Sorceress, Interrupted - By A. J. Menden Page 0,40
could make him like me, that would be the end of my recent surges of desire toward him. I didn’t harbor any romantic delusions: romance never works out for me, and I never let myself get anywhere close to love. Not anymore. But if I could seduce Cyrus, this man who intentionally aggravates and annoys me, who insults me when I deserve it and yet still respects me, who reminds me so much of the warriors of days gone by and who never seems to show any interest in me whatsoever . . . well, if I could seduce him, I think I’d feel a hell of a lot better. For a few moments I definitely wouldn’t be bored. I wouldn’t be lonely.
I lightly bit my lower lip, eyeing him from beneath long black eyelashes. “Why are they so dangerous?”
“Because such vile and devious words come out of them on a regular basis,” Cyrus said.
His comment took all the air out of me. Cyrus was the only man I’d ever met who could completely shut me down and still make me desire him. I moved backward. “Wow. I compliment you and you insult me. Nice. Real nice, Cyrus.”
He shrugged. “I never said I was nice. That was you. Once again, maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”
“Oh, I know you. You’re an asshole.”
I didn’t know what I was saying anymore, or why I was so flustered—besides pent-up sexual tension, of course. But that could be easily remedied. Any number of men who hung out in my pocket universe found me attractive, and they were all far hotter than Cyrus. I would get over whatever this particular hang-up was. I needed to do it yesterday, if not sooner.
I started to stalk off, but he grabbed my arm. I glared pointedly down at his hand and back up at his face, but he ignored me.
“If you know me so well, you should know that I hate that little seductive sex kitten act you put on. There couldn’t be anything less sexy in the world, at least to me. God, if you would ever relax and not try so hard to sell it all the time—”
“Then what?” I asked. I yanked my arm out of his grasp.
That dark blue gaze searched mine for a moment and then he looked away. “Nothing.” He shook his head.
“No, you were definitely going to say something. If I’d ever relax and not try so hard, then what?” I challenged him.
He seemed to be considering his words. Finally he sighed and said quietly, “Then maybe people would actually like you. Maybe you wouldn’t be so lonely.”
“Who says I’m lonely?” I snarled.
“No one.”
“That’s right,” I said.
“No one has to. Because it’s so obvious.”
I flinched. It didn’t hurt that Cyrus said people don’t like me; I don’t need people to like me. It’s that he was getting dangerously close to my other issues, issues I don’t even like to admit to myself. “You said I don’t know you as well as I think, Cyrus? Well, you definitely don’t know me as well as you think.” And with that, I turned and walked off.
Wesley looked up when I walked into his bedroom. “Oh, hello, Fantazia.”
“Hi.” I perched on the arm of the small love seat where he sat. The television was on, showing some cartoon, but Emily was fast asleep. She lay across Wesley’s chest, her rosebud mouth half-open. One chubby little arm encircled his shoulder; the other was around his side and her blonde head rested directly above his heart.
It was a sweet picture, father and daughter resting together, but I was so intensely jealous of my sister at that moment I couldn’t see straight. He was cuddling her, obviously loving her so much, while my own father was long gone, buried somewhere so deep down inside that he barely thought of me at all, except when he needed another powerful magic-user. He didn’t remember loving me like this, and I remember it all. I even remember the first time he died, when he was replaced by the very first stranger—the stranger whom I’d taken care of, who thought I was some sort of loyal servant. He’d thought giving me a few extra coins at the marketplace was an act of kindness. He probably hadn’t thought twice when I finally left home. He simply moved on with his life each time, and I was a dusty past long forgotten.