Prince of Air and Darkness (The Darkest Court)

“Stay safe,” he says and like that, we’re dismissed.

Except, as the crowd begins to move, exiting the lecture hall, Roark tilts his head. Lifts his face with unerring accuracy to pin me in place with his gaze. He never even looked at anyone else. Simply turned and found me.

And that strange, hungry need I felt in the garden flares up in me so hard my breath catches.

We stay like that, statues with locked eyes, until the hall is quiet and we’re the only ones left. The room seems so much smaller now, a world shrunk down to this tiny bubble of space, and for the life of me, I’m not sure what to say.

He doesn’t seem to suffer the same problem. “Smith.”

“Hey.”

He waits for more, stance indolent but for the militant jut of his chin. He utterly defies gravity. And physics. And pretty much every other familiar law of nature I ever learned in school. Even now, he manages to lounge against thin air, watching me from under his lashes, arms crossed over his chest like my being here is some burden for him to bear.

“I needed to talk to you,” I say. My words echo too loudly across the space between us.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t seem to breathe.

Is he going to walk out on me?

“Wait, okay?” I take the stairs two at a time, balancing myself with the handrail so I don’t tumble in my haste. My heart’s pounding when I reach the ground floor and I turn the corner into that main floor with no expectations.

He’s still there. Waiting like a shadow, watching me with feline interest as I make my way toward the stage. “How’s your back?” I ask.

“Sore. But healed. How’s your chest?”

“Sore. Too, I mean. But not healed yet.” I’m trying to speak through cotton, my mind blanking because he’s standing just a few feet away, and the ley line is quivering, it’s so excited to see him. I stare at his lips and when I finally tear my gaze away, I’m startled to find he hasn’t looked away from mine.

“Your speech was good.”

His gaze flicks back up and one dark brow arches.

I rub my palms on my jeans. “You sounded royal and shit.”

He rolls his eyes and, like that, I can breathe. I wait awkwardly as he walks over and sits on the edge of the stage. “What did you want to talk about, Smith?”

“What happened at the party—”

“Can’t happen again,” he says curtly, boot tapping against the stage. “I know.”

The rest of my sentence dies and my fingers curl in tightly enough that my nails dig into my palms.

“Oh?” I ask. I’m pleased at how calm I sound, even if my heart is beating against my rib cage and I’m trying to remind myself that this pain cutting through me isn’t real.

“There’s already been too much violence. Anyone who discovers that we can channel the ley line together will try to eliminate half of that equation. They’ve already come after me and nearly got you by stupid coincidence.” His jaw flexes and he glances away. “There’s no knowing who they’ll attack next. If we’re together, it makes for an easy target. Distance is the wisest course.”

“Distance meaning that I don’t get to be around you anymore?”

Catching Roark off guard is nearly impossible. His head jerks back toward me. He frowns. “Is that a problem, Smith?”

“Yeah.” Shit, that came out too fast. Too desperate. He knows there’s something he’s missing and his features sharpen, as if he’s trying to read my humiliating confession through my skin.

“Yeah,” I repeat, forcing myself to speak slower, more calmly. To pretend like I’m not coming up with any flimsy excuse I can right now. “It’s a problem because we live in the same fucking apartment, Lyne. Because I already mostly hang out with the Unseelie. And the biggest problem is that when we were fighting together, I actually felt in control of the ley lines. I have to leave Mathers knowing how to control my powers and right now, you’re my best chance of figuring that out.”

His eyes widen. It’s only the barest movement, but on a person who prides himself on his iron composure, it’s impossible to ignore.

The ley line winds up through me, filling my chest and making it hard to draw breath.

“After all you’ve done over the years,” I say, “you don’t get to make th