Page 96 of Summoned
Her eyes drop to her fingers and a faint line furrows her brow. She must be worried about him. The thought jabs through me, stinging. Even so, I grip the armrest and say, “If you wish, I can take you home right now…”
She snaps her head up and, before I can predict what she’s about to do, she throws the covers aside and rises. Barefoot, she pads across the illusory soft carpet and reaches me.
She curls into my lap, not saying anything. Her arms loop around my neck, and she buries her face against my shoulder.
My heart skips a beat. My muscles tense—not from arousal, but from the sheer unexpectedness of this closeness. Kneeling between her legs, holding her on the edge betweenpleasure and pain, owning every breath she takes… that, I understand. But this—this intimacy—is entirely different. Something I never even shared with Madeline.
She leans into me, moulding her body to mine. “Thank you,” she whispers in my ear. “No one’s ever saved me before.”
Her words hit harder than they should. I can’t recall the last time I “saved” anyone. For the past five centuries, all I’ve done is destroy.
My arms wrap around her like a shield. We stay like that for a long, undefined stretch of time. Her heartbeat vibrates against mine until we share the rhythm. The softness of her skin contrasts with my rune-marked hands that were not made for protection.
How the hell am I supposed to take her soul?
“Can I stay with you today?” she interrupts my thoughts.
* * *
While she freshens up in my bedroom, I transform the living room with illusions. Rich, warm hues now dress the walls, broken only by the presence of paintings. Some are simple landscapes from memories that the centuries haven’t managed to erase—a blooming magnolia in a field of skulls, a Venetian balcony overlooking the canal, the domes of Constantinople. Others are replicas of masterpieces created by the hands of talented artists whose names Nicole would recognize.
The wall with tally marks I cover with an endless bookshelf—leather-bound tomes, spines embossed in gold. An illusion, a suggestion that knowledge matters more to me than gathering souls.
Beyond the window, a Persian garden appears, rose bushes, tulips, and jasmine intertwining in perfect symmetry. The ponds mirror the sky, and a gentle breeze stirs the grass.
In the middle of the room, a dark wood table emerges. A decanter of real wine stands there, along with the rest of the food I stole from the restaurant. It’s not a feast, but enough to feed us both.
The trophy library from my previousharveststurns into an invisible orchestra. The objects become instruments. Hidden by illusion, they produce soft, almost melancholic music that fills the space with tranquility.
The shadows stir at the sudden change. I cast a veil over the room and seal them out.
Nicole enters a moment later, dressed in her blue outfit and slim heels. With a curious expression, she wanders around the room. She pauses before some paintings, runs a finger along the spines of the books, and peers through the window.
I stand beside the table, motionless, warmth blooming in my chest. From the faint curve of her lips and the way her chin lifts, I gather she’s impressed. This is me—my art. I shape beauty with the same precision I use to carve nightmares.
Her attention slides from the window to me, then drops to the table. “Is this for me?”
“Only and entirely.”
I pull out her chair. She sits, her gaze never leaving measI take the seat opposite her.
Her focus lingers on my face, pausing on my lips. “The Black Joker has made me dinner. What an unusual twist of fate,” she murmurs, her voice gentle yet tinged with that subtle, haughty edge so typical of the Little Baroness.
I smile, catching the faint tightening of her shouldersdespite her composure. “Not exactly. I stole your parents’ dinner.”
She bursts into laughter that echoes off the walls, reaching even into the shadows beyond the veil. A moment later, she places a hand over her mouth, her expression sobering. “What am I going to do? My father won’t give up. Once he has decided to marry me off for profit…”
I absorb every nuance of her expression.In a week, none of this will matter.The thought slips through my mind, cold and clear.
Then her head lifts, and the force of her attention pins me in place. “Can I ask you something?”
I raise a hand in quiet permission.
“The second trial… How did you know all those things about my friends? What Boyana’s shoes looked like, how those people talk, and…everything else?”
My fingers close around the stem of my glass. “I didn’t. It was an ancient spell that used your own weaknesses against you. What you saw came from your subconscious. Thoughts you’ve had. Or maybe suspicions.”
“So… they didn’t actually say those things about me?” Her voice is quiet, seeking reassurance.
