Page 42 of The Blood we Crave

I swivel in my chair, looking towards the door, where Lyra stands damp from the rain, holding a broken umbrella and wearing chunky loafers. The tight brown turtleneck hugs the curves of her waist as it tucks into a corduroy skirt. It’s the first outfit I’ve seen her in since that Halloween ball a year ago that highlights her figure instead of shielding it.

All amusement retires from my body and is replaced with irritation so severe my skin feels like it’s on fire.

It’s not because of the clothes or her worn-down shoes that still have mud on them.

No.

It’s the smile on her face.

Wide, blinding, pristine, and intended for Silas Hawthorne. It takes up her entire face, lifting her entire body into a state of euphoria. Lyra radiates sunshine in the doorway, sunshine that peeks through a canopy of dark green pines and stabs the forest floor.

It’s a smile that falls once she sets eyes on us.

Once she sees me.

The edges of her mouth turn down, hiding her white teeth, and I can physically feel the sun retreat inside of her chest, tucking away its light and warmth from me, which does something unexplainably twisted to me.

My nails press into the palm of my hand as my fist tightens in my lap.

“Oh, shit,” she mutters, eyes discovering my own for a split second before moving back to Silas. “Sorry, I can just go. I didn’t know they’d be here. I’ll come back next week.”

Next week?

A sharp twinge of pain bites into me as my grip turns my already pale knuckles stark white.

Silas shakes his head. “I didn’t know it was Thursday already. You can stay. They won’t be here much longer than we can play.”

My control is an iron fortress, one that had been crafted and built over years. But now, it feels like a frayed piece of pathetic yarn as I stare at her. The words out of my mouth don’t feel like my own.

“Play?” I say it like I’m spitting nails from my mouth. “Play what, exactly?”

With jittery hands, Lyra reaches into her oversized messenger bag, retrieving a box. She holds it out like a truce, as if whatever that box holds will somehow take away this searing feeling in my chest.

“Chess,” Silas answers. “I’ve been teaching Lyra since she insists on coming up here every week.”

Every week?Teaching?

The unmistakable feeling of liquid seeps into my hand, blood coating my palm as my nails burrow into my flesh.

“Lyra,” I say through clenched teeth. “A word?”

My chair scraping against the floor swallows her reply, if she even has one. I don’t wait for her to agree or accept my invitation. I’m closing in on her when she opens her mouth to respond, but I give her a curt shake of my head in warning.

One more word about her visits to Silas will send me over the edge. An edge I didn’t even know existed until her.

I hold the door to the lobby open, turning to watch her expectedly. She stares at me, rooted in place like her shoes are glued to the floor. If it didn’t require physical contact, I would rip her from the ground and haul her over my shoulder, but I do not want to touch her.

“Scarlett.” My tone is rough and low, only for her ears to hear.

This makes her move, finally.

Her small frame shuffles by me, and her scent mixed with something weirdly familiar wafts into my nose. Once she is inside the lobby and the door is shut behind me, I loop my thumbs in my pockets, remembering to keep my hands to myself.

“What are you doing here?” Her mouth drops open at my question, but I can see her reply in her eyes. “Pet, you better have a more clever answer than chess.”

Her brows furrow, like she’s unsure of why I’ve pulled her out here. Like she is blissfully unaware of what she’s done. What she has awoken inside of me.

“Then what would you like me to say, Thatcher? Because that is why I’m here. I wasn’t”—her arms wrap around herself, some form of defense mechanism as she lowers her tone—“following you, if that’s what you think. I didn’t even know you’d be here.”

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