Page 23 of Blood Oath
In front of me. When I was thirteen.
There’s a faint flicker of something in Maven’s eyes, perhaps even empathy, before she turns to enter the empty greenhouse. I follow, determined to make more progress.
“Do you always come to the greenhouse first thing in the morning?”
“I am a botany aficionado.”
I study her. If she’s telling the truth, why haven’t I seen her in the greenhouse more often? I’m here frequently since I have a plot of thriving plants in one corner. An affinity for nature is the one thing I look back on with fond memories passed down from my family.
Is Maven the same way?
I gesture at a nearby cluster of white-petaled flowers. “What do you suppose this is?”
I already know what it is, but it’s not an outright lie to feign ignorance. I’m testing her.
When she speaks, her voice is flat and monotonous. “Death camas. Also known as meadow death camas, which is a part of the Melanthiaceae family. The leaves, bulbs, and flowers are all poisonous, but that poison is far more potent when the plant has been dried. Not usually fatal to consume in small amounts, but it can cause severe illness.”
Then her eyes sweep to me, and she looks unimpressed. “It looks remarkably like wild garlic blooms to the untrained eye. I’m sure that’s the answer you were testing against.”
Impressive…and perceptive.
Curious, I point out another plant. Not only can Maven identify the plant, but she knows an array of facts about it as well as the potions it’s commonly used in. Without my prompting, she moves on to another, and another…and another. Her voice is a measured drawl. Most people would find it dry and uninteresting. Incredibly dull, even.
But I’m captivated.
By Maven’s intelligence, her calculated movements, even the way the dappled morning light dances across her skin when she walks under a trellis in bloom. For someone who’s supposedly so quiet all the time, she’s articulate to a point.
Whenever she’s not looking, I find my attention skimming over the frumpy clothes completely obscuring her body, curiosity building in me. Obviously, I want to know what she looks like naked, but more importantly…why does she dress like this? For comfort, or is she self-conscious?
She glances over her shoulder. “I must be boring you.”
A smile tempts the corners of my lips up. It’s a foreign expression on my face. “On the contrary. Go on. I intend to listen to you commentate on the entire greenhouse.”
Maven turns away to run her gloved hand softly over the ferns. I’ve never been jealous of plants before, but my attention suddenly can’t seem to budge from her gloves.
I want to feel her bare hands on me. All over.
“I see. Tell me what topics do bore you.”
“Very little,” I admit, struggling to pull myself out of that arousing train of thought. “Even knowledge of the driest of subjects can be a useful weapon when least expected.”
Maven turns to study me with her first hint of genuine curiosity. I’m standing nearer to her than I have to date, and this close, I discover her dark irises are truly a mysterious blend of dark shades—brown, gray, deep blue, shadowy green.
And…she doesn’t look away from me.
Most people find my full attention and blood-red irises too intense, but she doesn’t flinch or try to fill the quiet with small talk. She’s steady. Immovable. Stubborn.
Beautiful.
“So there’s no chance of me boring you to tears,” she summarizes.
“Is that what makes you want to reject the quintet? You worry we’ll lose interest in you?”
Immediately, her voice steels. “I don’t just want to reject it. I did.”
“There must be a reason. Is it because you come from a human background, and quintets seem strange? Or is something else scaring you away? Perhaps we intimidate you.”
Maven snorts and brushes past me without making the slightest bit of contact despite the close quarters. Still, my pulse jumps, and my mouth goes dry. The dark, morbidly sensual thought surfaces, and my mouth waters as I suddenly wonder what the magic in Maven’s blood would taste like.
