Page 49

"Nothing," he rumbles, looking away. He scrapes eggs onto a plate, his movements jerky. "You slept late."

"I had a weird night," I tell him, leaning against the counter. "Turns out getting fake-engaged to your bodyguard and being told your brain might explode from magical current doesn't make for restful sleep."

Lachlan pauses, a shadow passing over his face. He doesn't look at me as he sets the plate down on the island. "Did you take the medicine?"

"No. Jekyll said to take it when the pressure builds. I feel fine right now."

"Take it anyway if you feel anything," he says, his voice dropping into that quiet, gravelly tone that sounds more like an order than advice. "A headache, a nosebleed. Anything. Don't try to tough it out, Vivienne."

"I'm not trying to tough anything out, Lachlan. I don't want to die."

He finally looks up, his eyes meeting mine. The harshness in his face softens, just enough to show the exhaustion underneath.

"Good," he says quietly. "Because we have two weeks. Fourteen days until Sanguine expects you at that gala."

"And what exactly are we doing for fourteen days?" I ask, wrapping both hands around my mug. "You said training, but I'm pretty sure you saw how I hold a dagger yesterday. It wasn't impressive."

"We're not making you a sword master in a fortnight," he says, pulling out a stool and sitting down, leaning his massive forearms on the slate. "You have nullification. That's your weapon. We need to figure out how you call it up without nearly killing yourself in the process."

"Right. Pulling at the thread." I sigh, blowing on my coffee. "Sounds very simple in theory. In practice, I feel like a fuse box with too many appliances plugged in."

"That's why I'm here," he says. His hand rests on the counter between us, his wrist turned slightly. The matching braid on his skin glows faint and steady. "Our blood is bound now. When your current spikes, you hold onto me. The MacTavish blood grounds it. It’s what we’ve always done."

I look down at his hand. His fingers are long, calloused, scarred across the knuckles. It would be so easy to reach out and touch him.

"Ground rules, though," I say, forcing a lighter tone. "No falling in love. Just professional magical grounding."

Lachlan’s jaw sets. He stares at the counter for a second before nodding once, sharp and tight. "Aye. Professional."

A strange chime breaks the silence between us.

It’s not an ancient bell, and it’s not the house. It’s a clean, two-tone electronic chime that sounds completely out of place against the stone walls.

I frown, setting my mug down. "Was that my laptop?"

"Your what?" Lachlan asks, his head coming up.

"My computer. I left it in my backpack in my room."

I walk out of the kitchen, Kirk padding alongside me. Lachlan follows right behind, his heavy footsteps quiet on the wood floor.

When we reach the grand foyer, my silver laptop is sitting squarely in the middle of the mahogany table, right next to the stack of books the bookstore rat delivered yesterday. The screen is open, glowing softly in the dim hall.

"Did you move this?" I ask, glancing back at him.

Lachlan looks at the laptop with deep suspicion, keeping his distance like it might spit venom. "I didn't touch it. I don't trust machines that small."

"Right. You're a million and a hundred years old, I forgot."

“Five hundred and forty-two,” he grunts.

“Same difference,” I say sweetly.

He rolls his eyes, and I laugh.

I step up to the table and look down at the display. The Wi-Fi is connected, full bars, pulling signal from God knows where. A little red badge sits over the mail icon at the bottom of the screen.

Two new messages.