Page 45 of Our Covenant

“Why do you think I’m looking for something? Maybe I was just lonely and wanted the company of four hot men.” I pout for dramatics.

“You’re not fooling anyone, venom.” He brushes the pad of his thumb down my bottom lip and takes my chin in a soft hold.

I don’t pull away as he comes in closer than before and I breathe him in deep. My skin pebbles at our contact, and I have to hold myself back from easing into him.

“Wouldn’t your time be better spent researching me?” My words come out breathier than they should, and the instant satisfaction in his eyes makes my stomach flip.

He flashes me another dazzling smile and my insides quake. The small amount of skin on skin is flooding my core with heat and I hate it. Why does he have to be so pretty?

“Who says I’m not.”

Fuck.

He drops his hand and steps back. “I’ll give you a fifteen-minute head start.”

With that, he leaves the room. I wait until I can’t hear his footsteps on the stairs to get to my feet. I’m still only wearing a T-shirt that I’m now sure is Thorne’s. It’s too small for Asher and too big for Fox and Maddox. Not to mention, the essence of smoke that’s overpowered the detergent that was used on it.

After I took a shower last night, I came out to find that one of them had come in and taken my clothes. My sweater, skirt, tank top, and even tights were gone along with my boots. I hadn’t expected them to let me keep my shoes as long as they did. The chill in the air would normally keep me in a pair of sweatpants and under blankets back in my own room.

This was not how I wanted to get into the legacy manor. Alric had told me that I needed to be invited by all four of them, but now I’m not so sure that’s true. Maddox doesn’t want me here. Being in my presence has left a foul taste in his mouth on both occasions. I can’t imagine he’s eager.

Anissa and Eilene left for their trip early yesterday morning. Aside from my mother, no one will be looking for me until after the break.

My thoughts are consumed by each scenario as I peek out into the hall, careful not to make the floorboards creak with every step. Would Anissa call the campus police? Would my mother lead the search party?

The fruitless investigation would lead to vigils, candle-lighting ceremonies, and a half-hearted memorial before my name is forgotten by the next football game. That doesn’t bother me. While it’s a fine and prestigious education, Harvard isn’t my dream. Alric handed it to me on a crimson-napkin-lined gold tray and I’m taking full advantage. But even knowing that I’ve been raised as a lamb for slaughter, I love Anissa and would rather her life not be affected by my current situation.

Mentally promising one of my only friends that she won’t have to give my eulogy, I peek into the hallway. There are still voices floating up from the kitchen, but they sound casual and easy. Like having a half-naked woman stowed in their house is an everyday occurrence. If it weren’t for weeks of research, I would assume that’s the right drawn conclusion, but Asher is the only one who’s sleeping around. From what I’ve seen, he’s strictly a campus lay. Meaning that he picks women on or near campus to fuck between classes. I wonder who he has on his docket this week?

That doesn’t matter, Elsbeth. He can fuck whoever he wants. Even men on death row get a last meal.

Barefoot and more naked than I prefer, I pad toward the staircase. Someone below opens and closes a door. The force of it rattles a windowpane at the end of the hall. There’s a mumbled conversation before three sets of feet exit the kitchen and wary floorboards announce that they’re moving on to other areas of the lower level.

I turn toward the far end of the hall and the one room that sits opposite the others. It’s Thorne’s. My astral-self walked through this doorway last night but was quickly rejected. Mastering my own magic has been easier since being here, but I’ve never had so many victims to practice on that wouldn’t draw me unwanted attention. Because I couldn’t torment my roommate with nightly visits and I didn’t want to be caught in the elevator by one of my neighbors that would remember me from nowhere else but their dreams, I had to be discreet.

Here, I don’t have to hide—at least, not my magical strength. But before waking up in this house yesterday evening, I thought I knew how powerful magic could be. I’ve spent years of my life dedicated to honing my ability and using it to its fullest when I was given access. Come to find out, Alric’s gifts were only small sips of what these four men are capable of.

Fox was able to manipulate water as if it were as easy as putting pen to paper. And under pressure, Thorne was able to incapacitate but not kill me, and that is a marvel. My stomach does a small flip. One of the last things I remembered yesterday was the look of panic and apology on Thorne’s face as his hand closed over my mouth and nose. Fox whispering something in my ear while his arms banded around my body is the only other memory that’s been replaying in my head for the last sixteen hours. But after every cycle, I have to remind myself that Fox is not safe. None of them are.

They can’t be trusted. Thorne’s bedroom is proof enough that while they are merely men, they are dangerous animals. There are three large paintings hung on each wall surrounding his bed, which is messy and untamed. The first painting looks to be personal. A woman in a long black dress with a look of determination forever memorialized in oil and ink. The name plate on the frame reads: “Bridget.”

She’s young, maybe in her late twenties. Her hair is tied into a braid that trails down her shoulder to the middle of her chest, where she’s clutching a large brown book. Though her forearm covers most of the cover, I can still make out a white shield crowned with a knight’s helm. A splash of red across the shield and bleeding off to one side is the only bit of color to the entire portrait, but the importance isn’t lost.

Bridget’s watchful guard hangs above a wardrobe that’s probably as old as the painting itself. Many older New England homes don’t have built-in closets, which means that while the other rooms I’ve seen have them, this one wasn’t touched by the fire that tore through half the manor all those years ago. Ironic.

The other two paintings are landscapes. One is a mountain range, but I don’t recognize it as nearby. Each peak juts up into a deep purple sky and is capped with pure white snow. Didn’t he say he liked to camp once? Maybe the scene is from one of his curated conquests. Nothing else in his room suggests that he’s dedicated to the “backwoods” style of camping and instead gives off big “glamping” energy.

The last piece of personality that draws my eye depicts tall grass and dry earth against a sultry red sunset. It takes me a few seconds to realize that a pair of eyes is staring back at me through the sun-drenched straw. When I step closer, the beast’s head comes into focus. It’s a fox, but unlike every other I’ve seen in art hanging in museums or in your run-of-the-mill department store, this animal is diseased. Its hair has fallen out in patches. Its skin is raw and rough. The longer I examine the piece, the more pitiful the fox looks. Even its once startling gaze appears to be pleading for relief.

There’s a signature at the corner that displays Thorne’s family name. A past legacy could have painted it. Or maybe Thorne has a touch of the arts that I’m not aware of?

Move on, Elsbeth.

I’ve spent too much time trying to analyze bits of a man I already know enough about. I check his side-table drawers but don’t find anything of use . . . or my necklace that he stole last night. The wardrobe is packed with plenty of suits, T-shirts, jackets, and a few crewnecks from the campus store, but not much else. Aside from clothing, there is a small trinket box sitting on an inner shelf. My hopes hardly have a second to elevate before I open it and see that the only thing inside is an old coat of arms pin.

It’s the same coat of arms that’s displayed on Bridget’s book. I trace my finger over the aged surface. Centuries of dents, chips, and gashes dig into the soft metal. The original iron rod has been worn dull. I doubt that it’s seen the lapel of a jacket or light of day in decades, but it’s remains are still coveted by its lineage.

How fitting that Thorne would hide a piece of family history away from the outside world. We’re more similar than he’d like to believe. With that, I close the box and wardrobe. There’s nothing in here that is of use to me, and I don’t want Fox to catch me snooping.