“Something that might not be a demon is killing Wardens?”
“Yep.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Yep,” I repeated. “But maybe this is it, you know? There’s some big baddie out there killing Wardens. Maybe we’re going to get called.”
He frowned at me. “I don’t know about all of that.”
Yeah, I doubted that was the case too, but at some point we were going to be called upon. We’d leave here. Together. And we’d leave here to fight. I shrugged. “Anyway, seems like they might be here for a week.”
Misha was quiet for several moments. “I want you to stay in the house until they’re gone.”
“Are you for real?” I demanded as we crossed the driveway. Floodlights kicked on, alerted our presence; their brightness caused me to wince. “I can’t stay in the house while they’re here.”
“Have you’ve forgotten why we don’t have visitors here? Or are you just being recklessly selfish?”
“Is there a third option?”
Misha stopped in front of the wide steps and lit porch. He stared down at me as the tips of his fingers touched my cheeks, keeping my gaze focused on him. “Can you just do it? Stay hidden?”
Frustration pounded through me like a summer storm. “I can’t just stay in the house, Misha. That’s ridiculous. I’m not a prisoner.”
A look of exasperation settled onto his face. “It’s just for a week, and that’s if they’re really here for that long.”
“A week is an eternity.”
“A couple of days in a house that has virtually everything to keep you occupied is not an eternity, you little brat,” he went on, dropping his hands. “You can sit and eat and marathon TV shows instead of training.”
“I don’t want to sit around and do nothing. That’ll drive me to do something entirely irresponsible and reckless.”
“Really?”
“Hey! I know my limits.”
“You know most people would be happy that they’re done with schooling and can just chill out.”
“I’m not most people.” Our classes ended mid-May, so Misha and I had gone from training four hours a day to about eight, which meant I was still incredibly bored an additional ten hours or so.
He ignored my very valid point. “You could treat it is a vacation.”
“A vacation from what exactly?” I snapped, beyond irritated now. “What do I do that I need a vacation from?”
“Trin,” Misha sighed.
“Don’t talk to me like that, Misha. You can leave this community whenever you please—”
“That’s not exactly true and you know it.” Anger tightened Misha’s jaw. “If you’re suggesting that I have freedom when you don’t, you’re not being fair.”
Guilt churned in the pit of my stomach, quickly followed by the all too bitter bite of heartache. He was right, and I was being a brat. Wasn’t like Thierry had given him a choice, pairing him with me before either of us knew what that really meant, preparing both of us for the—
I sucked in a sharp breath as I stared at the boy I’d grown up with. The boy I’d watched turn into a young man, and for the first time, something struck me with the force of being hit by a semi-truck.
“Do you want this?” I whispered.
His brows knitted together. “Want what?”
“Us,” I said. “Being bonded to me. This life.”
Understanding flickered across his face. “Trin—”
I grabbed his hands with mine. “Be honest with me, Misha. I know it’s not like we can change anything. It’s already been done, but I...I just need to know.”
He was silent, and the longer he was silent, the more my heart began to pound. “It’s what I’ve been raised to do, Trin. It’s all I know, and like you said, it’s not like we can change anything.”
Feeling a little sick, I looked away as I dropped his hands. “That isn’t the same thing as wanting to do this.”
Misha turned, and I looked at him, saw him thrust his hand through his unruly curls. He hated them, but I’d always thought they were adorable, and as he stared up at the house we both lived in, the house where our bedrooms were separated only by a couple of walls, I suddenly felt like...crying.
Maybe it was my time of month, because I never cried.
But it wasn’t.
The burn in the back of my throat was there, because I’d spent nearly my whole life beside Misha and our lives were irrevocably tied together. I hadn’t thought about how he might feel about any of this, had I?
I had, but superficially, and mostly about how it impacted me.
“I am selfish,” I whispered.
Misha’s head whipped toward me. “Normally I’d appreciate this rare sense of self-awareness and not question it, but why do you think that?”
