“We’ve met once before, when we were little,” he told me, studying my face as if he tried to reconcile whatever differences he saw. “You don’t remember?”
I would have remembered a boy in a wheelchair. I would have remembered a boy with intense eyes and an angry smile. I would have remembered him.
“You’re thinking about someone else.”
“There aren’t many girls around here that look like you.” His gaze lingered on the riot of curly hair that my mother had struggled and failed to tame, then dropped to the skin of my arms that always tanned deep in the summer, no matter how much sunscreen she slathered on me. “I remember.”
Vague recollections of my last Founder’s Day sifted through my mind, but the memories were hard to recall. It had been years, and anyone I’d met that day existed in a very different world from me.
“No flowers?” An empty vase sat in the middle of the table. I stared at it for a long moment, wondering why someone would lay out a spread like this but neglect to arrange the flowers. My gaze fixed on the porcelain, white with veins of gray running through it like a piece of marble.
“Giselle planted those oleanders. Pick some.”
I followed his gaze to the nearby shrubs that were a riot of color, pretty pinks and deep purples. The flowers were lightly scented, their aroma drifting on the wind in a way I didn’t notice until I paid attention to it.
There was a sort of challenge in his gaze that I didn’t understand. But I decided to rise to the occasion. Literally. Pushing up from the table, I went to the beautiful shrub, so large it was more like a tree. I reached forward to pick one of the blooms, and a shock of pain made me give a surprised gasp.
When I pulled back my hand, there was a streak of red across my palm.
I’d been cut.
“You’ve probably never seen oleander with thorns.” Vin had managed to silently roll his chair behind me, so close that if I reached out he’d be close enough to touch. “There used to be roses here a long time ago. The flowers died, but the thorns are still there. Oleander just grows over them. Our gardeners won’t pick them without shears.” His voice was mocking. “Did I forget to mention that?”
My gaze moved to the laden table with its empty vase and then back to the broken boy who seemed determined to reject me before I could do it to him first.
Without understanding the impulse that drove me, my injured hand gripped the closest stem that wrapped around a thorny branch. My gaze focused on the beautiful flower, even as thorns dug hard into my skin, the pain enough that I never would have tolerated it if I wasn’t trying to prove a point.
Eyes burning and vision blurred, I returned to the table and placed the single flower in the vase. A streak of blood remained on the porcelain as I pulled my hand away.
When I turned back to face him, there were tears in my eyes that I refused to let fall. My gaze returned to his expressionless face as I bunched the fabric of my skirt in my hand to stop the flow of blood.
“There.”
He didn’t say anything as he rolled the chair back to the table. But his gaze lingered on my injured hand as some unknown emotion moved behind his eyes.
When I came back the next day, there were two plates on the table.
Mama brought me to Cortland Manor every day for the rest of the summer.
Usually, Vin and I spent time together in the garden with its deceptively beautiful flowers. Sometimes we talked about things that didn’t really matter, but sometimes we simply sat in companionable silence.
And every day I picked a thorny oleander and placed it in the vase, no matter how much it hurt.
Twenty-Four
Weakness of any kind is an unacceptable condition.
Maybe it was all the years I spent so weak that I could barely stand, but nowadays I get off on pushing my body to the limits of what it’s capable of.
I get off on pushing everything to its limits.
But tonight, I’m distracted.
Iain drives a right hook toward my face that I don’t dodge fast enough. Pain explodes on the side of my head and sets my ears ringing.
The pain focuses me, lets me see everything around me with startling clarity. When Iain takes what he thinks is a moment of weakness to get inside my guard, I’m ready for him. My arms wrap around his neck and bring his head down as I drive my knee into his cheek.
His ass hits the mat hard, and he lets out a low groan of pain.
“Okay, enough,” he insists as I reach out a hand to help him up. “You’re in some kind of mood today. Is it blue balls?”
“Never.” I smirk. “Both my hands work just fine.”
It’s a repeat of the same thing Zaya said to me, which only makes me think of her.
Just a few more hours. As soon as West lets me know that the license and contract are ready to go, there won’t be anything else standing in my way.
“Always keep it classy, Cortland.”
My eyebrow quirks. “I might be a married man in a few hours. Not getting any is supposed to come with the territory.”
Like always, Iain sees right through the thing I say to all the shit I’m not saying.
He probably knew what was up when I invited him to the deserted school gym for a few impromptu rounds. It’s amazing how well a few solid hits to the head can clear out the cobwebs.
I’ve dabbled in almost every martial art under the sun in the last few years, but Iain is the only sparring partner I’ve ever had who will do his best to kill me when I ask him to. Every so often we sneak
