Page 128 of The Black Witch

Just then Yvan barges in, a bag slung over his shoulder, a pile of large texts under one arm. He stops dead in his tracks when he sees me and freezes, his expression rearranging itself into the familiar intense appearance he always wears when I’m around.

“What?”I snap at him, stung by his persistent unfriendly behavior.

He doesn’t answer me, just stands there looking mortified, spots of color lighting both his cheeks. I suddenly realize, in complete embarrassment, that I’m sitting on his bed.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I quickly apologize, grabbing my books and bag as I shoot up, my face also coloring deeply. Gardnerian and Keltic girls donotsit on men’s beds, not unless the man is a brother. This is a huge breach of etiquette.

Yvan stiffly pulls off his dark woolen cloak and throws it on the bed, along with his bag and books, as if marking his territory, and fixes me with another intense, green-eyed glare. Then he grabs some texts and stalks over to the desk near his bed.

I, in turn, take a seat at the foot of Trystan’s bed, my back slumped down against the wall behind me, my face hot and uncomfortable. The room has become claustrophobic, but I’m determined to stay so that I can confront Rafe about all this gallivanting with Diana. I pull my own books out, and the three of us retreat into the transient escape of study.

Every now and then I glance over at Trystan, and am surprised to catch him peering at Yvan’s back, his expression a bit odd, almost liquid, like he’s slipping into a dream state.

Feeling my stare, Trystan quickly looks back down at his book, and I nonchalantly peek at Yvan out of the corner of my eye to try and figure out what, exactly, Trystan is seeing.

Yvan is resting his forehead on his hand as he reads, his body stiff and ill at ease. It’s a Physicians’ Guild text, and I can make out surgical diagrams on the pages he’s open to.

Yvan cuts a nice figure, I reluctantly admit. He’s long and lean, and when his piercing green eyes aren’t tense, they’re stunning. My eyes are increasingly drawn to him in the kitchens, his strength and lithe grace tangling my thoughts and setting my heart thudding harder. I can’t help but remember how he looked when he smiled at Fern on my first day in the kitchens—how dazzling that smile was, how devastatingly handsome I found him to be.

I bite the inside of my cheek in annoyance.

Why does he have to be so distractingly good-looking? And why do I have to find him so attractive when he clearly doesn’t like me at all? And besides—he’s a Kelt!

But I can’t help but notice that his hostility toward me has lessened lately. I catch him in the kitchens, sometimes, eyeing me back with those intense green eyes of his. As if he’s trying to figure me out. It always sends an unsettling warmth prickling through me. But soon after our eyes meet, there’s always that searing flash of anger as he glares at me, then looks sharply away.

After about an hour of tension-filled silence, Yvan abruptly shuts his book, gets up, grabs the bag on his bed and storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The thick, uncomfortable tension in the room leaves with him, and I breathe a deep sigh of relief at his going.

“I don’t know how you can stand living with him,” I tell Trystan. “He’s so intense.”

Trystan doesn’t say anything. His eyes flicker up to meet mine for a brief second before making their way back down to his book.

“Hey,” I say suspiciously, “why were you staring at him?”

Trystan doesn’t say anything for a moment, continuing to focus on his book as I wait impatiently for his response.

“Because he’s beautiful,” Trystan finally says, his voice so low it’s almost a whisper.

The words hang in the air between us, and I can feel the weight of them pressing down on me. I have a sudden, uncomfortable feeling that things I’ve long been ignoring are becoming undeniable.

“What do you mean?” I ask slowly.

He doesn’t answer me, only stiffens and continues to stare at his book.

I’m misinterpreting him. I have to be. Yvanisbeautiful. Achingly so. Trystan’s just stating an obvious fact. But thewayhe said it.

Unwelcome thoughts begin to assert themselves. Whereas I’ve often seen Rafe flirting with girls and noticing the pretty ones walking when we’d travel to the large, open-air winter markets, I’ve never once seen Trystan notice a girl. He’s always been happy to just spend time with Gareth.

Trystan’s eyes flicker up to meet mine again, his expression sad and defiant at the same time. I’m barely breathing, my mouth agape.

“Oh, Trystan. Please tell me you’re not saying...”

His mouth tightens into a hard line, his expression pained.

“You can’t really think he’s...beautiful. You can’t think that way. Trystan, tell me you don’t mean it that way.”

He doesn’t respond and plasters his eyes to a spot on his book as panic rears up inside me.

“Holy Ancient One, Trystan, does Yvan know?”

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