Page 88 of Spark of Sorcery

“It’s a secret?”

“Yes.”

“But why?”

“I don’t want anyone else to know. It could be … dangerous.”

She studies me, obviously unsettled by that answer.

“And you saw a vision about us?”

“Yes. And in that vision, the four of us were together. Bonded by fate.”

“What does that mean ‘bonded by fate’?”

“You are our fated mate, Briony Storm.”

Chapter Thirty-One

Briony

“I’m not,” I say, yanking up the sleeves of my cardigan. “See, no markings. I don’t know what you saw in that vision, but either it was wrong or you misinterpreted it. Maybe the girl you saw wasn’t me.”

“I know what I saw. There was no mistaking it. You had the markings on your arms and we had matching ones on ours.”

“And do you have those markings on your skin now?” I ask. He scowls at me. “Show me.” I jerk my chin.

Reluctantly, he rolls back the cuffs of his shirt and turns his arms over, showing me the soft skin of his wrists. I can see the delicate bones that connect there, the green and blue veins that run through to his hands, but no markings. The skin is clear. Just like it’s always been.

“Nothing,” I say. A flatness transcends through my body, dragging my shoulders down. Disappointment.

What the hell?

I don’t even want to be their thrall, let alone their fated mate. Tied to them until the end of our days. Sure, Beaufort is hot and he makes my body feel things it shouldn’t, but half the time I don’t know if I even like the guy.

Then there’s the other half …

He leans across the table and captures my hand in his, stroking his thumb over the tender inside of my wrist.

“In the vision, the marking is right here. And it’s the most incredible, the most beautiful thing I ever saw.”

I swallow. My emotions are all a tangle. I don’t know whether to believe him. He could be lying. He could be lying to himself. The visions may be nothing but hallucinations.

Shadow magic is such an incredible thing – so peculiar, so strange. Pushing the boundaries of reality and sanity. I bet there are more than one shadow weavers who skirt close to madness.

Henrietta Smyte for starters.

Beaufort leans down even further and presses his mouth to my wrist next, kissing me there.

“Your pulse is racing,” he murmurs.

“Unfortunately, you seem to have that effect on me.”

“Unfortunately?” he says, grazing my wrist with his teeth next.

“Beaufort, do we even like each other?”

“I like you a lot,” he growls. “But I’d like it even more if you sat on my face.”