Page 39 of Feast of Sparks (Thornchapel 2)
“Sure,” I say, although I’m not sure what I’m agreeing to.
Her answering beam almost makes it worth it, even after I realize what she’s going to go do. “I’ll go grab Auden then. We’ll talk now and get things settled.”
I only nod, even though I want to shout. I want to crush her to my body and force my way under her skirt and then fuck her for Auden to see. That’s what I want right now. Not to talk. Not to confront the obsidian wall of Auden’s hatred again after bruising myself against it so many times over the years.
Poe slides off the table, her skirt lifting enough as she does for me to make out the shadowed cups of her arse cheeks, and I let out a low breath. Fuck. I’m going to have to wear out my toy again tonight.
Delphine and Rebecca are arguing about whether or not Alistair and Verity (whoever they might be) are still engaged, and Becket has run to fetch another bottle of wine. Which means it’s fairly easy for Poe to pull Auden over—not that I think she’d have to try too hard in any circumstance. The way his eyes follow her as she leads him into the shadows is beyond possessive, beyond hungry. Intense and cruel and avid. Worshipful, but the kind of worship that necessitates a rope tied around the ankle because at any moment you’ll be struck dead by the very thing you came to adore.
“Let’s go back here,” Poe says, canting her head toward the very far nook in the shelves, the one next to the windows. And like the children of Hamelin, we follow our piper without prompting, right into the cool darkness where the air smells like books and where the moody music Becket put on is muffled and faint.
I rest back against the bookshelves, folding my arms across my chest, as Auden leans one shoulder against the stone edge of a massive window. Even with us leaning and slouched, Poe is still so much shorter than us, reminding me of how precious she felt cradled between us that night, how fragile and yet also so vital, her petite size balanced by those generous curves, which even now are straining at her sweater and skirt. I bet if I lifted that tweed hem right now, I could see how those tights stretch and pull across her indulgently luscious arse.
I have to grab my own bicep and squeeze, just to let off the steam a little. Auden notices, an eyebrow arching ever so slightly, a quirk to his wide, sharp-edged mouth, as if he wants to ask but won’t.
Which is fine, because I don’t want to answer.
“So, I think—” Poe starts, then stops, taking a breath and pressing fingertips to her mouth while she considers how she wants to start. With the tendrils of dark hair escaping her bun to frame her delicate jaw and caress the ivory elegance of her nape, she looks every inch the scholar.
“You think we should talk about what we did the night after Imbolc,” Auden says for her when she still hasn’t spoken. He brought a fresh drink with him, and he takes a swallow now, his eyes never leaving hers. “We should acknowledge that we all went to bed together after I helped Rebecca beat you, and maybe this is when you’ll tell us that it was a mistake and can never happen again?”
There’s no telling if his words are bitter or relieved or some combination of both, because Poe interjects, a little hotly, “I’m not going to say any of that.”
Auden’s already arched brow arches the tiniest bit higher.
“It would never be a mistake going to bed with either of you,” she says, so full of surety and sweetness, that I feel undeserving even breathing the same air as her. How can she be so certain, so honest, and yet she is, she’s always been, dreamy and clear all at once. “And I obviously want you to play with me again. I understand why you haven’t, in light of . . .” Here her unwavering bravery does waver the slightest bit, and I know it takes some effort to push the words out. “In light of finding my mother. But it helped me, that night, it was the best thing you or Rebecca could have done.”
“Good,” Auden says. “We wanted to help.”
“But you want to do more than help, right? You want to earn me.”
At that, his eyes hood ever so slightly and his lips part. “Yes,” he says finally. “I’m going to earn you.”
“I want you to,” she says, “but you need to know that I don’t want Saint any less because of it.”
“You want to pursue something with both of us. Con
currently.”
Auden’s voice isn’t angry or hurt, merely guarded. I hate him guarded. I’d rather have him baiting me, fighting me, choking me against a wall while I shudder in ecstasy. I’d rather have him as he so rarely lets himself be—which is wild, wicked power incarnate.
“No,” Poe says softly. “I want something with all three of us. Concurrently.”
Auden tries to speak. Fails.
Looks helplessly at me, as if we’ve finally found something to be allies about.
“Look, I know that there’s something between the two of you. I had to pull you apart in the driveway my first day here. I know that whatever happened, St. Sebastian started it, and Auden, you finished it. I know that you say you hate each other, but even now, I bet you’re both hard, just from being around each other. Just from watching how St. Sebastian’s jeans mold around his hips and thighs, Auden. I’ve seen you looking all night. And Saint, I’ve seen how you’ve been watching Auden drink since dinner. Like his lips on that glass are the thing you’ll think about when you go home and get off.”
My cheeks burn, and I have to look away from her. Am I really that transparent?
Oh God, has Auden really been looking at my body?
Pleasure curls in my chest, followed by doubt. Poe has to be wrong, Auden has more control than that, and any moment he’ll correct her—
“You think because I want to fuck St. Sebastian, that I want to be in some kind of three-way relationship with him?” Auden asks incredulously.
“I’m right here, you know,” I remark, trying to sound aloof and unbothered, like I’m not gratified by the first part of his sentence and wounded by the second.
