Page 99 of Tortured Soul
“I’m fine,” I said, trying to force the surge of emotions down.
Carter didn’t look convinced. His eyes drifted to the book, which fell closed at my feet.
“What were you reading? I’ve never seen that book before.”
He took a step closer and crouched, picking it from the wooden floor.
I felt like I should have prevented him from doing so. For some reason, Maggie made it fall from the shelf when I was alone. Maybe she needed to tell me something. What if the Dragons had found me? No. They didn’t have any use for me now. I wasn’t pure, nor able to conceive children.
“Astrals, Protectors of the land,” Carter read—or, more accurately,sneered. “Bullshit. Them ever existing is only a rumor, and I heard that, if they ever did, they were self-centered bastards anyway.”
My throat bobbed.He wasn’t entirely wrong.
“Why were you reading this?”
I blinked. My stomach was churning from the intensity of the memory that overwhelmed me.
“I-I wasn’t. It fell, so I picked it up.”
It wasn’t a lie. Other than the title of the page, my eyes didn’t get to focus on the rest as my mind was busy stabbing me in the heart.
“It fell.”
Not a question, but I nodded anyway. He looked through the space around us, searching for something. Maybe for a sign of Margaret’s presence.
“We should go. Arc’s preparing dinner at home.”
I scoffed, crossing my arms over my chest. “I’m not following you anywhere.”
He groaned, his knuckles turning white around the spine of the small leather book.
“And why not?”
“Because last time you took me somewhere, I felt like ripping your face from your head,” I deadpanned. “Just leave, and I can go by myself.”
The muscle in his jaw ticked a couple of times before he made another guttural sound, sliding his free hand in his hair, ruffling it up. I tried to ignore the way my gaze lingered on his flexing bicep at his movement.
But at leasthedidn’t seem to notice.
Small victories.
“It’s late. Arc said you should have left the archives a while ago, and sent me to bring you home. So, let’s just—”
“Stop saying home,” I interrupted. “It’s not my home. We’re not—”
“It is.”
A bitter laugh breached my throat.
“No. I don’t have a home.”
“You do,” he said, snapping his hand around my wrist to pull me with him. “And it’s with us.”
I tried to pull my hand free, but his hold was strong. My other hand scratched at his, trying to lessen the pressure and make him release me, but he ignored it. Acting like I was merely an annoying bug hitting at his fingers.
“Let go of me, you stupid featherless bird.”
“Don’t make me teleport you out.”
