Once he reaches me, he places his forefinger under my jaw, lifting my face higher. With his thumb, he caresses my chin, just under my bottom lip. “The kind of discomfort that makes it hard for a man to stand afterward. The kind that—should you ever make me feel it again—I won’t want you to stop.”
He releases my chin and strolls away, hands in his pockets. As soon as he’s gone, I take his place in the chair. I grip the armrests, still warm from Thorne’s touch, and brush my fingers over the place where the wood splintered. My sense of triumph returns. Now that I know my magic didn’t drain Thorne—only used his desire to forge a more powerful dreamscape—I can release my guilt. And even though he made a good comeback at the end with those tantalizingly seductive words, I still feel like the victor.
The feeling remains even after Minka returns with Angela, and we enjoy the tea Minka brought with just the three of us. It isn’t until Mr. Boris finds us and hands me an envelope that my good feelings falter. I excuse myself from my companions and open the envelope in the empty hall outside the gallery. I expect it to be from Monty, announcing our next game, but a quick perusal of the letter’s contents proves otherwise.
Little Briar,
One more week until I must collect your family for the catacombs. That’s truly all I can give you.
Best of luck,
Nyxia
My heart sinks, my stomach hollowing out along with it. Her words serve only as a reminder, not a surprise, for I knew I only had one week left of the two she allotted me. Still, the reminder is sobering indeed, for it marks the very day my wedding is supposed to proceed.
The event that will fulfill my bargain with Thorne.
Break the curse, just in time.
Save our families.
It’s why I’m here. It’s the reason I put up with so much of Monty’s shit. And with today’s win—one I earned when I was no longer trying to play with him—I’m closer than ever to succeeding.
If I win one more game, he’ll be bound by the rules he agreed to. He’ll have to beg his father to reinstate our betrothal. And if I don’t win one of the final two games, Lord Phillips is due back in a matter of days, and I’ll take the issue up with him. IknowI can convince him. Iknowthis wedding is within reach.
I should be thrilled.
I should be exhilarated.
So why do I feel like my lungs are going to burst?
36
BRIONY
That night I find myself battling sleep—or maybe it’s the one battling me. Whatever the case, I can’t relax. Can’t shut off my mind, no matter how much I toss and turn in bed, and for different reasons from this morning. Instead of the desire that plagued me before, now it’s the unheard ticking on an invisible clock, one that draws me closer and closer to my goal. Dread burrows deep inside me, a sharp and murky emotion that I haven’t been able to shake since receiving Nyxia’s letter.
Mr. Boris was strangely quiet afterward when we returned to the girls in the gallery to finish tea. Not that he’s normally loud. It’s more that his silence seemed heavy, etched in the stiff lines of his formal posture as he stood by the door. After Angela left, and it was just me, Mr. Boris, and Minka, I asked him if something was wrong. All he said was that my impending sacrifice was weighing on him. Minka’s countenance fell too then, and she muttered something about enjoying her unseelie form as much as she can now, for soon she’ll be disallowed from donning it again.
Now as I lay in bed, their words echo back to me, weaving through others. Like what Thorne said about the catacombs, how my parents sought to burn them down, just to put an end to his family. How Mr. Boris all but confirmed it, saying he’d heard the rumors. I remember him insisting my parents must have had a good reason to do such a thing, but he never gave me one.
Then there’s what Thorne said about my parents when we argued after the race.
