Page 91 of Cursed

Magic tingled at my fingertips, and I reached out tentatively to drag them along Bastian’s leanly muscled shoulder.

He mumbled something and stirred. The magic I’d taken from him, only a small piece of it, was dark and potent, and the thrill of it swirling through my veins was heady and dangerous.

“Bastian,” I murmured. “It’s time to wake up.” His eyelids fluttered, and he groaned as I rolled him over onto his back. His jeans were around his ankles and it was easier to dress him while his limbs were slack. His belt was on the floor, and I threaded it through the belt loops with steady hands and buckled it with more force than was necessary.

My ass cheeks still throbbed with the memory of his strikes.

After I’d pulled his shirt over his head and tugged it down over his torso, I pushed my hair out of my face and grabbed hold of his arms. “Come on,” I grunted as I pulled him upright.

He stood, and then stumbled, disoriented, and my heart twisted at the sight of him—my captor turned captive. Guilt pressed heavily on my chest, but I pushed it down; there was no room for weakness now.

“What happened?” he slurred. I guided him toward the door, and his steps faltered as he fought to regain his balance.

“Nothing happened,” I replied, and allowed myself to relish the fresh power that thrummed through my veins. “You drank too much wine—”

I gestured vaguely with my hand, testing my new power, and my bedroom door swung open.

Victory surged through me, and I shifted my grip on Bastian to push him out the door.

“You should go to bed,” I said sweetly. “We’ll talk tomorrow— Maybe we’ll try again.”

He nodded and muttered something I couldn’t hear, and I watched him grip the railing with desperate fingers. I half expected him to fall forward down the stairs, but he caught his balance and lurched sideways to descend the stairs.

He staggered down the staircase, and I lingered in the doorway until the yawning darkness swallowed his silhouette.

Finally, he disappeared, and I breathed a sigh of relief as the tension left my shoulders.

Only then did I close the door and relished the way the softclickof the lock reverberated in the stillness.

I leaned against it, breathless and reeling.

The room seemed heavier now as the shadows stretched toward me, but something was different.

Iwas different.

I stepped away from the door and turned to face it.

I could see how damaged the protection sigils were now. That first night, opening the grimoire had torn the protection spells torn to shreds and allowed my stepbrothers’ entry into my sanctuary.

No more.

I raised my hands and uttered the words of the protection spell I’d learned at Messana Academy.

The door shimmered with a violet glow as the sigils fell into place without the need to draw them.

This was what having power felt like—real power.

“There,” I breathed, the words barely escaped my lips as the last sigil appeared on the doorframe. They glowed brighter now and illuminated the shadows that clawed at the edges of the room. It was proof of what I could achieve—what I would achieve—if only I could tap into the full depth of my magic.

As I dropped my hands and paused to admire my handiwork, the glow pulsed gently.

With each flicker of their light, I felt both empowered and repulsed; the paradox gnawed at my insides like a ravenous beast. I was strong enough to use the grimoire and bend it to my will. It had to be enough.

Hunt or be hunted.

Titus’ voice threaded through my thoughts.

But I’m not like them.

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