Page 137

“You were bleeding,” he said simply.

I dragged the back of my wrist across my cheek, wiping at the smear of red. Then I lifted my face as proof. As if I were at my own trial. “It wasn’t mine. I told you that.” My voice sounded raspy.

Something shifted in his eyes. The stormy seas calmed, just for a moment before snapping back into place. “Show me the rest.”

I blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

Lysander’s jaw tightened. His eyes moved to my throat, then lowered. “Prove that you’re not injured. That they didn’t bite you. You could be infected.” His throat worked. “I need to know. I need to see.”

A flush of heat crawled up my neck. “You’re fucking insane. I’m not stripping for you.”

His nostrils flared. He took a step forward. I gasped and took a step back. Then he stopped, abruptly. His hands were clenched at his sides, and I realized he was holding himself back from reaching for me.

“What are you doing?” My voice was shaking. “Are you afraid of me, is that it? Are you going to put me down if I’m infected, Lysander?”

His eyes widened. “No. Not afraid of you.” He inhaled and exhaled slowly. “Afraid for you. I just … need to know.”

“Well, then, you’re going to need to trust me,” I snapped. “If I was infected, I’d have already slit my own throat.”

His jaw clenched. “Don’t even say that.”

“Why not? It’s true. You think I want to hurt someone? Infect someone?”

Lysander was still staring at me with an intensity that scared me. But he didn’t look angry or even protective. He looked … starved. Like he’d been hungry for a very long time and had somehow convinced himself he could live on just willpower alone. Finally, a muscle in his cheek twitched. Then he nodded. “You’re right. I was … out of line. I’m sorry.” He looked dazed by his own apology or maybe by how close he was standing.

I felt off-balance. “It’s fine.” The man had just bodily picked me up and carried me halfway across the fucking school. But sure, it was fine.

“I’m going to run you a bath now.”

I stared at him as he marched across my room to the bathroom. “Wh-what?” I sputtered. I couldn’t help looking at the fine lines of his back under the linen shirt he wore. Then I came to my senses. “Lysander, no, I don’t need a …” But he was already running the taps. I stood there, listening to the rush of water. “Fuck.” My heart was still beating too fast. From the fight or from … whatever the hell this was?

I walked into the bathing chamber. He was sitting on the side of the tub but didn’t look up at me as I stepped into the doorway. “Lysander,” I said, trying to make my voice steady and ignoring the scent of vanilla rising from the tub. I wondered how he known it was the scent that comforted me the most. “I think you should leave now.”

“No.”

I stared at him. “That wasn’t a request.”

Lysander went still. Very slowly, he looked up at me. His hands were palm-down on his thighs. They were trembling. His eyes were still too bright; the storm hadn’t passed. It was merely trapped behind glass. There was blood on his cuff. His hair had spilled further from its tie. A pale strand fell over one eye, giving him a disheveled appearance and making him look even less controlled. I wasn’t used to seeing Lysander Orphos this way—out of control, reckless, wild. “I can’t leave.”

“Why?” I asked, incredulous. “Lysander, what the hell is going on?”

He swallowed. Then his eyes flicked over me, like he was reassuring himself I was really all right. He looked away abruptly, like he’d caught himself doing it and knew he shouldn’t. “I can’t take this anymore,” he said, as if to himself.

I stepped forward and before I could help myself, I’d lifted a hand to his cheek. “What can’t you take?”

He grabbed my hand, holding it in place. His grip was strong. His skin was warm. I gasped. Then he let go, his eyes going right to the scar on my throat. I stepped back. “You don’t own me,” I said shakily.

“I don’t want to own you,” he said, his voice quiet.

“Then, what’s going on?” I demanded. Why can’t you leave, Lysander? What aren’t you saying?” Guilt flashed across his face. “So there is something?” I stopped, thinking.

He was conflicted. Then I saw it—for half a second, I saw the thing he was holding back. Something worse than violence or cruelty: want. Desire flashed across his face, his gaze pinning me so tightly I felt it like a touch. My breath caught.

“You look good in purple.” He gestured to my clothes.

I gaped at him. “You mean in your colors. Orphos colors.” His head jerked. “But I’m wearing silver, too. And black,” I pointed out. “Avari colors.” He didn’t say a word. “That doesn’t bother you?” Clearly it didn’t. I narrowed my eyes. “You could get inside my head, see my dreams, give me dreams. Is that … normal for someone in House Orphos? Can you do that with everyone?”

His eyes widened slightly, and I knew I had him. “No,” he said simply. “Not everyone can do it.”