Page 13 of Our Covenant

“I know it’s cliché,” she says around the tip of her spoon, “ but crème brûlée will always feel sinful. I can’t resist the crunch of the sugar in the cold custard.”

Sharing food reminds me all too much of Lady and the Tramp. Splitting the smallest portion of poached custard with a dash of practically burnt sugar overtop isn’t my idea of a dessert either, but I’m not ready for the evening to end. In fact, I’m tempted to order a second dessert, but that might be considered kidnapping.

She has class in the morning and has a paper to finish before going to bed. Level heads would be reminded that I also have work to complete when I get back to the manor. But the way her slim fingers keep circling the soft pulse point on my wrist paired with the visual of her beautiful lips spread on the back of her spoon has driven all practicality out of my mind. Procrastination between her legs would be worth the missed assignment grade.

“You grew up in Boston?” she asks, glossing over the fact that I’ve been staring at her mouth for too long.

“My family has deep roots in the area,” I answer, shoving a thick mound of crème in my mouth.

“You never thought about moving away?” Her head tilts and a small lock of hair falls over her shoulder.

Before I can fight the impulse, my hand reaches over the table and tucks it behind her ear. “I’m exactly where I need to be.”

Her cheeks flush. “That must be nice. To know yourself so well.”

The constant knot in my chest twists at that. It seems like a lie to agree. I wouldn’t say I know my own needs, more that I know what’s expected of me. I could choose to leave and follow any impulse I have, but the coven depends on the four of us. If one of us were to go, it would be the end of hundreds of years of lineage protection and would sever the connection to the ancestral magic so many depend on.

“Are you okay?” Elsbeth’s hand grips mine and she brings me back from the vast cavern of dread inside of me.

I give my senses a shake and put on a half-hearted smile. “Sorry. I have a lot on my mind this week.”

“Exams?”

Scholarly tests would be a much more tolerable stress at the moment.

“Yeah, the work seems endless.”

“Midsemester slump.” She relaxes back in her chair but keeps her eyes intent on me. “You need to have some fun. Where’s your favorite spot to let loose?”

The party scene in the Ivy League tends to be more extravagant. Trips to Fiji or Spain. Nightclub hopping in Prague. But in the six years I’ve been attending, my breaks from coursework have been taken up by studying the pages of grimoires and diaries of the legacies of the past. The promise of freedom after graduation was never given to the four of us. Fox is the only one to choose a different path outside the gates of the Harvard tradition. But his intelligence and family capital have built him a life and wealth of his own.

“I spend a lot of time with family,” I finally answer.

“I didn’t take you for the sentimental type.”

I perk a brow. “What did you take me for? A playboy type? Slacker?”

A dimple forms on her cheek. “With the way you carry yourself, I thought you were one of the repressed finance-bro types that likes to let your inhibitions go on some remote island.”

“Finance bro?” I laugh. “I hope I don’t look like a pretentious douchebag.”

“A girl can’t be too careful out here. It seems like every guy I meet is more interested in their own voice than what’s happening in the world around us.” She shrugs, brushing off the observation as an expectation for my gender.

“Is that how you see me now?”

Her lips tighten into a line and she narrows her eyes at me like she’s looking for the change in my skin.

“No, you’re much more serious than I thought. Like, you’re actually hard to get to know because you tend to have a lot of walls built around you. But I think if you let someone in, you’d do everything in your power to protect and nurture them.”

Holy shit. I shouldn’t feel so seen by a practical stranger. She picks up her wineglass and drinks the last bit of it. I reach for the bottle, but she shakes her head.

“I shouldn’t have anymore or I won’t be able to drive myself home.”

“I wasn’t planning to let you drive.” It comes out like a line, but I’d rather her think I’m a horny pig than so irresponsible that I’d let her put herself or anyone else at risk by driving home after drinking. “Sorry, that’s not⁠—”

“It’s fine, Hawthorne. I know what you mean.” Her gaze softens, and the vise around my lungs releases. She’s disarming me at every turn and I can feel myself tripping at her feet.

“Not that I wouldn’t want to take you back to my place, but I prefer you get home safely. You’re the best gym buddy I have.”