“No.” He laughs, shaking his head. Blond hair escapes from behind his ears, framing his handsome face. “The Cursed Realm is fine where it is. No one goes in, no one comes out. He was a spoiled brat, anyway.”
I snort. “Is that how you react to murder?”
He chews on his bottom lip like that’s amusing too. “How did you do it? You must be stalwart if you just shoved him against the wall.”
I thinkstalwartmeans strong. Maybe. If it does, he has an interesting point. How the hell did I do it? I look down at my palms, the way I always found silly when characters did in the movies. My skin is still the same shade, and it’s like nothing changed. I remember the darkness crawling at the edges of my sight and what looked like a great cloud of dark emptiness taking over.
I shake my head, and my body grows heavy. “I don’t know what happened,” I tell him, and it’s not a lie. I honestly have no idea what happened, even if it involved some darkness and shadow. “I felt... different. Everything went dark, and then he was on the wall...”
Donatello stares at me for another moment, silent. It’s like he sees something in me I don’t. He studies me, from the top of my disheveled hair to the tips of my newly painted toes. I painted them black. Fits my personality just fine.
“How are you feeling?” He takes a step closer, and I watch his nostrils flare. He takes a deep breath once he’s close to me, and I wonder if he’s smelling me. Do I smell? I wish I could check it without him noticing it.
“Tired.” I shrug, but it’s hard to go through with the lifting of my shoulders. With every passing second, it feels like gravity increases. My legs turn to stone or lead. I peek down at them, but they still seem made of meat. Why are they so heavy?
Donatello nods. “Let’s get you to bed.”
I shake my head. “Shouldn’t stay.” My words slur. How strange. When did I get so tired? I shoot him a glare while an arm of his folds around my waist, and he guides me into the bedroom. “Did you drug me?”
Donatello shakes his head. “You smell like magic,bella. And if this was the first time you used it, it’s going to put you down for the rest of the night.”
I stumble my way to the mattress, and he helps me down. Donatello pulls the covers and helps me under. I still blink at him, confused and desperately fighting the slumber that burdens me like an anchor. I don’t know him. I shouldn’t sleep in the same room as a stranger. He might have his way with me. Hurt me, kill me for all I know. I try to fight it, but my brain turns to mush, and nothing stops me from embracing the sweet shadows of sleep.
His eyes are still on me when I doze off, glittering dark orbs studying my face like he means to commit it to memory. Icy fingers touch my cheeks, but they’re not as cold as before. The sensation is refreshing, comfortable. I lean into his touch and watch his mouth move to no sound. The last I think of is the nightmare that awaits once morning comes.
CHAPTER3
CASSANDRA
Aheadache splits my skull when I wake up. I grunt, turning face down and burying myself into the soft pillow. Like so, so soft. Wow, I don’t remember having pillows this good. And they smell like pine or something musky and masculine.
I sit up, and my brain bounces inside my skull, making me wince in pain. Where the fuck am I? This doesn’t look my place. Though the blinds are down and no lights spill into it, I can see the wide bed, the white comforter, the dark marble furniture. Strange. I never noticed I could see so well in the dark.
My heart thunders inside my ribcage, and I swallow twice before I remember the casino, the Chosen One and his blood smearing the wall, and Donatello. That’s where the pine scent comes from. It’s his. Spreading my hands, I race them over the silky covers around me, looking for his body, but he isn’t here.
I shouldn’t sulk, but I do. Accidentally touching his fine body would be a good way to wake up.
My brain leaves the muddle of sleep, and I force myself to get to my feet. I killed someone. This is not the time to be thinking about the nice body of the stranger who took me in. My dress is all over the place, but I still have my panties and in no way feel violated. Maybe it’s because no one ever bats an eye in my direction or because I’m lonely after being rejected my entire life, but the inner Cassandra doesn’t want to trust him just yet. Everybody, one way or another, always stabs me in the back.
I make my way to the door, searching for the light switch. I’m so focused on finding it I kick something. Hard.
“Fuck.” I reach out, my knee throbbing. My fingers touch the cold marble of a dresser. “Sorry,” I whisper, for some reason. It’s not like the furniture will reply. Or maybe it does. I did have a crazy night.
I flick the light switch on and look around the room. The blinds are down, and I keep them that way. The night has always been kinder to me. There are three doors around me. One is half-open: a closet with a black suitcase on show. The second door is also ajar, and I see white tiles. A bathroom. The third door must give into the living room again.
Nature calls. I make my way to the bathroom and use the toilet. Before I can think twice, I hop into the shower. The water pouring down on my face settles the headache. I use a spare towel and slide into the dress once more, then take a look at the mirror.
My face is the same. If whatever I did yesterday was magic, it didn’t alter me. My hair is the same dark wavy mess, and my black eyes blink at my reflection, emotionless. Did I really kill a human being? Well, a human being with magic, yes, but a flesh and blood person. When I peer inside myself, I don’t find the guilt I expect I would feel in this case. Is something wrong with me?
So many questions, so little I know. Donatello seemed to know more about the supernatural world and the Light Mage. He can supply some answers. I whirl around and make my way to the door, stopping just as my fingers brush the doorknob. A shiver makes my skin bump. I should get a jacket or something. Running in the cold isn’t the best idea if I have to make a quick escape.
I tiptoe out of the bedroom in a newly acquired button-down shirt. Tying the ends in front of my waist, it almost looks on purpose. My bare feet touch the fine cold floor. A tremor races up my body, and my nipples tighten against my dress. Or maybe they do it because I exit the living room into a kitchen (wasn’t this supposed to be a hotel room? What kind of hotel room has a kitchen?), and Donatello stands there, shirt open all the way, exposing a defined chest, a yummy set of abs and fine hair that curls around his navel and dips under his belt.
My mouth waters. Wow, and I thought my memory had gotten it wrong. He is ridiculous with all this nice-and-hot-guy thing. He even smells good. There has to be a flaw. He must have bad breath. I take a note to check it out.
“Morning,” he mutters, his voice dipping in appreciation as his gaze roams down my body. I swallow hard. You ain’t making this easy, pal. “Eggs and bacon? That’s all the hotel had.” He motions for a tray over the dining table. A pile of scrambled eggs with my name on it and savory, crispy bacon sits there, next to a jar of orange juice and what I assume is a thermos full of coffee.
My stomach rumbles in response, and I haste to sit down. Donatello chuckles as I pick up my silverware, digging in without a second word. I swear I have better manners, but I just don’t have the physical strength to avoid bacon right now. The taste explodes on my tongue, making me groan.