Page 98 of House of Marionne

“I would never.” He rolls his shoulders. “Unless . . . you want me to?”

My skin flushes as I shimmy into my pants and zip them up. I unbutton as few buttons as I can and toss my shirt over my head. “Ready.”

“You look really nice,” he says, when he finally turns around.

I twist my shirt around my finger as his gaze traces me. Heat flares up my neck when I pull myself to my senses and reach for the door. But he holds it shut and closes the distance between us.

“Until the coast is clear.” He leans against the door, listening, his body brushing against mine. He indicates my bare shoulder, where my shirt is slipping from the top few buttons being undone.

“Oh.”

“May I?”

I pull my hair over my shoulder and put my back to him. His touch grazes my skin, every spot kindling a warmth inside me that lures like a cozy fire.

“You really should reconsider some of those invitations,” he says, feeling for the next button on my shirt.

“I have no desire to go to any ball besides my Cotillion.”

His fingers trail down my back and it makes me want to lean in closer to his touch. I close my eyes, but all I can think about is how gentle and careful his touch is. How I could skip this celebration altogether and instead lie here with him, talking about books all night. I clear my throat. “Are you almost done?”

“Two more. And that’s a shame,” he says. “It’s good to get a taste of society before you’re thrust into it. See what it’s like rubbing elbows with Unmarkeds as if you’re not hiding anything at all.”

“I’m sure I can hide things just fine, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” His breath warms my neck as he does the last couple of buttons. Bumps race across my skin. “I’ll be at several of them. It’s expected of me, and I do what’s expected of me.” He finishes with my shirt, and I turn to face him, my foot stumbling over his. I fall against him and he catches me, holding me for a moment against his hard chest. His expression is stoic, but his breath rises and falls quickly.

“Sometimes I think about doing what I want instead of what’s expected of me.”

There is no space, not a single breath, between us.

“And what do you want, Miss Marionne?”

I listen for footsteps, but the hall is dead silent. Fearing I’ve been too honest, I push off him gently and grab the doorknob. “Let’s get going.”

* * *

The night gusts with a chill, and Jordan and I walk close as we round on the Tavern.

“You really couldn’t think of anything else you’d like to do?” he asks.

“Hey, you had your chance to weigh in.”

Our arms graze as we walk. I hold mine as still as I can, expecting him to put some distance between us before it swings past me again. But he doesn’t. So neither do I.

“I have to officially declare my specialty.”

“I assume you’ve chosen Cultivator.”

He and Grandmom, I swear. “Am I that predictable?”

“It makes sense for you.” His fingers twitch, reaching in my direction as they dangle between us.

“What if I don’t want to make sense?”

His brows kiss, my humor completely lost on him.

“I’m still thinking about it, if you must know. And I wanted to know more about your magic. I’m still intrigued.” Why your magic looks so much like toushana . . .

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