Page 120 of Liminal
“Librarian.” Halinor McKinley withdraws her hand and inclines her head, but I don’t mistake the harsh glint in her eyes as she takes in my appearance. “I’ve come to retrieve my nephew.”
She leans heavily on her cane, and her upper back is hunched, both legacies of her youth as a magiball scorer. She could fix them with magic, but Halinor is not the sort of person to waste magic trying to delay the inevitable.
The silver-twisted brown of her hair is bound tightly in a bun at her nape, complementing the deep mustard yellow of her plaid shawl and the blue of her eyes.
I can’t see much of a resemblance to Jasper. In fact, most of the men and women behind her are the polar opposite to the gentle healer upstairs.
The only exception is the slight girl tucked protectively behind her scowling mother, who both share his Eastern Mediterranean complexion and soulful brown eyes, and the man beside them might have the same fair colouring as his Orcadian brethren, but he has Jasper’s height, bone structure, and bushy brows.
It’s impossible for them to be anyone other than Jasper’s sister and parents.
Halinor is still waiting for an answer, and I sigh quietly to myself. Jasper is more in demand than I am, but this show of strength from the most isolated of the six families is oddly less intimidating than a handful of Carltons would be. Concern radiates from the group, and more than one of them is peering into corners like Jasper might be hiding there.
“I’ll ask if he wishes to see you.”
“Wishes to see us?” His mother steps forward, her accent just as strong as Halinor’s, presumably as result of three decades spent living with the clan. “He’s ourson, and he’s coming back to Kirkwall. Today.”
“He came here claiming Sanctuary.” I don’t bother raising my voice to match hers. “Which means neither yourselves, nor the many Carltons who tried before you, may compel him to leave the Arcanaeum’s protection.”
Halinor’s eyes sharpen. “So it’s true, then. House Carlton was responsible for his kidnapping?”
The group behind her bristles, fists tensing and posture straightening.
“He was rescued from a cell in their basement by one of my collectors who came across him while searching for a book on the Arcanaeum’s behalf,” I answer carefully.
If I outright accuse Carlton, the Arcanaeum will end up in the middle of a war. Better to only state facts, despite how thin my claim to neutrality is right now.
With a last nod at Halinor, I leave the Rotunda, merging with the fabric of the Arcanaeum, consumed with thoughts of what this will mean for us and how Jasper will react to the news. I’m so distracted that I pop directly into the room the two of them share, only to freeze.
The arcanist in question is reclining on the lower bunk with his eyes closed, his boxers shoved down, and his hard cock gripped firmly in his fist.
The light from the window plays across his hip bones where they’ve raised from the mattress, his arms straining, and his jaw clenched in an effort to stay silent. Sweat beads on his brow as he strokes himself from root to tip, thrusting his head back into the pillow as he speeds up.
I must make some noise, or perhaps he senses the chill I bring to the air, because his eyes fly open and lock with mine.
There’s an instant where both of us do our best impression of startled rabbits, before we snap out of it.
I start to stammer out an apology, backpedalling towards the door. If my cheeks could burn, they’d be on fire. I try to fix my gaze anywhere else. Like that will help.
Every inch—and there areplentyof inches—is now etched into my memory like a brand.
“Stay?” he breathes, his hips lowering back to the mattress.
I freeze again, caught in those magnetic brown eyes. I should open my mouth and tell him about his family. Or at least, mention that he has guests. But that look chases all thoughts of the gathering downstairs away.
The uncharacteristic boldness from him is ruined by the self-conscious flush gracing his angelic cheekbones and the way he won’t meet my eyes for more than a few seconds.
“I can’t,” I whisper. “I can’t touch…”
“Can you touch yourself?” he asks, seeming to regain a little confidence now that I’m no longer retreating.
I can, but it does nothing without the ability to perceive sensations. My self-control slips as I cast my mind around for a way to turn this back to him. Try as I might, I can’t stop my traitorous eyes from dipping back to his still-hard cock, grasped in the white-knuckled grip of his right hand. The head is red and angry, and a trickle of white has already spurted free, running down and over his fingers.
Can I…? I can’t touch, but maybe…
Sucking up every iota of control I possess, I reach for the Arcanaeum’s magic and the grimoires in the Vault, directing the manipulation spells in the same way I do to interact with everything else. He’s not a pen or a book, but I can exert pressure.
As long as I keep a cool head, and my touches light…
