Page 51 of Prince of Flowers
I slungmy towel over my shoulders, having dried my hair as vigorously as I dared without rubbing myself bald. I hated going to bed with wet hair, but I also didn’t love blowing it dry. I know, I have such massive problems.
And my biggest problem of all was in the shower, taking his turn after graciously allowing me to wash up first. I couldn’t quite wrap my head around the situation, but Dr. Fang’s words lingered. Was this really Sylvain deciding to stay with me? I still needed to figure out for myself why I wanted him to.
“I want him to,” I murmured, sitting at the table, staring at the day’s menu, the words meaning nothing. That was all I knew. As contentious as our relationship had been, I couldn’t deny Sylvain’s power. I especially couldn’t deny my attraction.
But what were his reasons for staying, if he was, in fact, staying? He’d felt the rush of magic each time I’d augmented his strength with my essence, each time I’d taken his unusual talents to another level. Was that all?
And yes, the attraction wasn’t one-sided. Clearly. That morning at the pool had been extremely eye-opening in more ways than one. Yet I still had my doubts. Sylvain could have jerked me off out of boredom, or worse, pity.
I heaved a deep sigh, knowing I should be a little less sulky about everything. I’d qualified for my Crest, for fuck’s sake. My life was headed somewhere, and Father’s voice in my head could finally shut up. Couldn’t I celebrate that, at least? Yes. With a nice, hot meal, straight from the kitchens.
“We’ll have two of these, please,” I said out loud, pointing at the bottom of the menu. “And some grated parmesan on the side?”
The gruff voice answered. “No sweat, kid.”
Bless the kitchen imps. Hardworking bros, every last one of them, and well-compensated by the headmasters.
“I thought you’d have dressed yourself by now.”
Oh. I never heard the water shut off. Sylvain stood by the bathroom door, a towel wrapped around his waist, another on his head. The man was burning through towels like nothing, but the laundry imps were bros, too, so there was that.
I gestured at myself. “Boxers. See? Nice and comfy.”
He wrinkled his nose. “And yet still too tight for me.” He rubbed a towel through his hair as he approached, stopping just behind me to read the menu in my hand. “Oh, is that ravioli? Yes, I’ll have some. Thank you.”
It took some restraint to hold back the obvious question, but I was too exhausted to interrogate him, at least that night. I was never going to get a straight answer out of Sylvain. To save on frustration, it was best if I started thinking of him as a very well-traveled exchange student whose favorite hobbies were playing dumb and pretending he was born yesterday.
Plus he was so close to me, his skin smelling of my soap and shampoo again. Where was I going to find the room to get angry or think straight when the scent of him was taking up so much space in my head, in my body?
“I already ordered for you, don’t worry. I figured you might like the ravioli. Call it a hunch.”
Sylvain grinned and poked a finger into the hollow of my cheek. “You’re so considerate.”
Weird. I liked this playful side of him. But not the side of him that was okay with sitting on my bed while wearing a wet towel. I frowned.
“Get off the bed, Sylvain. I don’t want to sleep on damp sheets.”
He kicked his feet up, leaning against the pillows, a defiant brat. “I’ll sleep on this side, then. I don’t care.”
I frowned harder. “And who said you were going to sleep on the bed tonight?”
“Surely you aren’t going to make me sleep on the floor again. Oh no. That look on your face says you want me to — honestly, Locke? After all we’ve been through? In the words of your ancestors, this is bullshit.”
He pouted and smacked his hand against the mattress, close to my backpack where I’d left it. The flap was unfastened. Something long and cylindrical rolled out of the opening.
“Goodness gracious.” Sylvain’s eyes went wide. “What is that thing, and how is it meant to fit up your bottom?”
“It’s not a — oh, stop it, Sylvain.” I stepped over and snatched the candle off the bed. “You’ve seen one before. It’s a glamor-glow candle. I thought it would be interesting to — well, I don’t know what I was thinking. Look. I’m sorry. I have trust issues, okay? Disappearing father, and a disappearing mother, too? That messes with your head.”
Sylvain rolled his eyes. “I’m not offended, if that’s what you think. It’s all part of fae nature to be deceptive, so on, and so forth. Go ahead. Light it. I dare you. Try and see if I’ve deceived you.”
I stared at the candle, sorely tempted, if only for my own peace of mind. I’d snuck one from Dr. Fang’s office. The first fae that reappeared on Earth had been a very unpleasant and violent sort, walking among humans under cover of glamor, executing dangerous surprise attacks.
The members of the magical community — the arcane underground — banded together to create objects that could be used to dispel glamor. The attacks were also how we’d learned that several of the fables surrounding the fae were untrue. Names didn’t give them any real power, and iron didn’t work.
But the glamor-glow candles did, created by the Flickering Flame, one of the great guilds of artisans found in the dimensional bazaar known as the Black Market. I shrugged, reach for a box of matches on my bedside table, and lit it, the scent of the spark fleeting, the candle’s glow permeating the room.
I held it up to him, close enough to check. His ears sharpened before my eyes, the rounds of them extending into tapered tips. I stared hard. Nothing else changed. Sylvain turned his hands up and shrugged.
