Page 9 of Wicked Chains (Serpentine Academy #2)

Seven

Ash

I watch her slip through the side door, my Rose, running from me like a frightened rabbit.

It’s ironic, a Smith witch showing fear when her ancestor's betrayal brought us to this moment three centuries later. I follow at an unhurried pace, savoring the hunt. Let her believe she’s going to get away from me, at least today.

The blood mark ensures she'll never truly escape, not ever.

The dining hall falls silent as I move through it. Students and faculty alike avert their eyes. They’re afraid, though they don’t like showing it. But their fear is palpable, sweet as honeysuckle. Three days since my coven's takeover, and most are showing proper deference. All except her.

I push through the same door Rose used, catching a glimpse of her dark hair as she rounds the corner ahead.

That ridiculous green amphibian still clings to her shoulder.

A frog. Of all the familiars for a Smith witch to summon, she manifested a common, slimy frog, a detail I find both amusing and fitting.

Rose Smith, descended from one of the most powerful natural witches in history, bonded to the most underwhelming creature imaginable.

She's moving quickly now, almost at a run. I could catch her easily, but where's the sport in that? Instead, I reach for the connection between us, the magical reins bound in her blood that will control her flesh. I tug gently on this invisible tether, and she stumbles mid-step.

Her body goes still, and I hear her gasp of breath as she realizes what's happening. The frog on her shoulder croaks in distress.

"I believe," I say, keeping my voice pleasantly conversational, "that I asked for a moment of your time, Rose."

I walk around to face her. Her eyes are wide, pupils dilated with fear and rage. A delectable combination. Her chest rises and falls noticeably, the only movement her frozen body allows.

"Did your mother never teach you it's rude to walk away when someone is speaking to you?" I ask, circling her like an animal.

She gasps, drawing in a deep breath.

"Let me go," she demands.

I step closer, close enough to see the faint freckles across her nose, the tiny scar above her eyebrow. "First, we need to have a conversation. Somewhere private."

"Walk," I command.

"Fuck you," she spits, but her legs begin moving according to my will, carrying her toward the empty classroom down the hall.

"Such disrespectful language, Miss Smith," I chide. "We'll have to work on that."

The frog on her shoulder makes another distressed sound, its bulging eyes fixed on me accusingly. A strange little creature, seemingly more aware than a typical familiar should be at this early stage of bonding.

Rose's body moves stiffly, fighting my control with every step. Her resistance is impressive, but ultimately futile. She’s just going to exhaust herself. By the time we reach the classroom door, a sheen of perspiration is across her forehead from the effort.

I open the door like a gentleman should, and guide her inside, releasing my control over her only after I've closed and impenetrably locked the door behind us with a wave of my hand.

She falls forward, catching herself against a desk as her muscles finally respond to her own commands again, and her familiar wobbles then rights itself on her shoulder.

"Don't ever do that again," she says, turning to face me, her back pressed against the desk.

"Or what, exactly?" I advance on her slowly. "What will you do, Rose Smith? What can you do? Please, enlighten me."

She doesn't answer, but her eyes look around the room, seeking an escape. The frog shifts on her shoulder.

"Your new pet seems nervous," I observe, nodding toward the creature. "A frog familiar. How quaint."

"His name is Hank," she says defiantly.

I can't help but laugh. "You named it already? How very optimistic of you."

"Don't hurt him," she says suddenly, her hand moving to cup the frog protectively. "Please."

The plea catches me off guard. "Hurt him?" I repeat, genuinely puzzled. "Why would I hurt your familiar?"

"Because you're a sadistic psychopath who gets off on controlling people?" she suggests, her voice dripping with sarcasm despite her obvious fear.

I move closer, placing my hands on the desk on either side of her, confining her between my arms. She stiffens, but doesn't shrink away.

"I have no interest in harming your familiar, Rose," I say, studying her face. “What do you think I am?”

"A monster," she says simply. "The kind of person who would squish a poor, defenseless frog just to make a point."

I'm taken aback by the accusation. "I'm not—" I start, then catch myself. Why am I defending myself to her? "I don't need to harm your familiar to control you, Rose. I already own you." I allow my gaze to travel the length of her body, “Every lovely inch of you.”

The frog—Hank—croaks indignantly and hops from her shoulder to the desk beside her, puffing up as if to make himself appear larger.

