Prince of Air and Darkness (The Darkest Court)

“I know that,” he whispers. “Isn’t that why you finally said yes?”

He goes scarlet as he looks past me to the rumpled sheets, but it’s too late. That fear rings between us and everything snaps into brilliant clarity.

I pull him closer, focusing on his quickening breath, the way his mouth drops open in surprise.

“No, Finn,” I say. “That happened because you’re a go

od man and I wanted you. I lied to my mother last night because what happens between us is none of her damn business. And I will help however I can because this matters to you.” Carefully, I release him. He doesn’t try to run. “Now, how much time do we have before you leave?”

He licks his lips. “About a week? I leave Saturday. Get back Monday.”

“We’d better get started, then.”

His fingers tap nervously against the band of his shorts. “Roark, I don’t want you to regret this.”

“Smith, shut up. You aren’t one of my regrets. Move so I can get dressed.”

He reaches for me, his hand sliding over the curve of my calf, skating higher and higher. “Later.”

At least that bruised look isn’t in his eyes anymore.

Chapter Sixteen

Phineas

It doesn’t get easier. Using the ley line, I mean. My control’s about what it used to be, even if it comes more willingly when called. No matter how many times we try, I can’t quite coax it to help plants grow stronger. It tries, but the energy’s too unstable, too wild, and all that’s left is smoldering ash.

“Stop thinking,” Roark orders as he flips through his Sumerian Literature textbook and pushes yet another houseplant across the table toward me. “You always fuck up when you overthink.”

He passed his Sumerian final with flying colors despite missing most of last term, the bastard, and was recommended to continue on. He doesn’t need to continue with the language for his master’s degree, but it amuses him and could aid his diplomatic efforts.

I’m learning that Roark’s entire life is a carefully scripted series of events designed to make him the most useful ruler to his people. He’s always on display. It sounds weird, but I’m kind of glad for his packed schedule of duties. It gives me time to breathe. To think. We spend our late nights together, part ways early in the morning, and meet up again in the afternoon or evening to run through more ley line practice.

Four days later, this new balance holds.

I glare at the plant in front of me. I swear, its tiny green leaves tremble in fear. “Focus on control. Don’t overthink... How do you propose I stop thinking, Lyne?”

He sighs and flips another page. “It shouldn’t be hard, Smith. You’ve had years of practice.”

From his seat on the couch, Herman cackles as he knits a new blanket to replace the one I accidentally burned last spring. If he knows what’s going on between Roark and me, he’s decided to keep it to himself. We aren’t being obvious, and Roark’s glamour has proven useful during the inevitable close calls that arise from living in the same small space.

Realizing it’s not worth it to waste my energy defending myself to both of them, I let my body go loose as I reach again for that current of energy. The ley line shakes itself a little, brushing off the last failure, and glides toward the plant. It soaks into the tiny container of earth and my skin tingles when it starts to work its way up through the roots. A faint shiver and two delicate new leaves begin to uncurl from the main stem.

It’s working. I can do this. I can bolster this last harvest, help my parents get enough money to save the farm—

Too late, I realize I’ve stopped paying attention. The ley line takes matters into its own nonexistent hands. There’s a sharp, sweet rush and the plastic container melts, as the dirt superheats, the plant exploding into a shower of sparks. I try to turn it off, but don’t know if I can.

Roark’s knee bumps into mine and that wild heat vanishes from the cool press of his body.

“Breathe,” he murmurs, never looking up from his book.

The clack of knitting needles ceases. “It smells like a burning salad bar,” Herman comments.

I wince. Roark points a lazy finger toward the plant and a moment later it’s encased in ice. Even the dark curl of smoke is trapped. He pushes another plant—one of the last two remaining—to me. “Try again.”

I stare at the plant, frustration and worry cascading over me. I want to ask him to come with me, just in case things go wrong. But what if he says no? Maybe I can ease into it...

“Roark?”