Page 70 of Immortal Consequences (The Souls of Blackwood Academy #1)

Wren

Wren was falling.

Falling.

Falling…

Her mother was screaming. Calling her name. Begging her to stay. To stay with her.

The third trial had forced her to relive the moment of the accident, a sickening scene that she wanted so desperately to forget. After she’d dismantled the illusion, she thought she’d been free of it, that she’d spared herself.

But she still couldn’t escape her dreams.

She couldn’t do anything to save herself from being dragged back to that night, over and over and over.

She could only lie there…soaking in a pool of her own blood…

watching the starless sky above her…the headlights illuminating her sister’s face…

the smell of melted rubber against asphalt…

the blood-soaked hand lying next to her…

chipped lilac nail polish…it was her sister’s favorite…

Open your eyes.

Wren woke up screaming. Her room was pitch-black, a sliver of light pooling in from the open window.

She hadn’t even meant to fall asleep, but the bone-aching exhaustion of the third trial had seemingly been too much.

Sweat dampened her hair and the back of her neck.

She clutched her chest, desperate to feel a heartbeat.

A flutter. Anything that could show her that somehow, despite everything, she was still alive.

She didn’t notice the person standing at her doorway until she sat up.

August.

Neither of them moved. They simply stared at one another.

He cleared his throat.

“I…I heard you scream,” he whispered, voice shaking. As Wren’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, she noticed he was out of breath, his chest heaving up and down as he attempted to steady his breathing. He was panicked. Cheeks flushed and eyes wide and frantic.

She stared at him in disbelief. “And you came to check on me?”

“Of course.” He swallowed, bracing himself against the doorframe. He looked around tentatively, almost shy. “Can…can I come in?”

Wren sat up in bed, gesturing him forward. But as soon as he took his first step into the room, she noticed that something was wrong. He seemed to be limping slightly, his right hand clutching his shoulder.

“What happened?”

“I got hurt in the trial.” He slumped over her desk, a strained expression on his face as he sat down.

“I think I might have something that can help,” she muttered, bending down and reaching beneath her bed. Her hands blindly searched, brushing against the floorboards, until her fingers grazed the cool glass of the liquor bottle.

She set it down next to him and August eyed her warily, hands clutching the edge of the desk.

“All right,” Wren breathed out. “Let me see what we’re dealing with first.”

He grimaced as he began to unbutton his shirt, fingers steady. The hard lines of his stomach were visible through the darkness, his tanned skin illuminated by the silver light pooling into the room.

He pulled down the left side of his shirt to reveal the gash in his shoulder.

Wren couldn’t contain the gasp that sprang out of her. It wasn’t the blood or the mangled skin that startled her, but the particles of magic simmering beneath the surface. This wasn’t a regular wound.

“Who did this to you?” she choked out, tracing the line of the gash. Anger struck her chest, sudden and unfamiliar.

He shook his head. “No one. Bad luck.”

“Really? That’s all I get?” Wren waited, but August remained silent, his mouth set into a hard line. She let out a bitter chuckle. “Right. Honesty comes with a price. I get it.”

“Loughty.”

“It’s fine.”

She bit her tongue and stepped forward, positioning herself between his knees. It was obvious somebody had cast a corporeal spell on him. That somebody had injured him with magic. But who and why was a secret August clearly had no intention of revealing.

She picked up the liquor bottle and shook it gently. “I’m going to pour it directly into the wound.”

“Right.”

“It’s going to hurt.”

He let out a snort. “Naturally.”

Fine. Be a prick, Wren thought before turning the bottle over and flushing the wound out.

August’s reaction was instantaneous, a low groan ripping from his throat as he slammed his head back against the wall.

His grip on the desk tightened. Every muscle on his body flexed.

His mouth parted and a shallow breath fluttered from his lips as his eyes shot open, flicking up and down her face, as if he were searching for something.

“I warned you.”

He nodded and winced. “Fair enough.”

“Hold on,” she whispered. “I might have something to wrap itwith.”

She reached to her side, slipping off one of the pillowcases from her bed. It was thin and flimsy, but it was better than nothing. Before August could protest, she pressed the fabric against the wound.

He let out another groan, deeper than the first.

Wren shot her gaze up to meet his. “Sorry.”

“What are you apologizing for?” August muttered, almost annoyed. “You’re the one helping me when I’ve never given you a reason to.” He hesitated, breaths shallow, before adding, “If anything…I should be the one apologizing.”

