Witch Born - LJ Swallow Page 0,32
deep as I expected, with an Irish accent.
“I’m fine. Thanks.”
He rubs his index finger along his lips before gesturing at me. “You seemed distressed before.”
“I’m okay now.”
He smiles slowly. “You’re a liar.”
Irritation spikes immediately. “Pardon?”
“Something happened.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a scrunched-up piece of paper. In horror, I watch him spread my picture on the table— including the words written by Ivan.
“Where did you get that?” I ask sharply.
He smooths his thick fingers across the page, tracing the words. “Who wrote this?”
“Oh, just me playing around.”
A chuckle rumbles from him. “Liar. These are somebody else's words.”
“How can they be? Nobody could break the wards and communicate with me.”
“So, you admit these words aren’t your own?”
This guy has said nothing to me since I arrived. I haven’t heard him speak to anybody. Why now? Why me?
“This isn’t your business, Ethan.”
He pushes the paper across the table towards me. “Is this person inside the academy? Are these Dorian’s words?” His voice is lower and thick with disgust.
“No.”
Resting back in his chair, Ethan links his hands behind his head, his biceps straining against the T-shirt. I tear my eyes away from how the material accentuates his muscled torso.
“You don’t like Dorian,” I say.
“Nobody likes Dorian. But you need to be careful.”
“About?”
He shifts to lean across the table, engulfing my personal space. “You humiliated him yesterday.”
“Good.” I focus on the bread roll in my hands, picking a small piece off. My angry mistake could lead to greater consequences than my dressing down earlier. There’s a reason people don’t mess with Dorian.
“No. Not 'good'. You’re a strong witch if your magic works inside here, but don’t try to take him on.”
Oh, stars, not another bloody lecture about ‘my place’ here and ‘don’t fight the big, bad hybrid’.
“Why doesn’t anybody take him on?”
A muscle twitches in his cheek. ”Because he’s Dorian Blackwood. Nobody could hope to defeat him.”
“Yet they manage to keep him here.”
“I said defeat, not restrain. Don’t think you can. Not alone.”
I place down the roll. “Why are you talking to me about this?”
“Because I don’t want somebody like you corrupted by this place.”
I frown. “Your concern is touching, but I can look after myself.”
He taps the paper. “Can you? Really?”
“Yes.”
His eyes hold mine again and I get a clear look at him as he pushes hair from his face. The square jaw is accompanied by high cheek bones and his eyes framed by a heavy brow. He looks the same age as others here, but his eyes are those of an older soul.
“Tell me if Dorian hurts you.”
I blink at him. “Are you offering to be my bodyguard?”
The smile drops. “No. I’m looking for an excuse.”
He stands and grabs his tray, as my joking words cut dead his friendliness. “An excuse for what?”
“Listen, Eloise. You might downplay what you did yesterday, but people know now—your powers still work here. Dorian has seen this too.” He pauses. “I can tell there’s more to you, and I want you to help me bring Dorian down.”
“Why? I’m told you have nothing to do with people inside the academy. You don’t interact.”
“I have my reasons,” he says gruffly.
“What does that mean?”
“Think about what I’m asking.” Before I can respond, he wanders away.
Chapter Nineteen
Oriana brushes her thick hair with long hard strokes and throws her head back. The blue fans around her head before settling on her shoulders. She’s changed from her baggy track pants and sloppy grey polo shirt from this afternoon’s exercise class into jeans that mould her backside and a tank top that only half-covers her breasts and reveals her muscled arms.
Aware I’m staring, I look back to my book.
“Get changed, witch.”
She may use the term affectionately but the word irritates me. “Into what? Where are you going?”
Which seems like a dumb question, as we can’t go anywhere.
“Weekend R&R,” she says. “In summer, we hang out in everybody’s favourite exercise yard. In winter, we’re in the basements, below the east wing.”
“Doing what?” I ask cautiously.
She grabs a lipstick and mirror from inside her dresser drawer and carefully paints her mouth red. “Partying.”
Party isn’t a word I’d associate with Ravenhold, but I run with it. “Uh. How?”
She shoves the lipstick back in her drawer. “Alcohol and hedonism. The usual fun.”
“And you’re allowed?” I blurt.
She rubs her thumb and forefinger together. “Moola. The mid guards happily turn a blind eye for some cash or favours. The staff live at the opposite end of Ravenhold; if we stay in the cellars, nobody knows.”
“And what