Page 107 of Fortress of Ambrose
“I am.”
He caught up with her. “You are not. You are running.”
“I am protecting you, Yagrin.”
“I don’t need you to protect me.”
He did. Life had dealt him a crappy hand. He deserved love. And that was something she couldn’t give him. Letting him love her would only torture him in the end.
“There is no logical reason I should invite you back to my room.”
His teeth pulled at his lips. “So the thought crossed your mind, too?” He brushed the back of his hand gently across her reddening skin. It lit a fire inside her.
“Have a good day, Yagrin.” She didn’t look back. She couldn’t. She wanted him, even if she didn’t feel an ounce of love for him. Because she knew he loved her. And no one could ever love her more. But it was selfish to take his love and not be able to reciprocate it. When she fell into her bed, she begged for sleep and sweet dreams.
But they did not come.
The moon was high in the sky when the handle on Nore’s door shook. She sprang to her feet. She’d been lying there glaring at her ceiling. Yagrin’s audacity was almost admirable. She opened the door, but Yagrin was not on the other side. Instead there were the two House Draguns escorting a fellow her age with auburn hair and eyes the color of emerald pools.
“Headmistress Ambrose.” The Dragun spoke. “Your final sacrament of coronation.”
Nore froze. The fellow stepped inside and shut the door. He bowed, then strode across her room, taking in the size of it. It wasn’t ornate, but for an Ambrose it was a masterpiece of hard, sterile architecture.
“I’m Vincent.”
“Vincent, I am trying to understand why you’re in my room.”
He huffed a laugh before pulling his shirt overhead, unveiling a carved body forged with much diligence. Then he grabbed the buckle of his belt and slid it off. Nore squeezed her eyes shut. And reopened them. But he was still there.
When he grabbed the zipper of his pants, she finally found words.
“Whatare you doing?”
He furrowed his brow, but Nore didn’t move, and his mirth faded. He shifted on his feet. “Uh, I received a letter that I’ve been selected to further the House bloodline with the Headmistress. To make an heir. It is a great honor, they explained. A tradition created by a Headmistress a century ago, where the leaders of the House select the most astute genetic pairing for you to ensure thebestpossible heir. I speak nine languages. I have mastered four strands of magic, but have never coveted interest in the brotherhood. I plan to continue my studies in—”
“Pleaseshut up!” She pressed her temples.This can’t be.She paced in a circle. Nothing in her wanted to be Headmistressthatbadly. What would Yagrin think? He slipped down to his underpants and sat on her bed. She marched back to the door, but the knob didn’t turn. “I did not agree to this.”
“I don’t know what to say.” He stared, shocked. “I have a duty to make a child with you. I’ve signed an oath.”
She beat on the door. “Open this door! Ainsley? Get me my maid!”
But she remembered she’d sent her to bed early.
Forty-Three
Quell
I skip breakfast the next morning and find Dexler, who is repairing a section of crumbled wall with a Shifter ring on her finger. Yani is there as well, helping remove debris. She’s supposed to be with Willam…
“There you are,” Dexler says. “I hope you slept well?”
“I slept fine. She’s helping?” I point at Yani.
“Yes, she’s been a huge help. I needed a hand, and the tall, gangly fellow told me she said she could. Thank you.”
I watch Yani restore a threshold over a session room door. She’s covered in sweat and dust. She descends a ladder and moves down the wall to repair another hole.
Dexler watches me, watching her. “It’s alright that she lends a hand, isn’t it? She’s so skilled with Shifting magic.”
