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Curiosity was her vilest vice and she gave into it now, asking him for in depth explanations about his spinning and dying process. He reluctantly agreed and only stopped when she got out a notebook. He snatched her pencil and tossed it across his room, reprimanding her for trying to make something as noble as yarn spinning scholarly. She gave him a withering stare and before she could pull back, he reached out suddenly, poking the top of her one of her horns. “Fuck, those are sharp! Why are your horns so sharp?”

“What? They’re normal! Let me feel yours.” She reached up, pressing a fingertip to the tip of his horn. “Alright, well, I can’t help that yours are as dull as a ghoul’s wit.”

Her eyes locked onto his. Up close, his face was striking—too striking. She had always thought his silver eyes were cold, distant. Now she knew them to be something else entirely. Soft. Like moonlight. Her breath hitched, her lips parting slightly before she bit down to steady herself. But Oleander’s gaze had already darkened, piercing into her like he could see every secret she harboured.

His hand came up, reverent as it cupped her cheek. A shiver ran down her spine. She closed her eyes, trying to will away the emotions clawing their way to the surface, but it was useless. Butterflies rioted in her stomach, fluttering so wildly they made her almost nauseous. A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it. Oleander caught it with his thumb, brushing it away so gently that she almost broke.

When she opened her eyes again, her blood hummed with something electric.

The butterflies turned feral, a reckless storm inside her. He cocked his head, as if weighing something carefully. As if deliberating whether to do something he shouldn’t.

Panic slammed into her. Before he could move, she pulled back—only slightly.

They stared at each other, their breaths uneven, their chests rising and falling in tandem. The ache in his eyes shattered something in her, splintering her heart into tiny, warring pieces. She wanted to reach for him. To chase away the shadows lingering in his gaze. To memorise the sharpness of his jaw, the gentle curve of his lips.

A thought crashed through her like an unforgiving tide. She was betrothed—and she shouldn’t be touching anyone like she wanted to touch Oleander.

And yet.

She needed to touch him one last time. Just once. Before she walked away from this moment forever.

Slowly, with quiet, unspoken desperation, she unclenched her fists and reached for his hand. Their fingers brushed, tentative at first, before she intertwined them completely.

His breath hitched as she brushed a soft kiss against his knuckles, “I can’t be… I mean, I’m promised to Valus. But you—” She took a shaky breath and tried again. “You’re brilliant—” She closed her eyes and clarified, “As a research partner, I mean… obviously.”

When she opened her eyes again, an amused grin spread across Oleander’s face. “Just research partners?”

“Just research partners.”

Chapter

Sixteen

OLEANDER BRIGHTMORE

Ascorching sun blazed high overhead as he waded through the thick fields of perilla blossoms, a soft mint fragrance washing over him. Here he was, dutifully collecting ingredients for a project he only marginally cared about. It was a joy to be doing anything with a clear mind, though.

Of all the things that Oleander knew, one truth had been drilled into him since childhood: demonkind never bargained with flora if they could avoid it. Magical plants were devious, and they thrived on ensnaring the unwary. Even Hemlock, who’d made countless deals with infernal plants, had more than once been bested by an innocent-looking flower. Oleander shuddered at the memory of his brother’s tales of those plants and his narrow escapes from them.

He pulled Perine’s ever-present lavender handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face with it. He wondered if she’d ever replaced it, if she noticed it was missing… if there was something else that actually smelled like her that he might abscond with.

The field of vibrant purple flowers swayed lazily, and he looked around for blooms that were to Perine’s specifications. This herb grew best near the edge of the Floralia Circle—the Circle known for its potent magical flora—not far from the dark, brooding flames of the Lake of Fire that surrounded every Circle of Hell.

He quickly spotted the thick amber vines of a Conceit Crawler creeping towards him. His stomach churned, and he instinctively moved as far away as possible, his feet slogging through the herb-filled area.

He froze for a moment when two enormous, glowing eyes appeared in the inky flames of the Lake of Fire. The eyes watched his every movement with an unsettling calm. He did his best to ignore those eyes, however. He had a very important job to do.

Due to many a lecture from Perine, he knew that the heat of the Lake of Fire, in addition to the nutrient-dense soil of the Floralia Circle, meant that the perilla plants here would be the most potent. He could know all this, and still rue the day he’d agreed to let Perine convince him that the blooms could only be harvested here.

He glanced over his shoulder, unable to completely ignore the ever looming eyes. They seemed to be laughing maliciously at him. Ready to strike out. Claim him. Familiar, icy fear clutched at Oleander’s chest.

He knew he should run, but instead, he reached out with shaky hands to harvest the perilla blooms anyway. When he found himself too on edge to properly slice just under the bloom, he made a last ditch effort of bargaining with the perilla, hoping he could bargain for one hundred blooms and then dash away.

Instead, a strange prickle ran up his forefinger, spreading quickly. A low, volcanic chuckle rumbled through the air, shaking his body with the faint tremor of magic.

Darkness dripped over him as he thought, I should not have tried to make this fucking bargain.

He blinked, struggling to keep himself grounded, when a voice—low, warm, and far too amused—growled, “Brightmore, you prat, wake up!”