“For what?”

He shrugged. “Everything.”

“Well, I’m no saint either.”

He shook his head. “That’s not true. You aren’t—you’re nothing like me.”

The words came before she could stop them. “I think I’m more like you than either one of us is willing to admit.”

He grimaced. “A side effect of forced proximity.”

“Forced?” Wren looped the fabric under his arm and back over the wound. “You’re the one who started pestering me, August. Nobody forced you to speak to me.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what?”

“I just—” He winced and regained his composure. “Sometimes I think that even if we hadn’t died, if we’d been born centuries apart, we would have still found a way to each other.”

“Destined to endure the torment of one another’s company,” Wren added with a slight smirk, smoothing down the fabric.

“Torment.” August closed his eyes as he repeated the word. “That’s really how you’d describe our relationship?”

Wren’s hand froze over the wound. “What word would youuse?”

He opened his eyes and threaded the next word into her thoughts.

Complicated.

Neither of them moved, their eyes locked together. Frustration welled in her chest.

“You can’t do this, August.” Wren shook her head, backing away from him. “You’re giving me whiplash.”

August flinched. “Loughty—”

“One moment I’m certain that I must mean nothing to you, and the next…” She ran a hand through her hair, a bitter chuckle escaping her throat. “Well…if I was stupid and na?ve enough to believe it, I would say you act like…like you care about me—”

“And what if I did?” August interjected, voice hoarse.

Silence fell upon them like a sudden gust of wind.

“What did you say?” Wren whispered.

August released a loaded sigh.

“Would it be so terrible…if I did… care about you?”

“No.” Wren stepped toward him. “Of course it wouldn’t.”

August stared at her, hands still clamped over the edge of the desk. When neither of them moved, he shifted his gaze toward the bandage.

“Thank you…for this. It feels better.”

Wren cleared her throat. “Of course.”

August still didn’t move. He seemed paralyzed, teeth worrying at his bottom lip.

Wren took a chance. She threaded her thoughts into his.

Is there something else you need?

He looked up in surprise. There was a moment of hesitation before she felt his thoughts slither into her mind.

No…not need.

Wren closed the distance between them, her steps slow and steady, until she was standing right in front of him, placing herself back between his knees.

But you want something.

August reached out and threaded his index finger around hers, pulling her closer. It was far gentler than the other times he’d touched her, so soft she barely felt his fingers grazing her skin.

“What I want has never mattered,” he whispered out loud.

“It should matter.”

“Life isn’t that simple.” A muscle in his neck leapt. “And death even less, I’m afraid.”

The question lingered on her tongue. Begging to be released. To be spoken.

She took a chance. “What’s stopping you?”

August stiffened, his breath catching in his throat.

“From what?”

Wren reached out her hand and molded it against his cheek.

“From taking what you want.”

He sighed and pulled her closer. She felt the hard planes of his chest, longing unfurling in her stomach.

“If I could only tell you…” He shook his head. “I don’t want this burden anymore.”

“Then tell me,” she pleaded, stepping closer. Her hips pressed against the inside of his thighs, the points of contact burning as if the two of them were on the brink of erupting into flames.

“It’s all coming undone,” he whispered.

“What is?”

His grip on her tightened.

My restraint.

Heat curled somewhere deep in her chest, a feeling of wanting so painful she could do nothing but let out a low huff of air and lean in closer.

She knew that what they were doing was reckless, that every step closer was a self-inflicted wound, an act of defiance against her own better judgment, but she didn’t care.

Tomorrow wasn’t guaranteed. And if this was their last night together…

The space between them sparked with heat, and then her hand was cupping the side of his face, her fingers brushing against his neck, and a feverish warmth spread through her. An unbearable need to hold him.

He tensed under her touch, but only momentarily, before relaxing into it, leaning in as if in a trance. He didn’t break eye contact, his gaze locked on hers, but she noted that his breaths grew increasingly labored as she began to draw small circles over his jawline with the tip of her thumb.

“You don’t have to pretend with me, August. You don’t have to keep it bottled up.” Her fingers traveled up toward the small scar etched into his cheekbone. “You’re not alone.”

His breath caught in his throat. “I am alone, Loughty.”

“Then what about me?”

“You,” August groaned out, neck tensing, “are my lifelong affliction.”

Wren’s hand froze against his cheek. “Affliction?”

“Does that offend you?”

“A bit.”