Page 110 of Coveted

He’ll adore her though. My father’s less militant about arranged matches than many parents in our circles. Hales have enough wealth and influence on our own. Wives should be chosen for their attributes as a person, and for how they make us feel.

Fucking feral, in my case.

“Good chat, son.” He claps my shoulder. “I won’t keep you from your girl.”

“I appreciate that.”

I’ll wait to tell Sadie about the family dinner, or I risk scaring her off. I should take her on a date first.

Before the door has closed behind my father, I’m already on my way back to her.

CHAPTER 27

Sadie

The trees in the quad flutter with orange, yellow, and ruby-red leaves. Students move in clusters, wearing scarves and coats.

A professor crosses the quad with papers tucked under an arm to keep them from blowing away in the swirling breeze. The overcast sky hangs low and gray, clouds skimming the highest turrets of Darkbloom.

The Bindery overlooks the quad, and I sit at a quiet table near a window, books and study notes spread out before me. The café has become my favorite spot to spend time when I have no afternoon classes, like today.

Stained-glass lamps emit colorful glows, threadbare embroidered rugs cover the hardwood floors, and a dancing fire crackles in the hearth.

Looking more closely, I realize the professor in the quad is Professor Worthington. He slows down when approached by Chuck Fairchild. The two men have a brief discussion, ending when the student advisor strides away suddenly, as if wanting the last word. Professor Worthington frowns after him thoughtfully.

“Here you go,” says the waitress, delivering the steaming mug to my table with a smile. “Maple pecan latte and a chocolate croissant.”

“Thank you so much,” I say.

The mug warms my fingers as I sip the drink. Licking cinnamon-sugar foam from my lips, I dwell on Lucan and the fact that I slept with him.

The whole thing is difficult to wrap my head around. What it meant. How I feel. If I want to see him again or run away.

The morning after, I left as soon as I could, once his father was gone. I needed a chance to think and decompress, but thinking has done little to untangle the situation in my head.

Lucan has proven capable of violence. He beat the teeth out of the fedora-wearing guy at my poetry reading just for heckling me. What’s more, he has the resources to get away with anything.

Yet I keep recalling my reaction when I found him after fleeing my attacker at the gala. I felt safe with Lucan on a fundamental level. Should I listen to that instinct? Or are my instincts faulty due to my physical attraction to him?

The sex was good. So damn good. I never knew sex could be like that. He made my body feel things I didn’t know were possible.

Though I tried to hide what we’d done from my roommates, they knew right away. Juliette said it was my swollen mouth, while Clara insisted I carried the aura of sex. This horrified me, especially since I had scrubbed my entire body in Lucan’s shower before leaving.

Lucan is violent, invasive, and obsessive. Is that what it takes to capture my attention? What does that say about me?

Maybe that I’m no angel either. But unlike Lucan, I hide my dark parts. What if that makes me worse than him?

Rearranging my skirt, I shift in my seat. It’s been days since we had sex. The delicious ache between my legs is fading. In an effort to satiate myself, I bite into the chocolate croissant, buttery flakes raining onto the plate.

Lucan and I come from such different worlds too. Could I ever truly belong with him, among his people? Not that he’s asked me to. For all I know, he’s done with me. We’ve barely spoken since we had sex.

Midterm exams loom and I need to focus. So while I devour the croissant, I pick up my pen and get to work. Like always, I quickly become lost in writing.

During class, Professor Worthington hinted about our creative writing exam. We’ll each need to produce a short story using different themes and genres we pick from a hat. He said it would be fun. Zahra asked, “For whom?”

My head is down as I practice writing dialogue when a large shadow falls over my page. For half a second, my hearing readjusts to the room around me. I register the new, hushed silence, like the whole café is holding its breath. The Bindery is usually filled with humming conversations and the whirring coffee machine.

My pen pauses mid-sentence, because I know it’s him standing over my table. If not by his scent, I would know him by my increased heart rate and the electricity in the air. My body senses him.