Page 38 of The Demon Tide

Trystan met my offer with a stare so blistering that it both surprised me and pierced me to the core, his usual reserve fracturing as he pointedly said nothing to me in response, which only served to agitate my tempest of emotion even more. I looked to Ung Li in that moment, noticing her taking in Trystan’s injuries as he yanked down his sleeve over the bruising, my gaze darting toward the other apprentices and soldiers just in time to catch sight of one soldier’s lip curling up with an expression of vengeful satisfaction.

No one moved to send him to the Wyvernguard healer, as always. And he’s rebuffed my every attempt to bring him to a healer myself. Instead, he simply ignores his pain and growing collection of injuries. Ignores the soldiers’ resentment over the necessity of learning to deal with Gardnerian power—power that bests theirs again and again. Power that requires advanced weaponry and large numbers of Vu Trin to force back. Because he truly wants the Vu Trin to be able to best Gardnerian magery.

Even if we kill him while learning how to do it.

“Forget the Gardnerian.” Basyl’s finger spirals down the center of my chest, his enticing touch taking a slim edge off my troubled thoughts.

The door at the end of the hallway abruptly opens and Trystan emerges, books tucked under his arm. His green eyes find mine, and his steps halt.

A heated charge stings through me and everything else in the world fades into the background. My lightning flashes silver against my vision as our gazes hold, my throat gone dry with a sudden, inexplicable longing.

I can sense Trystan’s fierce draw to me as well, his fire power contracting and shuddering toward me with a force that sends a storming warmth through my core.

No, I urge myself as I struggle to rein in my power.I can’t feel this way about him. I can’t let this take hold.

The time to end this is now.

I draw Basyl close and feel Trystan’s spark of surprise as Basyl laughs and trails kisses along the length of my neck. He presses his muscular body to mine and caresses my back, sliding his hands over my hips as he tugs me closer and I hold Trystan’s gaze, our eyes locked as both my and Trystan’s breathing deepens. I lean in to run my tongue just below Basyl’s ear as Basyl slithers against me enticingly, everything in me wanting to drive Trystan away.

Everything in me yearning to pull Trystan in.

Trystan is mesmerized, I can feel it. Pinned in place by both desire and fascination. And suddenly, instead of wanting to keep the boundaries in place, I want to break through it all and stoke his desire. To tease him until he wants this more than he’s wanted anything in his life.

Until he’s on fire to be the one in my arms.

That’s it, Gardnerian, I think, holding Trystan’s stare as I trace my fingers down Basyl’s spine and still lower. Basyl gives another throaty laugh and captures my mouth with his, our tongues finding each other, even as I keep my gaze locked with Trystan’s, rich with invitation. Toying with him.

Trystan’s welling power pulls in tight. He shoots me a look so scathing it could melt iron, then strides away.

A maelstrom of remorse rushes in as the sting of Trystan’s reaction reverberates.

I gently push Basyl away.

He tries to pull me back in. “Come here...”

I force a wan smile. “I have to go,” I say, suddenly unable to focus on Basyl’s beauty and willing ways and the achingly pleasurable tightening in my groin, my friend’s lighthearted desire so easy to fuel. Basyl’s a distraction and nothing more, both of us caught up in a breezy flirtation. Friends who enjoy teasing each other, but nothing deeper than that running between us.

ButTrystan.

Conflict roars to life as I sound the Mage’s name in my mind.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, love,” I tell Basyl, kissing his cheek as he stages a pouting protest, caressing me one last time. I disentangle myself and set off at a brisk clip after Trystan.

Needing to find him as his guard, but also scared to face him.

The walls between us feeling increasingly paper-thin.

Trystan

Vothendrile’s knock on my door is uncharacteristically tentative, and I fight back the jealous urge to draw my wand and throw a bolt of lightning straight through the wood. My wand hand flexed into a fist, I yank the door open, cursing the lightning that shocks through my lines when I meet Vothe’s silver-flashing gaze.

Vothe’s wildly conflicted gaze.

Have I made your life difficult?I want to snarl at him.Is your own cruelty making you uncomfortable?

Good.

“Can I speak with you?” he asks.

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