Page 35 of Boy of Chaotic Making

“Who is dead.” He enunciated each syllable, then softly grasped her upper arms. “And Blightree is employed by the Crown. Perhaps that’s why he’s the appointed heir. After the mess with Silas, I’m sure they’re on high alert.”

“Someonetried to kill you,” she pointed out, jabbing a finger at him. “Why could it not be a relative—”

“Yes, I suppose he’s the most obvious suspect of all.” He squeezed her arms. She did not like how calmly he was taking this. “Believe me, Hulda. It’s never the most obvious person. That would make for a very boring story.”

She frowned. “Baillie was connected to Hogwood.”

“We’re all connected in one way or another.” He shrugged. “You do make a good point. I just ... He’s like a jolly grandpa. Might as well be ol’ Saint Nick. Baillie was a scrub and a lobcock from the beginning.”

She frowned. “No need to be crude.”

He paused a moment. “I suppose that was. Sorry.”

Hulda bit her lip. Considered. “It’s just ... in the past, I have told myself similar rationalizations, and then ended up in a prison cell or facedown in the dirt.” She thought, momentarily, of the collapsed room, but Blightree wouldn’t—shouldn’t—have the spells to do something of the sort.

Even so, she desperately wanted to look at his pedigree.

“If I were writing this book,” he said, gesturing to the room around them, “I think I would set up Blightree as a sort of diversion, to drawthe reader’s eye away from the true culprit, if we’ve even met him yet. Or her.”

“This isn’t a storybook,” Hulda protested.

He squeezed her arms. “I will help you look into it. Tomorrow. It’s late, and you still have a ghost to discipline.” He lifted one hand and ran it through her hair again. It was a simple brown, not dark or light, but it took on a bit of an auburn glow in the firelight.

“I think that door is quite alarming,” he continued, his voice husky in a way that set the nerves in Hulda’s arms and torso alight. “You might not use it, but I find it very tempting.”

He gingerly pinched the arms of her glasses, slid them off her face, and set them beside that washbasin. Her pulse sped beneath his touch. Would it always speed like this, or would she someday get used to such words, such caresses, such attention?

She supposed that didn’t matter at the moment. When Merritt turned back, she readily met him, touching her lips to his and sighing softly at the warm contact and blissful spark it ignited, one that started in her mouth and sizzled all the way down to her hips.

Merritt tilted his head and claimed her, sliding both hands into her hair, pulling her closer. She grasped fistfuls of his vest, feeling his own quick heartbeat beneath her knuckles. The smell of his petitgrain had become so familiar it felt like coming home, and despite her worries over balancing her future life with him and her allegiance to BIKER, the thought of coming home to him always was nothing short of blissful.

Where have you been all my life?she wondered as she tugged at his lower lip. But had duty not forced them between the same walls, would she ever have considered him? Or he her?

He was certainlyconsideringher now, the way his palms slowly draped down her neck, her shoulders, her back—and suddenly grabbed her elbows and yanked her away.

She choked on a breath, the room tilting for a moment blurrily, as he’d removed her glasses. Protest launched up her throat—

“Owein, I didn’t hear you.” He cleared his throat, and the blur of him shifted until Hulda felt him press her wire spectacles into her hands. “You’re welcome to knock.”

Fire burned beneath Hulda’s skin as she practically smashed her glasses onto her face and whirled toward the door—the one that connected her room to Merritt’s—just as Owein sealed up a melted hole with magic. She hadn’t heard a thing—he must have spoken to Merritt while they were ... occupied.

Oh good heavens.She pulled her loose hair back. There wasn’t a lock in existence that could keep that boy from barging in where he wasn’t wanted!

While she bristled, however, Merritt’s stance softened. “Of course you can stay in my room tonight.”

All the humiliation and aggravation fled her instantly. “Are you sleeping poorly still?”

A soft, almost imperceptible whine escaped him.

“He says he just feels it coming tonight,” Merritt murmured, then, quieter, “He slept well last night, but ...”

“Of course.” She smiled. Smoothed her hair again. “Nothing could keep a door from being tantalizing more than the presence of an apperceptive canine.”

Merritt smirked. “I love it when you speak dictionary to me.” He kissed her chastely on the lips before burying a hand in his pocket and heading toward the door. Looking down at the dog, he said, “I can’t wait for you to have thumbs again, old man.”

Owein’s tail wagged as Merritt opened the door. Merritt passed her an apologetic yet impish look before slipping into his own quarters. She really ought to lock that door.

A thorough examination of the ethics of the door would have to wait, however. She had a spirit to exorcise.

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