Page 90 of Satanic Shadow
Distant. A growled-out whisper. An order. A plea.
But instead of giving myself pleasure, I showered with frigid water, went to my next class, and tried to ignore the ache.
It kept happening randomly throughout the day. The need for touch. Just before he came to see me, I was concentrating in my last class, writing a paper on different animals in the mortalrealm, when I felt a wet stroke against my cleavage. My knee smacked my desk as I jolted, and every student stared at me while I tried not to make it obvious that I was instantly aroused.
I glanced down, seeing a shadow wrapping around my thigh, and I just knew what it was and who was doing it. But despite him being locked away in the dungeons and only able to see me twice a day, it’s like a part of him is with me all the time, lingering, teasing, doing what he can to drive me insane.
It’s been over a week since Dane was arrested, and no one has mentioned it. The twins are the only ones who ask if I know what’s happening, but Dane told me not to tell anyone that he can reach me.
If the academy finds out, then there’s a chance they might use a barricading spell on him until his trial, and I won't be able to slow down the curse on my own.
Simply, I’ll die if Dane gets caught sneaking into my room.
So, yeah, it’s been over seven days of everyone pretending life is normal, going to classes and laughing and making sure all their homework is completed on time while I walk around wearing gloves to hide the deadly staining. Not once has anyone spoken about the brutal killing of a student or the fact that Dane, the popular heir who everyone bows down to, has been absent from each lesson. And not once have I been able to sleep without feeling like something is missing, without the urge to leave my room and go to him when he returns to his cell.
I look up from my notes, watching his forest-green eyes flit left to right as he reads. His lashes are so dark and thick, matching his brows. I won’t tell him, and I’ll shut my mind off while I think about it, but I saw him in my dream last night.
When I closed my eyes, I was smaller, younger, my voice gentle, grinning with excitement when I saw him hiding behind one of the stone pillars. A younger version of the prince ofshadows. Around sixteen. A tall, white-haired boy with a smile that could light up the sky.
My family was staying in the kingdom for a few days. We’d snuck around after dark, away from prying eyes.
I remember the softness of his hand as he held mine while we ran through the tunnels beneath his father’s castle. I don’t know how I knew it was his father’s castle—I just did. Everything looked familiar, comfortable, like home.
And I’m surprised at how much those thoughts don’t scare me.
We’d giggle, then I screamed and laughed as he picked me up and carried me to our secret spot under the tree. We’d cradle each other among blankets, where I’d trace his growing tattoos and kiss his lips, watching the sunrise, only to separate again when we returned to our kingdoms.
Quite strange that my mind conjures up these crazy scenarios, considering Dane is anything but the cute, charming boy from my dreams. He’s rough and ruthless, and doesn’t hesitate to scowl at me and snap back at my attitude.
He’s aggressive and has a thing for trying to drown people.
Hell, I think if we were in a sword fight, he’d pin me down with the blade to my throat and make me surrender by begging for mercy, then make me crawl back to where I came from.
Not that I ever would.
I don’t remember the name of the street I live on.
Strange.
He must be getting beat up or abused in some way because he hasn’t been able to heal himself, and he has a gash on his cheek, a cut lip, and bruising around his neck, as if someone tried to strangle him with a large metal chain.
I did try to ask what happened when he materialized in here and fell into my wall, but apparently I’ve to stay out of his business and focus on my own problems.
“Okay, so. First question. Who invented the television?”
Dane glares at me. “What kind of fucking question is that?”
“A relevant one.”
“Disney,” he answers, quirking a brow, pleased with himself. “Walter Disney.”
I bellow a laugh. “Are you serious?”
He sags on a huff. “Do all mortals know the answer?” he asks, his jaw ticking as his patience wears thin. We have nine questions left, and I have a feeling he’s going to get all of them wrong.
“Well, most do. Do you at least know the year it was invented?”
His tone deepens. “Your voice is annoying me.”