"See?" Rose says. "Even Hank knows what you are."

"And what am I?" I lean closer, my face inches from hers.

"A bully," she says. "A power-hungry, controlling asshole who's still butthurt about your coven not getting their own way three hundred years ago."

I feel a flash of anger, hot in my chest.

"My coven was all but destroyed. Innocent lives lost. Your ancestor, Abigail, saw to that when she betrayed us. When she broke her oath to the Blood Moon and aligned herself with our enemies."

"That wasn't me," Rose says. "I didn't even know any of this existed a few weeks ago."

I reach out, my fingers hovering just above the skin of her arm where the mark is hidden. I don't need to touch her to feel its pull beneath her skin. "Do you know what she did, your ancestor? Do you know how many of my coven died because of her choice?"

“Of course not.” Rose's eyes narrow. "But I saw her die," she says. "I was there when you murdered her."

"Abigail was suspended in time for centuries, Rose. I freed her," I correct. "And reclaimed what was rightfully ours."

The frog hops closer to Rose's hand, and she strokes its bumpy skin with one finger, seemingly drawing comfort from the creature's presence. It's a strangely intimate gesture.

"Don't touch me," Rose says, though I haven't laid a hand on her.

"I don't need to touch you to control you," I remind her, demonstrating by sending a small surge of magic through the blood mark.

She gasps, her back arching involuntarily as the sensation moves through her. I watch, fascinated by the way her body responds to my magic. The power I hold over her should be satisfying enough. It should be all I want from this Smith witch.

So why do I find myself wanting more?

"Let me go," she says again. “Stop this.”

"Stop what?" I ask, curious. "I haven't hurt you, Rose. I haven't even touched you."

"This," she gestures between us with her free hand. "This sick game you're playing. Acting like you own me."

"I do own you," I say simply. "The blood mark ensures that."

"My bloodline’s power, maybe," she concedes. "But not my body. Not me. Not who I am."

And who is she? She's a Smith witch. The legacy of the woman who betrayed my ancestor, who betrayed our coven. I should despise everything about her. I do despise her.

And yet.

The way she protects that ridiculous frog as if it's the most precious thing in the world. It all pulls at me in ways I didn't anticipate.

"You think your spirit is free?" I lean closer still. "Your defiance is just another form of reaction to me. Everything you do is in response to my actions. Even your rudeness serves me."

"Bullshit," she says, her breath warm against my face. We're close now, too close. "I was mouthy long before I met you. Ask anyone."

A strand of her dark hair has fallen across her face. I reach up to brush it away, my fingers barely grazing her cheek. She flinches at the contact, but doesn't pull away.

"Sebastian wanted to trust Abigail," I say softly. "Did you know that? He considered her a friend, perhaps at one time more. And she betrayed him. Three hundred years we've waited for this moment," I continue. "To restore what was stolen from us. And here you are."

Her familiar lets out a low croak, almost a warning. The sound pulls me back to the present, reminding me of where we are, who we are.

I watch her lips, slightly parted, the lower one caught between her teeth. I'm close enough to taste her, if I wanted to.

I push away from the desk, creating distance between us. Rose remains where she is, watching me warily, her familiar hopping back to her shoulder as if sensing the change in my mood.

"Get out," I say, my voice rough.

She doesn't move. "What?"

"Get out," I repeat, louder this time. "Before I change my mind."

Rose straightens, confused by my sudden shift. "But?—"

"Now, Rose!" I slam my fist on the desk.

She gathers herself, scooping her familiar carefully into her hands. She moves toward the door, keeping her distance from me as she passes.

At the door, she pauses. "I don't understand you," she says quietly.

I wave my hand and undo the locking spell.

She slips out without another word, closing the door behind her. I listen to her steps disappear down the hallway.

What the hell was that?

I run a hand through my hair, disgusted with myself. She's a Smith witch. Abigail's descendant. The blood oath made flesh. She's a tool, nothing more.

No. This ends now.

Rose Smith will learn her place. She will learn to kneel, to obey, to serve the Blood Moon Coven as her ancestor should have done centuries ago. She will channel her magic for our purposes, strengthen our coven, restore what was stolen from us.

And if part of me wants her in ways that have nothing to do with her magic or ancient contracts?

That part of me will simply have to be silenced.