Page 14 of Wicked Vows (Cursed Darkness (DarkHallow Academy) #1)

Lysithea

T he corridors are quieter now, the post-dinner lull settling over the academy.

The shadows cast by the floating candles seem longer, hungrier.

I walk with my head held high, a performance for an audience I can’t see but can always feel.

Reena’s advice rattles around in my skull.

Pick one. As if it’s that simple. As if I have a choice.

My room is my only goal. Lock the door, strengthen the wards, and try to forget the three predators who have made me their personal project.

I reach the bottom floor, the silence of my corridor, a heavy blanket.

Pushing open the door to my bedroom, I close it and lean against it, wondering what I’m going to do about those three.

They aren’t going to leave me alone, that much is clear.

So I need to come up with a plan to get them to back off.

How can I make myself repulsive to them?

Grow a second head? A tail? The dirty part of my brain thinks they’d probably enjoy that.

It makes me snicker, and I shake my head.

I’ll start with simply ignoring them. Anything they throw at me, as long as it’s not literal, I’ll just ignore and walk on by. It’s the best I’ve got.

A knock behind my head makes me jump. My heart pounds as I turn, plastering my face against the wood in an attempt to discern who is on the other side. A frosty chill seeps under the door, and I yank it open before I can stop myself.

Evren’s icy eyes lock onto mine. My breathing becomes laboured under his intense scrutiny.

He doesn’t move. He stands there, a beautiful, terrifying statue carved from winter itself. The cold rolling off him is a physical thing, raising goosebumps on my arms even through the fabric of my dress.

“What do you want?” I whisper, the words feeling loud in the crushing silence he carries with him.

His gaze drops from my eyes to my lips, then back again. A silent question. He holds out his hand. Not in offering, but palm up, as if waiting for me to give him something.

What does he want? My soul? My scream? My fucking library card?

I just stare at the pale, perfect skin. The hand that can kill with a touch. The hand that held the dead rose. Reena’s words echo in my head. Pick one. Is this what picking looks like? A silent invitation to oblivion?

With a gulp, I throw caution to the wind and place my hand over the top of his.

His freezing fingers close over mine, a ghost of a smile touching his lips.

He draws me out of my room, and I nearly trip over my feet to follow.

He pauses with a glance at the door. I turn to stare at it with a frown, but then pull it closed.

He nods and leads me down the hallway. So much for ignoring them.

He is impossible to disregard, though. He is non-threatening, even while he is more dangerous than I care to think about.

The silence is oppressive as we walk outside.

Snow starts to fall from the star-dusted sky, landing like tiny white ghosts on my hair and shoulders.

His hand is a block of ice around mine, a chilling anchor in the sudden quiet of the night.

It doesn’t hurt. It’s just profoundly, unnervingly cold.

This is wild. I’m walking willingly into the darkness with a man who came back from the dead. This isn’t a plan. It’s surrender.

He tugs me gently, pulling me off the main path and towards the gardens where the trees are skeletal and the bioluminescent moss casts a greenish glow in the dark. Every instinct I have screams at me to pull away, to run, to scream this whole damn realm into a crater.

But I don’t.

His grip isn’t a restraint; it’s a guide. It’s absolute. He knows exactly where we’re going, and for some reason, my feet keep moving to follow. We pass under the boughs of a weeping willow, its bloody tears frozen into crimson icicles that chime softly in the wind.

He stops. We’re deep in the garden now, far from the academy’s oppressive walls. He releases my hand and turns to face me. His ice-blue eyes absorb the faint starlight, glowing with an intensity that steals my breath.

He raises his other hand, his fingers hovering inches from my cheek.

I freeze, my body tensing for a touch that I know could end me, my hand ready to smack him away, my voice ready to scream until his head explodes.

But he doesn’t touch me. He moves his hand until his fingertips are hovering over my throat.

He wiggles them a bit, almost like he is conducting a symphony.

On instinct, I let out a deep, low hum. The air vibrates around us, the icicles of blood in the willow tree sway and tinkle under the soft pressure.

Evren closes his eyes, and a faint smile touches his pale lips.

He gestures again, a slight upward flick of his wrist. He wants a higher note.

My voice follows his silent command, the hum rising in pitch.

The snow falling around us stops its descent, hovering in the air like a million frozen stars.

The black roses in the nearby bushes unfurl their dead petals, straining towards the sound.

This is a different kind of touch. He isn’t touching my skin, he’s touching my magic.

He’s speaking to the part of me that has no words, the part that only knows how to destroy.

He raises his hand higher. I increase the pitch.

Higher. Higher and higher still until his breath catches and he shakes his head.

His eyes fly open, and he places his hand millimetres from my mouth, urging me to stop.

It was a test to see how much of my voice he could handle. But why?

In fairness, he did better than most. Probably because he’s already dead.

He lowers his hand slowly. The spell breaks. The snow resumes its gentle descent, and the dead roses curl back into themselves. The world breathes again.

He looks at me, and for the first time, I see something other than the icy void in his eyes. It’s a flicker of heat. He tested me, and I didn’t shatter him. It feels like an accomplishment, but I have a feeling that this is going to come back to bite me on my arse real soon.

He holds his hand out again, and I take it, glad he isn’t bullying me into touching him or dragging me off against my will. He wants my consent. He turns and leads me back towards the black stone of the academy. This isn’t over. That was just the prelude.

We don’t go back towards the residence halls. He leads me to the closed double iron doors of the Blood Pit. The sound-dampening wards press against my eardrums, a nauseating, silent thrum.

He stops, turning me to face him.

My blood runs cold, a feeling that has nothing to do with his touch. This wasn’t a silent date. It was an escort. He’s delivering me.

Betrayal is a sharp, acidic taste in my throat. I yank my hand, but his grip is absolute. He shakes his head, his expression pleading.

The heavy doors swing open before he even touches them. The scent of hellfire and something hungry washes over me. Dathan and Verik stand in the centre of the pit, a glowing circle of fire etched on the floor around them.

This isn’t a trap. It’s a ritual.

And I am the fucking sacrifice.