Page 18 of Reckless Witch

I’m not convinced, not with the succession of names I’d seen, but I’m not about to rock the boat. I have no desire for Ethan to slap another sigil on me. The current of power radiating at the base of my spine makes me shift in growing discomfort and I wonder if the magic in his sigil is running amok.

“But, of course, Miriam Crowe’s granddaughter would prove the most unusual student,” the Grand Witch says with a laugh that doesn’t quite sound genuine.

“As each clan has claimed you, you’ll have rights to access each tower,” Ethan informs me.

He stares down at me through half lowered eyelids with a strange look that starts a tingling in my stomach. I force my gaze from his eyes and wince at how downright hot my ass is getting.

As the Grand Witch calls the next student, Headmaster Domini motions me to him. I walk to him and, as he escorts me to the stairs, he says, “Student Crowe, take your rightful place within these hallowed halls.” We reach the stairs and Domini drops a hand on my shoulder. My awareness skitters atop my arms. “Welcome, Leilah. Go through that door.” He nods toward the door the other students exited through.

I descend the stairs. Unable to stop myself, I look over my shoulder. He’s watching me, eyes intense. Damn, the man is fine. I turn to face forward and catch sight of Ethan staring, brow cocked. I continue toward the door. I’ll deal with him later, and demand he remove his sigil now that I’m officially enrolled.

I force myself through the door and into the next room. A variety of low, curving couches are clustered around potted trees in the large room. Crystals hang from a high ceiling. There’s lots of light, and the whole place makes me feel like I’m standing in a hotel lobby.

Before I can take another step, a zap radiates from the base of my spine to my buttocks with a sizzle; the exact same discomfort I’ve experienced all morning. Am I having some kind of allergic reaction to the damn sigil?

I hurry past my fellow students in search of a bathroom and enter a hallway that stretches out longer than the square keep should allow. Fucking Academy magic. I walk past closed doors. My sigil stirs as if it’s getting ready to zap me back on track.

“You can just kiss my a—” I stop, mid-curse.

As understanding sinks in, my ass takes the full force of my backfired spell. I’d cursed Ethan on the train. Something about his fucking power kissing my ass.

“This is not a kiss,” I growl as pain radiates deep inside my butt muscles. I’ll blister at this rate.

When will I ever fucking learn? Wishing others ill has never failed to bite me in the… No, I don’t dare think that blasted word. The way the curse is building, I’m headed for real trouble unless I can break the spell fast. I concentrate. After a minute, I recall mint is used to sooth rogue magic.

The sigil begins to heat. “I’m here at the fucking Academy,” I shout at it.

With an extra urgency to my step, I begin trying doors but they’re locked. At last, an unlocked door. A classroom and—thank God—it’s empty. My backside is burning now and it’s all I can do to keep from ripping off my jeans and running through the halls in my thong. The classroom is filled with desks, but not a single herb. I hurry from the room and glimpse an exit sign in the hallway. I’m intent upon cornering the first student I encounter in order to demand directions to the infirmary before my clothes ignite.

I pass an open doorway and I’m flooded with relief. The shelves are lined with jars of herbs. A potion classroom. I kick the door shut and shove my jeans down my hips. I kick them aside as I stumble to the shelves and scan the labeled jars. St. John’s Wort. Mustard Seed. Ashwagandha. Hell, where is the mint? Tears sting as I bend down, still searching. Then, I see a jar labeled mint.

“Halla-fucking-lu-yah,” I sing, and grab the jar.

In my haste, I fumble the lid. It falls to the floor and rolls away. I grab a handful of mint and rub it on my ass. The heat begins to cool. I slap some on the damn sigil, as well, then rub more on my ass.

I freeze when the door creaks open behind me.

Chapter Eight

ETHAN

Better Than Gold

Fire warms my chest as I track Leilah through the hallway. She has no business being here in the Restricted Zone. We haven’t finished cleaning residue from the magic spill last week when Professor Cornwall’s students lost control.

Strange, how the Stone picked up all Leilah’s past identities in the four clans. I didn’t miss her name, Ciarah, being the first. Leilah hadn’t understood, of course. Neither had Olympia and her new pet, Headmaster Domini. No one knows of the relationship we’ve shared with Ciarah in her many incarnations. Blade, Clan Silwood. Raith, Clan Longthorpe. Myself and Caleb, Clan Penncarrow. As for Middlewich? Matthias, as Gargoyle, claimed kinship to that clan. She’s part of all of us. Somehow, the Stone knew.

I close my eyes, breathe deeply, and locate her scent coming from the Advanced Potions Class. Leilah’s a loose cannon, but her sheer raw power is impressive. I’m irritated, but can’t deny the pride I feel that she’s managed to bulldoze her way through the wards set in the Restricted Zone. How the hell did she power through that level of pain?

I open the door, half expecting to find her passed out on the floor. Instead, she’s at the shelves, bent over, and I’m presented with the finest view of her perfect ass. It’s hard to count that barely-there, wisp of a lace thong as a legitimate article of clothing.

I growl and my dragon blood roars. “What are you doing?” I start toward her. “This area is restricted.”

She whirls, eyes wide in embarrassment. Still, she doesn’t attempt to hide, but stands straight as I stop before her. Dragon fire answers the defiance in her eyes. I tower over her, needing to yank that thong aside and taste her. I smell her desire. She’s responding to me on that soul level we’ve always shared. She’s as much a beast as I am.

“This is your fault.” Leilah thrusts a handful of mint beneath my nose. “You and your damn sigil.”

I sense the magic running riot over her skin. It’s concentrated on that firm ass of hers. “That’s none of my doing,” I say. That spell is hers and hers alone.