“It most certainly is not fine. Tell me truly, how are you holding up?”
I open my mouth to reply but whatever I was about to say dies on an exhale. I reach up rubbing the back of my neck. “Not as bad as I thought it would be…” I admit. As far as fake relationships go, this is the best one I’ve been in.
Not that it is saying much. But there’s a part of me that almost wishes it wasn’t all a lie. What would it be like if I married Bronwyn?
Frustrating.
But also amusing.
Thrilling?
Yes, that’s a word for how she makes me feel.
“What do you mean?” Asimov demands his face twisting in disgust.
“She’s not half bad at kissing.”
Asimov gags at this, and I feel my eyebrows rise as he rests his hand on the mantel and makes a grand and hopefully forced display of his disgust. “Please don’t make a mess on my floors.”
I hope he doesn’t pay too much attention to my floor. There’s a bloodstain from where I spilled a vial that I haven’t managed to get up.
“You’ve kissed the Eel?” he demands.
I shrug.
“Why?”
“I was… curious. Really, I don’t see why you’re making such a big deal about this.”
“You despise her,” Asimov counters. “She is disgustingly beneath you.”
While it’s true that I used to despise her, I wonder how much of that stemmed from true feelings of hate and which were from wanting to get her to notice me. I roll my tongue in my mouth as I consider that.
Gods, that’s an unsettling thought.
I quickly shutter it and determine to never think of it again. Because that would force me to admit that I always felt this strange draw to Bronwyn the Eel. Even when she was an insufferable first year with no friends save for the dozens of books she buried herself under. It’s fine if I’m intrigued by her now, she is intriguing and clever and a mysterious enigma.
But the Bronwyn I knew last year was not deserving of that interest and the Wilder of last year was an entirely not monstrous person, and he was above needing to be interested in her. That Wilder had prospects, pride, ambition. He wasn’t forced to resort to drinking blood and pretending that it is wine.
I reach up, running my hand down my face. “You’re right,” I mutter in surprise. “I can’t believe Ikissedher.”
Asimov shakes his head slowly, his disbelief clearly written across his face. “Let’s hope her father is very wealthy to make this pain of yours worth it.”
I hold up my glass as if a toast, but I find myself wondering what sort of man Bronwyn’s father is. I know who my father is, but I presume that not every man who is unlucky enough to father a child is as powerful, ambitious, and egotistical as him. Some of them have to be decent, right?
Maybe Bronwyn’s father is one of those rare ones. It makes me wonder what meeting her family would be like… if we were actually engaged, that is.
The thought is honestly too much to handle, and it leaves me wondering why I even entertained the notion even for a second.I toss back my glass, draining the rest of it in one gulp and resolutely remind myself thatthisis my future.
Not the one I saw with Bronwyn.
The one spent choking down blood and plotting to make more like me.
Chapter Sixteen
Bronwyn
“Iwas engaged to be married once.”
