Our lips curl at the same time, two wicked conspirators coming to the same conclusion. I’m still not convinced I triggered his emotions in the way she thinks I did, but I know what she’s getting at. She’s encouraging me to sabotage him.
“Maybe it’s selfish of me,” she says as she closes her bag, “but ruining his chances at romance serves me well too.”
“How so?”
Her grin widens. “I’d like to be the last person he kissed for as long as possible.”
My mirth is pierced by another spear of…something. Whether it’s rage or envy, I know not. All I know is that I’m suddenly back in the hall with William, his hand over my mouth, then his breath caressing my lips as he whispers two words that send a shiver up my spine.
Use me.
Then before that.
Free pass.
Say it and I’ll give you a point without taking one myself.I give you my word. A fae promise.
This time, I’m grinning wickedly alone. Poor Jolene won’t be the last person to kiss William Haywood for long, for I know exactly how to get even further ahead in this bet.
Two little words.
One fae promise.
I am going to ruin my rival.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
WILLIAM
Edwina practically radiates smugness as we settle in our train compartment, heading for our next destination. I can only assume Miss Vaughn detailed her evening with me. An evening that was entirely without kissing or touching. An evening that resulted in a win for Edwina and a loss for me.
If I’d been thinking straight when I returned to my room with Jolene last night, I could have forced myself to simply kiss the girl. Just a quick brush of my lips to ensure I remained tied with Edwina in our bet. Even a hug could have constituted physical intimacy.
But the fact remains that I was not thinking straight. I was thinking about Edwina. Obsessing, more like. While my state of mind has leveled to neutral, allowing me to slip back into my poet persona, there’s one thing that hasn’t changed.
My attraction to the woman sitting beside me on the train.
Monty and Daphne sit across from us. I didn’t argue when I entered the compartment and found the only open seat wasbeside Edwina. I figured sitting beside her would be better than sitting where I could easily look at her time and again. But such assumptions were folly, for I’m all too aware of her proximity, her scent, her every motion from the corner of my eye. I can’t stop myself from gauging any change in her aroma, can’t stop myself from trying to smell the other male on her. As a fae, my sense of smell is stronger than a human’s. Furthermore, the type of fae I am—one I don’t care to bring up if I don’t have to—makes me particularly attuned to certain bouquets.
To my relief, Edwina’s scent is mostly unchanged. Either she bathed well, or Archie didn’t leave much of a mark?—
Why the fuck am I assessing her smell? Her bathing habits? It’s none of my blooming business, attraction or no. And…since when am I so attuned to her scent in the first place? I’ve never made a habit of smelling people, not even ones I’m attracted to. Everyone has a scent, and it’s meaningless. Merely data, the same as the shade of someone’s hair or eyes. Yet hers strikes me like a blow to the skull, a tantalizing blend of ink, parchment, and air after a lightning storm. A bouquet that has me breathing deeper, yearning to lean a little closer…
“Last night was great, wasn’t it?” Monty’s voice has my spine going rigid. Only now do I realize Iwasleaning closer to Edwina.
I shift my posture until I’m angled toward the window instead. The outskirts of the city speed by as the train moves east.
“Where were you all evening, Mr. Phillips?” Edwina asks. The joviality in her voice has me equal parts bristling and melting. Bristling because her jolly mood reminds me why she’s so damn happy. Then melting because…because something is fucking wrong with me, and now I find myself liking her voice.
I don’t even like her as a person, yet now I like her scent, her voice, and am inexplicably attracted to her face and body. Andwant to spread her naked form beneath mine and taste every inch of her flesh?—
With a shake of my head, I shift a few more inches away from her. William the Poet doesn’t melt for anyone. He’s sharp and brooding and seductive. He only has eyes for his painful past.
“I spent the night on the dormitory roof,” Monty says. “Mr. Somerton was right about Moonpetal. I haven’t been that relaxed in months.”
“Wish I’d slept on the roof,” Daphne mutters with a pointed look at Edwina.
Edwina grimaces.
