Page 47 of Too Hexed to Handle

‘They’ve rigged the tree with lust powder,’ I tell him. ‘But it’s okay. I use it in the inn. We’ve built up an immunity.’

‘Have we? Why are you undoing my shirt?’

‘It’s hot. I’m hot. You’re hot.’

‘I’m not hot.’

‘I think you’re hot.’

‘Daisy.’ He releases my hand in order to cup my chin between his fingers, forcing me to look at him. Immediately, I’m lost, drowning in the depths of those blue orbs, my lips parting as I stare at him. Astin sighs. ‘I don’t think you’re immune.’

Huh. This is an interesting conclusion. We should discuss it while lying down.

He’s not wrong though – my current behaviour would suggest the potency of the powder is far stronger than what I’m used to. I suppose I should be grateful whatever tolerance I have built up makes me utterly uninterested in everyone else in the maze. While they pounce on the first person they find, I only have eyes for Astin.

He’s surprisingly obliging when I push his jacket from his shoulders and throw it on the ground. For once, he doesn’t complain about mess or try to fold anything in a neat square. Instead, he pulls me closer until our bodies are lined against one another; his all hard muscle and mine all soft curves, bending to meet his shape as though it were made to mould to his. He drags his hand down my spine and my throat floods with the scent of heat, of spice, burning me the same way it did in the street. The warmth sends a throb directly between my thighs. His gaze drops to my mouth and his eyes darken.

Oh, hexes. I don’t think he’s immune either.

He coughs, tearing his stare away, and his voice is hoarse when he says, ‘We should try to take the statue while everyone’s distracted.’

I refrain from telling him that I am also distracted, and resort to admiring his muscles as he attempts to pick up the statue. It’s far too heavy. If you ask me, this is a sign to give up and give in, but Astin is not to be deterred, and settles for pushing the statue along the grass until it’s in a quiet corner of the maze, before dropping down next to it.

Legs unsteady, I dump my pack and sink to the ground beside him. We’re away from the wiggling pile of bodies here, the willow tree blocking our view of most of them. Clouds continue to swell above, darkening our corner of the clearing further, but Astin’s face is illuminated by the flickering purple glow from the nearby lanterns.

He sighs. ‘We’re never going to lug the statue out of the maze, but at least we’re out the way of the other competitors. We can try to figure out how to open it undisturbed.’

I’m barely listening. My fingers inch across the grass, wanting to lace themselves with his. ‘Right. And if we can’t work it out?’

‘Then we’ll find the items we need elsewhere.’ He nods resolutely. My fingers are so close to his now, and I can tell he’s noticed. His whole body is tense, shoulders strained, and although he’s yet to turn away from the statue, I’m sure that’s not where his focus is.

Our hands touch.

The moment I feel his skin, I’m hit with another surge of desire, one that tells me to forget about the statue and instead to take everything I want, to mount him right now, to burn the rest of his clothes, to kiss him –

No.

Oh no.

The pounding in my head intensifies as two parts of me go into battle. Every thump of my temple is the beat of a war drum, one side warning me I cannot do this and the other side, the one fuelled by the powder, that says, But think how good it would feel.

I push his arm, like if I can shove him far enough away, the thoughts will stop. ‘I’m going to kill you.’

‘If you don’t, this situation might,’ he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face. This is unfortunate because it draws my attention to his lips, aka the things I must avoid at all costs.

‘I’m serious, Astin.’ He’s finally looking at me, except now I wish he wouldn’t, not when his stare implies he’s stumbled upon an oasis in a sand-streaked desert and wants to drink from its depths. ‘I have a lot of urges and they all involve doing things to you that end with you dead on the ground.’

‘I love it when you talk dirty to me.’ He tugs on the hem of his shirt. I hope he’s not planning on removing it. Well. The sensible half of my brain hopes that, because it knows how the addled half will respond if he does. ‘It’s fine. I can control it.’

Good for him. I’m not sure I can.

‘It’s fine,’ he repeats, although now I’m not sure which of us he’s trying to convince. ‘Once it’s worn off, we can pretend this never happened.’

Well, he is good at that. As soon as we’re out of here, he’ll add mazes to the list of things we don’t speak about, along with bed sharing and dancing.

‘I thought this was supposed to be a festival of love, anyway.’ He runs a hand through his hair and it comes away dusted with lust powder. He glares at the substance mistrustfully. ‘Not whatever this is.’

Well, they couldn’t ask a Souleater to make love powder out of dark magic. I’ve never been sure how they create lust powder, honestly, because nothing about this feeling seems dark to me, apart from the fact that I, personally, can’t do anything about it. Everybody else is having a lovely time.