Page 18 of Wicked Ends

She shakes her head, incredulous. “Bullshit. You don’t do anything unless there’s something in it for you.”

She is right. I don’t operate on charity. But there’s more to it, and she knows it, even if she refuses to say it out loud.

I pretend to study the painting on the wall. “Jasmine wants to see what you are.”

“She’s not the only one.”

“You’re not dangerous. Not yet.” I look at her again, letting her see exactly how I’m enjoying this. “But you could be. If I let you. If I help you.”

She flinches, and I can almost taste her discomfort with the thought of needing my help.

I stand, and she tenses, expecting me to close the distance, but I don’t. Instead, I stay there with my hands in my pockets.

“If you want to run, run.” I step in now, close enough that her breath stutters. “But you won’t get far. Not with what’s in your blood.” I drag my finger lightly down her arm, right over the mark. She shivers.

She yanks her hand away, furious. “Stop it.”

“But you don’t want me to stop.” I say it as the truth, not a tease. There’s a split second where she’s sure I can see every secret she’s ever had. That I can feel every bad thought she’s tried to hide.

She hesitates. I watch a dozen emotions run across her face, hunger, disbelief. She wants it. She also wants me to say that she has no choice. There’s relief in being commanded, for people like her. The freedom to submit, as long as someone strong enough is holding the chain.

“Stop talking like you know me,” she snaps. The bravado is back, but less impressive. “You don’t know anything.”

“I know you better than you want me to.” I let my mouth get close to her ear, not quite touching. “I know what you think about. What you’re afraid of.”

She shifts away, but I grab her wrist, holding her there.

“You want to be scared,” I say. “You want to see what happens when you stop running. All you have to do is ask.”

For a heartbeat, she looks at me like she might actually punch me. Then she looks away, stubborn and shamed by how much of her own feeling she’s showing.

“I’m not scared of you.”

“Liar.”

She jerks her wrist free. “You wish.”

“If I wanted you afraid, you’d know it.” I step back, giving her space. She watches me, chest rising and falling in quick, uneven bursts. It’s almost enough to make me reach for her again, but I resist.

“You’re not here just because the magic is back on. You’re here because you can’t stand not knowing what comes next.”

She doesn’t deny it.

“Fine. You want to know what comes next? Training. You meet me. Midnight. Out in the woods. Alone.” I watch her take in the words, feel her tension.

She masks it with a joke, but it’s not convincing. “Wow, what a great idea. Maybe afterward you can bury me in a shallow grave.”

“Maybe I could,” I say, just to watch her eyes go wide. “Maybe you’ll run.”

Now she’s remembering. The night in the woods. She’s remembering the way she liked it, even if she’d die before admitting it out loud.

“I’ll be there,” she finally says, voice tight.

I nod, and the discussion is over. She knows it too.

“Go on,” I say. “Rest up. You’ll need it.”

She almost looks like she’s going to say something else, then she thinks better of it. She turns and leaves, slamming the door behind her, and I stand there, listening to her footsteps fade down the hall.