Prisoner (The Scarred Mage of Roseward #2) - Sylvia Mercedes Page 0,18

. . . Nelle frowned, squinting a little as she studied that hideous face. Was he truly so broken? Was he beyond repair? Or had the shattering been but the beginning of something new?

She cleared her throat and shook her head, looking down at the wyvern and the ink drying on its wing. “Will you be able to fix the wormling?” she asked, putting out a finger to trace beneath one of the twisted lines of writing. The thin veiny wing rippled under her touch.

“No,” Silveri answered at once. “At least, not completely. Not with these hands. I’m afraid this little daydream will never fly again.”

“And you won’t let me help you?”

He didn’t answer.

Nelle quirked an eyebrow. Maybe she was foolish to bring this up again so soon after their last argument. “Don’t look at me that way. Is it really such a ridiculous idea?”

“I . . . That is to say, Miss Beck . . .” He paused and cleared his throat, his scarred brow constricting as though in pain. “What you ask is—”

“I know it ain’t easy. I ain’t stupid, you know.”

“I never said you were—”

“I ain’t talking about mastering great spells. I don’t fancy myself a magician in the making. I just want to help. Surely I can learn to hold the quill, and you can show me where to make the marks? I can practice. Maybe I can . . . I don’t know.” She sighed, dropped her head into her hands, suddenly tired, and rubbed her eyes, shaking her head slowly.

Then she looked up again, propping her chin on her interlaced fingers. “Maybe I can make a difference.”

His eyes were on her, studying her. His silence went on too long.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered at last, and started to rise.

“Wait.”

His hand darted out, lightning fast. Cold hard fingers latched hold of her wrist. Nelle felt the strength in that grasp, power enough to break her bones with a single twist. For the first time in days, fear of this man, this stranger, jolted through her heart. She went still in his grasp like a mouse frozen in the owl’s talons.

Still holding her arm, he stood and towered over her, at least a head taller. She found herself faced with the open front of his robes, the loose ties of his undershirt . . . and the scars covering his chest in an ugly pattern of violence. Her heart thudded painfully, and she realized she wasn’t breathing.

“It takes more than a little magic in the blood to make a mage.” Silveri’s voice was deep and dark as the night, cold as winter. “It takes a spark. The ensildari, as the Old Ones called it: the inspiration. One either possesses it or one does not. Without it, you can never hope to control the power inside you.”

Nelle forced her eyes to move, to lift from his scarred chest to his throat, his chin, and up to his twisted, misshapen lips. Tilting her head farther, she still couldn’t bring herself to meet his gaze. She focused instead on his forehead, on a particularly gruesome scar between his brows.

“Can you tell?” she asked, her voice tight and small. “Do I have the spark?”

He drew her toward him, forcing her to take a step closer. His other hand came up, catching her chin between finger and thumb. She trembled at the cold touch of nilarium but braced herself, firming her jaw and fixing her brow in a hard line.

“Look at me,” he said.

She dropped her gaze from his forehead to his eyes. They burned into her, the dark pupils dilating to nearly eclipse the silvery irises. She could feel him searching—delving into dark, secret places inside her, places she hardly knew existed.

Could he read her other secrets as well? Could he see who she truly was? Could he unravel her purpose for coming to Roseward?

The struggle was too great. She couldn’t maintain that gaze. Her eyelids fluttered, and she focused on his mouth. On the scars ringing his lips. She could still see their former shape beneath the puckered skin, the phantom of the beautiful man from the portrait. But the scars were so disfiguring, twisting the sensual mouth into something unnatural and hideous. Still . . .

She shivered as a thought passed unbidden through her mind. What would it be like to feel those lips on hers? Would the scarred mage’s kisses be anything like that wild and breathless dream? Would they burn with the same intensity while simultaneously teasing