My lower lip trembled. “Because I never realized that you might not want this.”
“Trin, stop.” He was in front of me again, his hands on my shoulders. “I do want this. It’s an honor to be your bonded Protector.”
“Really?” I laughed hoarsely. “Because I don’t—”
“It is an honor,” he repeated, squeezing my shoulders, and the weight of his hands was both comforting and at the same time suffocating. “And I do mean that. What you are? What it means for me to be chosen to be there beside you? That is the highest honor.”
He sounded like he meant that, he really did, but I sounded like I meant things all the time and I really didn’t, especially when I wanted nothing more than to be what I was pretending I already was.
Misha pulled me to his chest and I went, loosely wrapping my arms around his waist as he folded his around my shoulders. When I was younger, I’d welcomed these hugs more than I could even understand, and even as I’d grown older, I could always find solace in his embrace. But now?
Now I felt itchy.
Misha was quiet for a long moment. “I was being ridiculous to suggest that you stay in the house. You’d end up burning it down or something.”
I cracked a grin.
“But can you do me one favor?” he asked, and I nodded against his chest. “Can you stay away from Zayne?”
That I wasn’t expecting.
I pulled back and stared up at him. “Not that I’m expecting to become his next best friend forever or anything, but what’s the big deal?”
“I’ve... I’ve heard of him,” he said, dropping his arms. “He’s bad news, Trin. Zayne is not someone you want to be around.”
4
I behaved and stayed in my room like a good little Trinity even though Misha had gone out after escorting me to my bedroom, because I felt bad after last night. I had stayed up pretty late waiting for him to return, but he hadn’t, and I figured he’d run into Jada or her boyfriend, Ty.
So, I’d been left alone, which meant I spent a lot of time thinking, and I thought, well... I might owe Zayne an apology.
He hadn’t grabbed me last night, and maybe he had called out to me and I hadn’t heard him, aaand it was quite possible that my reaction had been a bit excessive and impulsive.
I probably should apologize when—if—I saw him again. Not that I was going to look for him. If Misha said he was bad news, he was bad news.
Then again, I was dying with curiosity to find out exactly why Zayne was such a big no-no.
Because I was that bored.
Rolling my eyes, I dropped my toothbrush into the holder, then glanced at my reflection. Fine wisps of damp hair clung to my cheeks as I picked up my glasses from the sink and placed them on.
I shuffled over to my bed and flopped onto my back. My glasses slipped up the bridge of my nose as I stared at the glow in the dark stars splattered across my ceiling. They were barely visibly now, as it was daytime.
At least Netflix had just dropped The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, and there were, like, six seasons of Will Smith to enjoy.
As I rolled onto my side, my gaze fell to the framed photo on my nightstand and the old, tattered book that lay beside it. The photo was of my mom and me, taken two years ago. May 20. My sixteenth birthday. The photo was just a blob, but I knew what it looked like in my heart and in my mind.
The pic had been snapped by Thierry at the Pit, during the day. Mom and I were sitting on the stone bench, my cheek resting on her shoulder, and I was holding a pink Barbie car. I had jokingly asked for a car for my birthday. Jokingly for two reasons: no one had cars within the community. Everyone walked...or flew. And I would never drive. Didn’t have the eyeballs for that. So, Mom being Mom, she had given me the car as one of my gifts.
That was...so her.
The book was also Mom’s. Her favorite. An old paperback from the late ’80s, with a couple on the cover embracing while the woman looked at the man with longing. Johanna Lindsey’s Hearts Aflame. She’d been a huge historical romance fan, and she’d read that book a hundred times.
I’d read it at least a dozen times before the print became too small for me to read even with my glasses on.
God, I missed reading it, because it made me feel close to Mom in some way. I had downloaded the ebook on my iPad, but it wasn’t the same as holding the paper copy.
It was never the same.
Sitting up, I straightened my glasses. The images on the TV were mostly a blur even after Thierry had upgraded my television from a thirty inch to a fifty inch. I picked up the remote—