Her gaze drops to our feet, fingers idly rubbing mine. “A puzzle, huh?”
She lets go of one hand but keeps the other as she starts walking. Neither of us speaks for a while, but it doesn’t feel like we need to. Silence can be good.
I walk at a significantly slower pace than before, trying to draw out the time it takes to get to her dorm, but we still arrive sooner than I’d like. Ellie looks up at the bland brick building, its outside lit by ornate, wrought-iron lanterns hanging from the sides and candlelight pouring out its windows, but she makes no move to go inside.
“You never told me what Alexis did to make you spit out your drink.”
“Not sure I should.” I lean against the chilly metal railing of the stairs. “I’d hate to cause a problem between the two of you.”
“Now you have to tell me.”
I close my eyes, inwardly groaning at the memory. “Every time I took a sip, she slid her foot up against my leg.”
“Why does it seem like every woman you meet can’t keep their hands off you?”
“You tell me.” I lift the hand she’s been holding ever since leaving the tavern. Her cinnamon eyes glare at me, but her lips purse as they fail to hold back a smile. “Anyway… that last time, she stuck her foot directly into my lap.”
“She didn’t!” Ellie raises her free hand to brush against her lips. Heat rises from deep within me, imagining that gentle touch.
“She did. I blame you for not claiming me when you had the chance.”
Ellie’s eyes widen, and her fingers graze her chin as she contemplates me. I swallow, not sure how much longer I can keep up this carefree exterior.
She bites her lip and I almost snap. “Is it too late?”
“To preserve my innocence? Yes. But to prevent future incidents?” I pause, forcing a breath through the tightnessin my chest. “No, I don’t think it is.”
She blushes. I probably did, too, warmth building in my cheeks. Pushing off the railing, I close the gap between us and tilt my head down until her face is only a breath away.
“I want to kiss you…” I whisper, inhaling her floral scent, “but I won’t.”
Ellie’s eyes tremble. “Why not?” She’s so close, her mouth slightly parted. Hoping. Waiting. It takes everything I have not to give those lips what they want.
“You’re drunk.” I move close to her ear. “And I want to make sure youreallywant to.”
Dropping her hands, I pull away before she can react, cherishing the stunned look on her face. If I’d kissed her, I wouldn’t have gotten to see it.
“Maybe I’ll see you in class tomorrow.” With a short wave of my hand, I stroll away as my heart hammers against my ribs.
She calls after me. “What if you don’t?”
“Then I’ll find you!”
I don’t look back. If I do, I won’t be able to keep myself from going back, and she’ll discover exactly how desperate I am to kiss her.
* * *
I’m still reliving the feeling of Ellie’s hand in mine, the heat of her breath, when I enter the ramshackle abode that barely qualifies as our house. A healthy blaze crackles in the fireplace, which means Mother’s still up. Burying my smile, I force a sigh.
“I’m home.”
I stand in our combination kitchen, sitting, and dining room, that’s also had my bed shoved into the corner ever since I was old enough to not want to share my mother’s. The same lumpy pillow and threadbare blanket’s been spread on top of it for fifteen years, its holes no longer big enough to stick my arms through like when I was young.
It’d be nice if I could afford to live on campus like everyone else. It’s free to attend the Academy, but not to live there. Unlike Reid, it wasn’t a lifelong dream of mine—just my only shot at having a future. While he spent our adolescence working odd jobs to save up money so he could get the full campus experience, I wasted that time with various girlfriends.
Mother’s feet scrape along the floor as she hobbles into the room from hers, the only other in our two-room shack. She’s been looking better lately, with more color in her skin and energy in her eyes, but she continues to move slowly. The years seem to hit her harder than most, leading people to assume she’s much older than she is. Not that she’s ever told me her age, claiming it’s rude to ask.
Normally by this time, she’d have readied herself for bed, but she still wears her widow’s cowl—a simple piece of cotton that encircles her face, covering her hairline as it connects beneath her chin to hide her neck. It’s the typical fashion for women who want the world to know they aren’t seeking a partner, and she’s worn it as long as I can remember. She never talks about my father, and has made it very clear it’s not a topic for discussion.
