Page 44 of The Blood we Crave

“Next Thursday.”

“But I—”

“But you? I’m doing you a favor here, pet. Don’t make me change my mind,” I warn, fully aware of what arrangement she has with Silas on that particular day.

Her teeth sink into her body lip. That snippy side of her wants to fight me on this so badly she can’t stand it. I’m almost impressed that she holds back.

Almost.

“Fine. Anything else, your highness?” She plunges her hand into her bag, pulling out what looks to be a jacket or overcoat and using the sleeve to remove my stain from her delicate neck.

I drag my tongue across my bottom lip as a few tiny streaks remain, refusing to come off with just the harsh material of her jacket. I don’t remember telling her she could do that or mentioning anything about her wiping off my blood.

If she wants to do this, she will learn the way I did.

Through rules.

“Yes, actually.” I peer down at my hand for a brief second before lifting my thumb to my lips, sucking it clean. The tangy flavor entices my taste buds as I swirl my tongue around before removing it.

Through my peripheral vision, I don’t miss the way her eyes follow my every move. How they widen ever so slightly and her pink tongue darts across her bottom lip.

“There will be rules. If you do not follow every single one, no matter how insignificant, this deal is void. Is that clear?”

“You have a Thatcher’s Guide to Murder?” she murmurs.

“It seems funny now, but I assure you, it isn’t.” My body retreats farther from hers, each graceful step backward putting a welcomed distance between the two of us. “Be at my home at six. I don’t need to give you directions, right?”

Bright pink floods her cheeks, turning every inch of her face a dusty rose color as she looks down at the floor, clicking her heels together as she rocks back and forth.

“No, I know where it is.”

“Thought so.” I readjust my cufflinks. “Don’t be late.”

I don’t want to admit it, but I think I’m going to enjoy putting Lyra Abbott in her place, straightening her out and cleaning her up. No more disorganized bags that look like a rat’s nest when she is digging for a book she needs, no more messy fingers from all the mud she plays in hunting bugs.

It’s she who came to me seeking my advice, so that is what she will get. Whether or not she likes it, well, that isn’t my issue.

My hand grips the cool doorknob, ready to leave her in the lobby, and before I can think better of it, I speak again.

“Oh, and Lyra.” I turn my head to the right, glancing over my shoulder at her stagnant frame that seems to perk up at the sound of my voice, like she’s standing at attention.

“Yeah?”

“Do not ever wipe my blood off your body without my permission again.”

the forgotten places

NINE

lyra

Libraries are meant to be quiet.

The only sounds to fill the voids should be the scribble of pens against fresh paper or the rustle of turned worn pages. The occasional squeak of chairs moving and hushed voices.

But the Caldwell Library during the fall semester is always obnoxiously loud. Students returning from break boast about trips to the Maldives and Spain, gathering in large groups, huddled over the long rectangular mahogany tables, laughing freely.

The interior design of the building is stunning, with its gothic-style architecture, tall arches, vaulted ceiling, and incredible stained-glass windows that line the walls. It’s a shame I’ve never been able to study here during the school year.

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