Page 49 of The Devil and His Sparrow

He nodded and held my gaze while I tried to think of an answer. My silence stretched on, though, and eventually, he sneered, “You can’t think of anything, can you? Because you don’t really want that job.” He cocked his head and pretended to ponder. “Let me guess. Mommy-dearest wants you to be an attorney.”

I couldn’t hold back my glare, beyond irritated that he was able to read my silence so easily. “Just because my mom wants me to do it, doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”

“Fine,” Zagan relented. “So then tell me, Iyla. What drives you to do it? What about it gets your heart racing? What about it has called to you for as long as you can remember? What part makes your blood pump with excitement?”

I had an answer for each of those questions. They came to mind immediately—what part made my heart race, what part called to my very soul, what part made my blood pump with a certain hunger. But with a cold dose of reality, I silently acknowledged that my answers didn’t pertain to law or the judicial system.

Successfully playing a piece I’d practiced for weeks made my heart race.

Gliding my fingers over black and white keys as melodies filled a vast room called to every fiber of my being.

The sense of pride in my chest and the sound of applause from an outstanding performance made my blood pump with every bit of elation a human could feel.

I couldn’t lie to myself. I couldn’t lie about what I truly wanted, and apparently, I couldn’t lie to him, either. He saw right through me.

So I grumbled, “Stop distracting me. I need to study.”

It didn’t matter if I hated the degree I was striving for. It didn’t matter if I wanted to pluck my brain right out of my skull and chuck it across the room every time I had to sit through another class about policy or civil law. I knew my place. I knew what was demanded of me, and when I stepped out of line, there were consequences.

He mumbled something under his breath—an accusation about me being miserable—before grabbing my pencil pouch. He dug around in there, holding up and studying different pens and markers. I rolled my eyes at his constant, shameless curiosity of my belongings and focused on my textbook again.

As soon as I found where I’d been reading, Zagan’s palm landed on my bare thigh and a soft tip started dragging along my skin. I quickly looked over the top of the book and found Zagan drawing carefully on my upper leg with a black pen.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I screeched, trying to pull my leg away.

His hold on my thigh tightened to keep my leg where he wanted it. “I’m keeping myself busy while you’re reading. Just do your thing. Don’t mind me.”

“Why don’t you work on music or something?” I asked.

His lips pulled down ever so slightly, and the look in his eyes changed, growing darker and troubled. Instead of acknowledging my suggestion, he tapped his pen on my textbook. “Thought you needed to study. Get to it.”

Guess I wasn’t the only one who had issues. I’d noticed his avoidance of his own music when we’d gone to see Gemma last, and now he was ignoring a chance to go work on his songs. It was my turn to be nosy. “Why don’t you like your music?”

He drew back slightly, as if I’d slapped him. “What makes you think I don’t?”

I shrugged. “You didn’t like hearing it in the car. You mentioned the other day how you were supposed to be writing a new song but were dancing instead. So, what’s up?”

He stared at me in the same way I’d probably just been looking at him while he pried into my secrets. I wondered if he was going to be honest, or if he was going to hide from it like I chose to do.

“Study,” he finally snapped with another point of his pen at my book. “I can quiz you if you need me to. Maybe we can make a game out of it. You know. Get one wrong and lose an article of clothing. Get one right and get an orgasm. Something like that.”

So, hiding like me.

I laughed at his suggestion and not-so-subtle avoidance of my question. Shaking my head, I said, “Not happening. I don’t think I can have that many orgasms that close together.”

He raised his pierced brow and shot me a wicked grin. “So you do know this stuff already. Why the hell are we studying then?”

“Because you can never be too prepared,” I answered, readjusting my heavy book to focus on the text.

Zagan got quiet, seemingly letting me get to work. I figured he was just happy to not be talking about whatever was bugging him with his music. I glanced at what he was drawing, which was a line so far. I was glad to see he at least chose a pen and not a sharpie.

Still, I was unsure what his inner artist was about to bring out, so I said, “Please don’t draw any penises on me.”

His hand stilled against my skin, and his eyes narrowed at me. “I’m not a fucking child.”

I let him get back to his drawing, and I watched him long enough to confirm that he wasn’t drawing body parts. It looked like the start of a rose, so I turned back to my textbook. I wasn’t sure how long I flipped through old sections I’d learned so far this year. I jotted down key points, looked over old notes and exams.

All the while, that rounded point dragged across my skin and those warm fingers pressed into my thigh. He moved my shorts higher to continue his drawing all the way to my hip, and I didn’t even try to stop him. I actually found it kinda relaxing—the careful trailing of the pen and Zagan’s hand constantly on me, making my body prickle with warmth and awareness.

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