Page 11 of Wicked Bonds
“And now,” she says, “you are marked for the Coven, Rose Smith.”
Something snaps. The crowd shuffles, half of them startled by the force of it. I feel a line of fire crawl up my arm, racing for my shoulder, then up my neck and across my cheekbone. I want to scream, so I grit my teeth and pretend this isn’t the worst pain I’ve ever felt.
The headmistress barely looks at me. “Let it be marked.”
I don’t see the blood at first. I feel the burn, before my brain can finish the alert. It’s like a panic attack, but then it gets worse, like a damn breaking.
The pain goes from sharp to horrifying to everything. I double over, clutching my hand, and the crowdoohsin that way that means they hope I’ll puke or faint. The headmistress doesn’t move, just waits, eyes blank.
Magic escapes out of me, a spark that jumps from my fingers and scorches a thread line across the marble. I see it, a tiny black scorching snake, and then the world tips and I’m on my knees. My vision goes black, but I keep my head up, because if I pass out in front of these assholes, I might as well give up now.
The magic surges again, threatening to break me open. My knees buckle, and Lucien’s arm clamps around my waist, with his chest pressed flush against my back, solid, inescapable.
“Breathe,” he murmured. His lips brushed the outside of my ear as he leans too close. The crowd rustles with whispers, but I can’t tell if they’re reacting to the ritual or the vampire pinning me in place.
Heat licks through my belly, traitorous, dizzying. I hate him for it. I hate myself more for wanting him to hold tighter, the only sliver of comfort I have right now. I choke in a breath.
It hurts. I want it to stop hurting.
“Focus on me,” Lucien says.
He says it like there’s a switch somewhere in my guts I can flip, like pain is just an attitude you can adjust.
I lean my head back, trying to do as he says. His eyes are not human. I mean, I knew that, but now it’s obvious. They’re a flat,bottomless red, sucking all the light out of the room. “You’re doing fine,” he says, the words for me but the smile for the audience. I hate him, but I cling to the sound of it, the way it breaks through the pain. For half a second, there’s something almost sympathetic there. Almost.
Wickersly claps her hands once, the sound a crack like lightning. “That concludes the ritual,” Wickersly says, voice flat. She sounds bored, but I see her knuckles tense around the bowl.
I’m still on my knees, shaking, but the agony is already fading. In its place is a rush, a sizzle of energy that feels like drinking a thousand energy drinks and then jumping into an icy lake in the middle of January. I think I might actually black out, but I don’t.
I look at my hand. Across my palm, where the blade nicked me, the blood has dried in a precise, crescent-shaped line. It’s mirrored on my forearm, an angry red mark. A tattoo.
The fuckers branded me.
“You may rise.”
I do, using Lucien’s arm as a crutch.
Lucien’s eyes glance at the mark, then to my face, and I don’t like the look of pity I see there. “You did well. It doesn’t always go so smoothly.”
“That was smooth?” My voice sounds like I swallowed razor blades.
A second of dead silence, then the crowd comes back to life, one or two clapping, some laughing, most whispering in the way that means nothing good.
I step away from Lucien’s grip, ignoring the way my body wants to collapse again. The students start to break up, a few drifting toward me like sharks smelling blood. I brace for the first comment.
“You didn’t cry,” says a girl with a blonde French braid so tight her eyebrows are halfway up her forehead. Her friends nod, looking me up and down.
“Didn’t know that was an option,” I say.
She blinks, then laughs, baring her teeth. “Don’t die,” Blondie says in a sing-song voice. She leads her trio of baby witches off, their heels clicking rhythmically.
The Headmistress and the other witches of the Crescent Moon Coven retreat to wherever evil cunts go when they’re done torturing people. Lucien is still beside me, but then he’s gone before I can tell him to leave me alone.
Soren is suddenly at my shoulder, grinning. “You took that exceedingly well, Miss Smith.” He’s got the kind of face that could get away with literal murder, and his eyes say he’s never been told no by anyone. I immediately distrust him. “Soren,” he reminds me.
“Soren,” I repeat, “and you are what?” I know he’s not a witch or a vampire, but I can’t quite figure out his nature.
“You seem like a smart girl, Miss Smith. I’m sure you’ll figure it out, eventually.” His voice is smoky and seductive, and I feel something flutter in, well, let’s just say, places. And I’m pretty sure he can tell.
