Page 2 of Entwined
My only forewarning is the brush of linen against leather, and then fingers are squeezing ruthlessly into my jaw and cheeks. She digs her nails in, forcibly turning me to face her, mouth twisted into an ugly sneer.
“You will not fuck this up for me,” she whispers harshly. “If my father blames me for any more of your failures, you will regret it. So, paint the sweetest smile on your face, and play nice with the Thornton boy.” She squeezes my face until I’m sure her dagger-like nails have sliced through skin, her eyes bright with malice. “But you know how to play nice, don’t you,Flick?”
I wrench out of her hold, opening the door myself and scrambling out of the car while the driver watches, unmoving. Bending at the waist, I peer back in at my mother, finding her mask rearranged into something more pleasant now that she has an audience.
“Yeah,Mommy, I know how to play nice.” I waggle myeyebrows suggestively. “Something tells me you won’t like how I twist the rules of this game.”
My name is a banshee shriek on her tongue, but I cut her off by slamming the door closed. The driver looks discomfited as he clears his throat.
“Do you need help with your bags, Miss Hamilton?”
I stare back at him, mouth flattened into a line. “I think I can handle it. Thank you.”
He looks like he might argue, but then shakes his head, turning and striding back around the car. I step back as the engine roars to life, watching as the car peels away.
I wait until it’s out of sight before turning to face the steep stairs, straightening my shoulders, preparing to enter the first level of hell.
By the time I reach the top of the steps, my clothes are sticking to my sweaty skin. The weight of the suitcases has my arms trembling, my hands cramping from where they’ve been curled around the handles. Relief washes over me as I drop them carelessly to the ground.
I push the heavy doors open, stepping inside, and it’s like walking into a chiller. The sweat rapidly cools against my skin, leaving me shivering, the thin blouse doing nothing to ward off the chill.
I grab my luggage, dragging them inside just as the door slams shut, making me flinch. I’ve had almost two years to get used to thequirksof the castle, but several weeks away has dulled my memory of how things work.
“You look like your mother.”
My heart jumps wildly, a shriek of fright leaving my throat. I whirl around, searching for the owner of the sneering voice, but there’s no one.
“Who are you?” I demand haughtily, owning everyounce of my family’s heritage and acting like they didn’t just make me almost pee myself.
Movement from the left has me freezing just as a masculine figure steps out of the shadow of a doorway. He’s impossibly tall, with a black hoodie pulled low over his head, obscuring his face. He takes another step closer, and I stumble back, realizing just how big he is. He must be at least a foot taller than me, with wide shoulders and thick thighs, encased in dark wash denim.
“Who are you?” I demand again, but my voice wavers, uncertainty filling me. He doesn’t come any closer. His head is tilted down, ensuring I can only see the curve of his sharp jaw, covered in dark bristles, and full lips that lift in a smirk as I watch.
As the silence stretches between us, my heart flutters like a caged bird in my chest. My eyes drift downward, locking on his hands, my breath hitching in my throat. They hang loosely at his sides, but they’re covered in swirling ink—runes.
I know of only one species that walks around with that kind of artwork etched into their skin, and nothing good can come from a warlock seeking me out.
I clear my throat, lifting my eyes and forcing my expression into one feigning indifference. He doesn’t move, and although I can’t see his eyes, I know his attention is fixed on me.
“Well, I nee?—”
“You’ve got a long walk to your dorm,” he observes, tipping his chin at the suitcases. “Why did they drop you off here?”
My teeth clack together as I clamp my mouth shut, but the words come spilling out anyway. “I didn’t tell them.” My tone is both defensive and petulant, and not at all theunaffected vibe I was going for. “I’m fine,” I force out, infusing strength into my voice. “I don’t need help.”
A deep, raspy chuckle leaves him. The sound drifts through the air towards me, subtle and sneaking, and then a stroke down my spine, like the touch of icy fingertips. It tucks into the waistband of my skirt andtugs, almost making me stumble over the suitcase lying haphazardly behind me. A startledyelpleaves me, arms flailing as I catch my balance. That smirk of his widens into something wicked.
“Good thing I wasn’t offering,” he tells me, cocking his head to the side. The black hoodie shifts, and there’s a flash of yellow?—
No, not yellow.
Gold.
He turns on his heel, striding away without another word.
CHAPTER TWO
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