Page 44 of Bite Me

Dacre

I feel Emma’s eyes on me all morning. I focus on the taste of my food while I try to think about anything other than the amount of space she’s taking up in the dining hall. She’s physically small, but everything else about her is large. She’s loud. Bright. Her scent wafts around her till she fills half the room. It’s impossible not to notice her.

I ease my chair forward as I stare at the poster of the other council members and me on the wall. I feel the heat on my lips from when I whispered in her ear, the warmth of her skin while the tips of my fingers graced the small of her back.

It’s all I’ve thought about all weekend since the initiation. Especially after she slipped her signed copy of our contract under my door on Monday morning.

What have I gotten myself into? Why can’t I stop thinking about being close to her?

It’s because we’re scent-matches. That’s the only logical conclusion. This is all a biological urge to keep her safe because of something that is completely out of my control.

I remember the night of the initiation again.

Having her take that potion was a reflex. I saw her walk into the room alone, and I knew what was coming. It was a split-second decision.

I was keeping her out of Luther’s hands. The way he was looking at her . . . The thought alone is enough to make me want to find him and make his life hell.

I can’t stop thinking about the ease with which she responded to me. It was like disarming a bomb when she had every right to blow up in that room.

I felt it.

The warmth of her back against me as she took a deep breath.

The goose bumps on her thigh when I whispered in her ear.

Truly, the most baffling part of the whole ordeal is that not for one second did I think of my grandfather and what he would want me to do. In that room, duty and family were the furthest things from my mind.

I’ve shaken the thoughts from my head by the time I reach the culinary club kitchen. Emma saunters in shortly after me, bubbling with energy, while Verity helps set her up for the day with a coat and a locker. Emma chirps around like a little bird fluttering its wings in a shallow bird bath. This is all she’s ever wanted, and I have to ruin it.

That’s the only way this ends amicably for both of us.

After spending the weekend ruminating, I came to the conclusion that I can’t let her stay in the culinary club. If being near my scent-match causes such a severe lack of judgment on my part, then there is only one remedy.

Stay far away.

Upon further research on the subject, I found there isn’t much information on scent-matches. We are reacting to each other. Her body responds to mine and mine to hers, and the more time we spend in proximity, the more complicated things will get.

I don’t need “complicated.” Not when I’m so close to getting my sister and me out from underneath my grandfather’s thumb.

That’s how this has to be, the only logical strategy left. If I break her spirit, she’ll want nothing to do with this place. Could my grandfather blame me then? If she decided to drop out of the club altogether, that wouldn’t be my fault. It’s survival of the fittest, and even my grandfather understands that. If she abandons her dream and leaves, that has nothing to do with me. He won’t see her the same, and maybe he’ll set his sights on someone else.

There is no other way forward. She can’t know. My grandfather can’t know. So I have to sever her from my life with a blade so sharp that she never wants to set foot in a kitchen again.

Her head turns as soon as I near.

“Morning!”

“You seem chipper for your first day.”

One minute. You have one more minute to be nice.

“Well, after a shower . . . I came over during the weekend just to familiarize myself with the kitchen. I ran into Luther and Verity, and it was fine. No apologies, but Luther showed me the gallery wall of maids that came before, and he put up my picture, and it wasn’t terrible. I . . . don’t trust them or anything, but I can coexist, and this isn’t about them anyway. I won’t let them deter me.”

“I thought we were pretending that night didn’t happen?”

“Oh, right.” She squares her shoulders, and her voice lifts an octave. “It’s not really any of your business, anyway.”

Thirty seconds.