Chapter Thirteen

Hawthorne

"Can we please stop?" Sweat clings to my skin, my tunic clings to my back, and my hair sticks to my cheeks.

Aamon considers me for a moment, glancing up and down my body as if taking stock of my exhaustion. "Not until you can make those flowers root."

From the moment I woke up, Aamon tasked me with rooting the flowers in the vase from his room. So far, I have caused them to blossom, only for them to wilt moments later, and made the room warm enough to be a greenhouse. The flowers have yet to sprout a singular root. There has been no praise for the accidental accomplishments, and instead it seems to only fuel his ire.

"Aamon, please," I beg through panting. "I have had nothing to eat this morning, and I need a moment to breathe."

The marquis cuts an annoying glare toward me from his position at his desk. "You have done nothing with the time today but whine."

"I would whine less if you would allow me to rest and eat," I say under my breath.

I couldn't care less if he hears me at this point. It hardly matters. There is an understanding that within four days' time, I will be returning to my realm. The longer I stay, the more my body will wither. I have already stayed in the underworld for two nights. Within a week's time, a mortal body cannot last, it seems. Aamon assures me, however, that once I return, he will visit to continue this training, though without a host, he cannot stay long.

"You are the most annoying creature I have ever met." Aamon snaps his fingers and, within moments, Berkley pops into the room. "Could you please make us some lunch before Thorne dies from starvation?"

His sarcastic tone is not lost on me at all, though Berkley gives me a subtle smile that tells me he understands my dilemma. It's very likely he has experienced grueling and laborious days under Aamon's command for many centuries.

"Yes, sir," he says before zipping out of the room once more.

Finally gaining a small reprieve, I find space in a comfortable white chair to sit on in the opposite corner of the room near the television. My body immediately turns gelatinous as my muscles relax. I can feel Aamon's eyes watching me, though I give him no satisfaction. Instead, I shut my eyes with a relieved sigh.

"Don't sleep, Thorne. We have too much to do." There is no bite to his words; instead, they seem compassionate compared to the brutal orders he's been giving all morning long.

A contented smile edges over my lips, and I hum briefly as heaviness takes over my eyelids. "I promise you I'll stay awake."

It's a white lie that I feel safe in telling. I know shortly Berkley will return with food for us both. I'll eat it dutifully with the understanding that rigorous training will continue. I feel sleep tug at my limp body; I hear the telltale noise of Berkley entering the room again.

I open my eyes to the desk covered in various plates. There are tea saucers with matching cups and pot. I see fruit, dried meats, cheeses and fried pastries. My stomach growls loudly at the sight of the meal. Aamon is lounging back in his chair with closed eyes until I stand. As his eyes open, we give one another a cursory nod as he rights himself.

"Thank you, Berkley," I say as I appraise the meal set before us. "It's gorgeous! You've outdone yourself."

Berkley snorts skeptically. He waves a hand as if to tell me it was nothing, saying only "thank you." He zips back into the ether, leaving Aamon and me alone once again.

"What happened to you not sleeping?" Aamon raises an eyebrow, though his tone says he's jesting and truly couldn't care.

I'm unsure how I feel about this newfound lightheartedness that's growing between us. Still, the words fly from my lips, "And what about yourself? I think I heard you snore."

Hiding the laughter that's tugging at my lips, I grab a piece of fruit, absentmindedly popping it into my mouth. The flavors burst on my tongue, and I relish the taste with a hum of approval.

"I don't snore."

"Of course not. The marquis of hell surely would never." I hide another chuckle as I shovel more food inside my mouth, as though it will keep it at bay. Though the marquis surely sees it and says nothing.

We continue in easy silence until the entire meal is finished, leaving only dregs of tea in the pot and grape stems behind. It's no surprise that the moment we finish, Aamon has returned to his previous righteousness. Standing, he immediately snaps his fingers for me to do the same.

"Now, back to it." Aamon points at the wilted burnt-orange flowers. "Make the flowers root, Thorne."

Exhaustion settles deep in my bones, urging me to rest, though I comply with a despondent sigh. I know Aamon will never allow me a moment's respite, so I do as I'm told, focusing on the blossom's root system.

For every minute that passes unsuccessfully, Aamon's impatience grows palpable. The tension thickens as he looms behind me. With a sudden yank, he jerks hold of my hair, jerking my head backwards violently. The sting of pain forces a hiss through my clenched teeth as my eyes shut tight.

"What is wrong with you?" I snap, glaring up at him through narrowed eyes.

Aamon's mouth hovers over the shell of my ear, growling, "Use your fierce loathing of me to root the flowers."

There is very little detestation left after last night's tantrum. I'm utterly embarrassed by it, and yet he's asking me to behave the same way.

"Is that what it takes?"

The marquis lets loose his grip on my scalp. My neck snaps forward to face the flowers in the vase. Their continued wilting taunts me. "A powerful emotion may work to your advantage."

The heat of his breath and body near mine tempts me; unnervingly, the only potent emotion I sense between us is the growing lust. I refuse to allow myself to fall prey to that temptation again, however. Focusing all of my energy, I feel the electric hum of magic start at the base of my feet. Imagining the marble flooring has the spongy feel of moss beneath my toes, I meditate on the roots underground, the rivers and fictitious root systems of hell.

The pulsing energy circles my legs, coiling tightly around my body as if it were a serpent. It reaches my fingertips as a verdant force sizzles, and suddenly I feel it take control. Strange symbols dance in my vision while another string of imperceivable words tumbles from my lips.

"Confortamini et proceri flosculi, accipe radicem!"

The magic swirls through the flowers, creating an iridescent glow. Its roots form slowly, inch by inch until they begin to grow so quickly that the confines of the crystal vase can no longer contain them. The crystal begins to crack. Water leaks from its sides onto the table until it shatters into tiny pieces.

"Thorne!"

I hear him, but the pulsing thrum of magic has overtaken my every thought and feeling, consuming me completely. Its power is intoxicating, and even as I watch as the flowers begin to snake their roots across the table, I find myself unable to stop.

Aamon grabs hold of my shoulders, wrenching me around to face him. His eyes are shockingly full of concern. "Stop," he tenderly urges me. "If you continue, you'll destroy the marble."

His voice snaps me out of the spell's grip. "What's wrong?"

Blinking, he turns me gently on my heels once again to face the vase and flowers. The root system has spilled over the table, several thick tendrils burrowing into creases of the marble floor. They appear to be searching for soil deep beneath the mansion.

My pulse hammers violently behind my ribcage as the sight creates an unease beneath my calm fa?ade. The power Aamon has gifted me with our pact far outshines anything I have created prior. Who could ever give up this magic?

"I did that?"

He pauses, tipping my chin with his claws, looking deeply into my eyes, his own sparkling with appreciation and reverence. "Yes, yes, you did that."