Page 92 of Whispers of Wisteria

Besides my other reasons, any chaperones I had would be so bored. Even I was bored, and I was the one living this.

“Hardly,” he replied. “He’s indulging you to the point where it’s becoming detrimental.”

I frowned. How condescending.

“Which means you matter more to him than you realize,” he added.

I didn’t know what to do with that. It wasn’t like he tried to fight Damen for me, poisoned himself for me, brought me cheeseburgers, rescued me from the hospital, got my rabbit, bought me the cute video game, gave me our mother’s ring, kept my photo on his phone, let me work with Gloria, wanted to take me for ice cream, etc…

I fanned myself. Why did the room suddenly feel so warm?

“What are you—” he began, but I moved to my feet.

“I—I need to go,” I told him, brushing off my skirt. “Someone might need me.”

He’d also stood, slipped past me, and grabbed a book from the shelves.

“Then take this,” he said, holding out a brown-bound book. It was heavy, and I almost dropped it when he gave it to me. “Read it.”

Was he giving me a homework assignment?

Oh well, it wasn’t like I had anything else to do. I’d add it to my list.

“O-okay.” I couldn’t make out the title. Something about gods and goddesses. “T-thank you.”

He didn’t say anything as I backed up to the door.

“I—I’ll see you later,” I mumbled, then left before he could respond.

I stood in line—handto my heart—as my future sage’s words replayed in my head. There was a strange buzzing in my ears, and my thoughts felt fuzzy.

I didn’t understand everything he’d told me—and I wouldn’t pretend to—but I knew this: Bryce was someone important, and by extension, maybe me too, although not in the way people might think. What was this inheritance that my sage had been talking about? And how did this relate to my responsibilities as Mu?

What determined our priorities—blood or reincarnation? I would need to ask Damen.

The person in front of me stepped away, and I glanced up.

Finally, my turn. “Small chocolate latte, please.”

“Um, sorry,” the cashier replied, not sounding very sorry at all. “We’re fresh out of chocolate.”

I frowned. Usually, I’d never argue, but how could this be? I needed my fix. “What do you mean?” How could an establishment be so ill-prepared?

“You drank it all earlier.” He shrugged. “Do you want something else? We’ve plenty of decaf. You might like that.”

I stepped back, appalled at the suggestion. Decaf was for the weak.

And for people like Damen, who had issues with hypertension.

I wanted to wipe that mocking smirk off the barista’s smug face, but I couldn’t. Instead, I sighed. “Just a vanilla latte then, please.”

He grinned and winked. “One decaf vanilla latte coming right up.”

I gasped. How dare he!

However, I was too weak to utter more than a muted protest as the perky man bounced away to make my order. But, internally, I was screaming.

I waited, crestfallen, and there was nothing but mocking humor in his eyes as he handed me my poor excuse for a coffee.