Page 177 of The Black Witch

His voice is always deeper than I expect it to be, smooth and alluring.

I let out a deep breath and shrug. “Yes, well, Diana’s been living here for a while now.”

“You’re living with two Icaralsanda Lupine,” he states as if I’m not already aware of this fact.

“And a Selkie,” I remind him, fully comprehending how surreal this is. And increasingly risky.

And now there’s a disconcertingly attractive Kelt in my hallway.

But even with a stolen Selkie sitting in my room, it’s impossible not to have my thoughts completely scattered by how disarmingly handsome Yvan is.

He blinks at me, clearly surprised, the color of his eyes deepened by the dim lamplight, warm gold flecking the bright green, his gaze full of sharp intelligence. He holds himself in a long, stiff column, so formal, as if reining his emotions tightly in.

I ignore my fluttering pulse and eye him with arch amusement. “I never imagined you of all people would be standing in this hallway, Yvan.”

His lip twitches up. “About as unexpected as having a Selkie here, I’m sure.”

I let out a short laugh. “Actually, it’s stranger havingyouhere.By far.” I shoot him a pointed look.

He stares at me, his lips parting slightly as if in question then closing again. He takes a deep breath, then glances sidelong at my bedroom. His face tenses, and he steps back a fraction, clears his throat and averts his gaze from me, suddenly ill at ease.

I’m abruptly uncomfortable, too, both of us clearly aware of how inappropriate this is in both of our staid cultures—a single male, unchaperoned, here, so close to my bed. The two of us alone.

I’ve been in his bedroom, and that was pushing the limits of scandal, but it was always in the presence of one or both of my brothers. Except that one time, back when Yvan and I hated each other.

Yvan’s eyes catch on Wynter’s white bird tapestry, and his unease seems to drop away. He focuses in on it as if noticing for the first time that he’s surrounded by artwork.

“That’s beautiful.” He exhales, taking it in.

A flock of Watchers. Gliding above a summer field.

“Wynter made it,” I tell him. “It’s my favorite of all her work.”

He nods, still staring at the woven scene as if entranced.

His eyes occupied, my own gaze inadvertently slips over him, first tentatively then freely, surreptitiously drinking him in. His long, lean body. His exquisite profile. The long lines of his neck. His hair a tousled mess, grazing his neck in uneven spikes, curling around the back of his ear. I imagine it would be soft to the touch. Soft, where the rest of him is hard.

Except for his lips.

I wonder, suddenly, what it would be like to kiss him...to feel his full lips against mine.

Yvan’s head snaps up, color lighting his cheeks, his mouth open in surprise.

I look quickly away, heart thudding, flushed and mortified, scared that he can see clear into my mind and view these wildly improper thoughts.

He can’t read your mind, I insist to myself. Of course he can’t. But...how else to explain his reaction?

I glance back up at him, deeply embarrassed.

The color on his cheeks has deepened, and he’s now staring at me with an ardent intensity that sets me reeling even more.

He swallows audibly, his eyes riveted on mine. “I should...be going.”

I nod disjointedly, his green eyes playing havoc with my heartbeat.

He hands me the sack, his warm fingers brushing mine, and steps back, constrained and formal once again.

I grip the sack tight. “Good night, Yvan,” I force out, heat burning at my neck and cheeks. “Thank you for the food.”

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