Page 74 of Inked in Bloom
“You’re right, I don’t understand.” My eyes narrow, and when he doesn’t present a rationale for his stupid rules, I focus on what’s next for my friend. “So she won’t be coming back here at all?”
“Neither will you.” He peers down at me through his wire frames, the edge of his jaw pulsing. “Not until the season is over.”
“Why did you let me come back in the first place? Why didn’t you or yourfellow Radixstop me back in Lisse?” I tighten my fists and rest them on my knees, hissing out the words. I refuse to call Corrigan what she truly is. His mate.
No. He’s mine.
Ignoring the whisper in the back of my mind, I stand and grip the sides of my pencil skirt, nails snagging the black lace overlay.
“This may come as a surprise, but we have more important things to focus on without our own Blooms going rogue.” Each word is punched through gritted teeth. When he stands, he towers over me. I know it’s not possible, but I swear he’s grown taller. “Instead of showing gratitude for getting this opportunity so early, you’re already looking for a way around the few things we’ve asked of you.”
“Can you blame me?” The anger simmering between us begins to boil over, and I shove my pointer finger into his chest. “You think I want to be here? That I want to be stuck unseen and useless?”
“Useless?” He rears his head back, gaze dropping to where the tip of my nail digs into his shirt. The ball in his throat turns. “Is that really what you believe?”
“When I was alive, I was making a difference. What I did mattered.” Each word is forced from my lips, but I keep his gaze, refusing to look where I’m touching him, even though I’m pressing into his mark. It makes my own tingle, but Idon’t move, afraid of giving myself away. “My time could be better spent helping the ones I care about. Even if I’m stuck like this.”
I gesture down to my permanently blushing body.
He breathes slowly, evenly, as if refilling the space between us with air. The rage is washed away by something else. Raw hurt. “And what we do as Blooms doesn’t make a difference?”
“To be honest, I don’t see how growing some pretty flowers compares.” I lift my nose and give him my most honeyed tone. “Now, if you’re done doling out my punishment, I’m ready to head back and finish this season that I’mso gratefulto be bringing.”
Retreating a step, I turn for the dais.
“Wait.” Briar’s hand wraps around mine, clasping it, and he shakes his head at me. He tugs enough to let me know he won’t drag me anywhere I don’t want to go, but he also doesn’t release it. “Come on, there’s something I think you should see.”
Whether it’s his gentle handling, our untended bond reaching for the warmth of his touch, or my own budding curiosity, I let him pull me to him, hating how good it feels. His hand splays at the base of my spine and he whispers against the shell of my ear. “Stay close.”
In the blink of an eye, he shifts, and I follow suit. His ears grab hold of mine, whiskers twitching alongside my own, and a rabbit hole appears.
He nudges us both over its ledge and we’re gone.
31
MONROE
We’re whipped through the air, tumbling out across the grass. I come to an abrupt halt against Briar’s bare chest, my furry cheek pressed against a slab of muscle. Stumbling backward and averting my gaze, I shift and throw on some clothes.
When I turn back to face him, he’s fully dressed, thankfully. I squint at the tree line in front of us. “What did you want to show me?”
Wordlessly, he nods behind me. I spin to find a quaint house with white siding and evergreen shutters. Lush flower beds wrap around its porch.
“This is where my family lives—lived.” He clears his throat, the slight fissure in his usually honeyed tone smoothing out. “Where I would have grown up.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was born a Bloom.”
“How?” But as the question escapes my lips, I already know the answer. He never had a mortal life. “I’m so sor?—”
“Can’t be sad about something that never was,” he says, but he doesn’t meet my gaze. I want to argue how wrong he is. How easy it is mourning the things we believe we have no right to. Grief colors our lives despite logic. One look at Briar, though—shoulders tense, the lavender of his eyes dull— and I know it’s useless. “Anyway, it was a long time ago.”
“How long?”
“Almost fifty years.”
I hadn’t thought much about his past. Tried not to. Thinking of him beyond his role as my teacher and the unfortunate catalyst of my death was too much to handle.
