Vain (The Seven Deadly, #1)(21)

I couldn’t help myself. “You’re quite animated, and why are you so happy today?”

“I am happy every day, Miss. I am alive and working. I have a roof. I can feed my brothers and sisters. I am very, very happy.”

My heart clenched and I dug in my pouch for another ten, thought twice, and grabbed a fifty before settling the cash in his hand. His eyes blew to impossible proportions and I shook my head at him, silencing the protest forming on his lips.

“Think nothing of it,” I snapped and cleared my throat. “Excuse me,” I told him and grabbed my bags hurriedly before walking with purpose down the corridor toward what I assumed was the front entrance.

I tried not to think of what fifty dollars meant to that boy and his family. I also tried not to think about the silly bracelet tied around my wrist that cost five hundred. I stopped where I was and gathered myself, remembering my notebook and sliding it out of my pack. I flipped through the pages and looked for the name Pembrook told me not to forget but did anyway because it was such an unusual name.

“Dingane,” I repeated out loud. “What kind of name is that?”

“It’s Din-John-E,” a deep voice interrupted and my head shot up.



Struck. Speechless.



A deep, punching sensation washed over my entire body and I almost fell to my knees at the powerful impression. My breaths became labored and I fought for a clear head. A balmy, scorching but unbelievably ecstasy-ridden awareness swam through my body. An exhilarating, pleasant haze settled over me and it...Burned. So. Good. This was a feeling of realization. I stood there, relishing the effects.



I remember Sarah Pringle telling me once about a boy she had met while on holiday in Europe. The way she painted him made me doubt her sanity.

“I can’t describe him, Sophie,” she’d said, her hands covering her cheeks in desperation. “It was like my body knew instantly that he was mine and that I was his.”

“Awfully primitive of you to admit that, Sarah,” I’d mocked, making everyone around us laugh.



But now I knew what she meant. Now I understood what she was trying to convey to me.



The boy who stood before me was on the cusp of becoming a man. All taut, lean muscle, narrow where a boy needed to be and broad where a man should always be. I’d never known a person could be this drawn to another human being, especially a complete stranger. His face captivated me without the ability to speak. I felt my chest grasp for air but was unable to accommodate its feverish demand, so I stupidly sat panting there like a dog after a brisk run. He leaned over me, hands tucked into the front pockets of his jeans, pulling the fabric of his shirt stiff against the muscles of his arms and shoulders and sending me deeper into immediate obsession.

I gulped down my lack of breath and studied him. He was the complete opposite of what I’d always imagined I’d be the most attracted to. Straight black hair met his chin but was tucked behind his ears, cerulean blue eyes stared at me strangely, his full bottom lip separated from his upper lip in question. He was looking down a straight Roman nose at me and his square jaw was clenched.

“Are you the one they call Sophie?” he asked stiffly, already exasperated with me it seemed.

“I am.”

“I am Dingane,” his thick accent repeated.

When he spoke, my eyes involuntarily rolled to the back of my head. His deep silky voice washed over me like warm water on a cold afternoon and I willingly leaned closer to him. The proximity was like fuel to my already out of control flame. I bent away from him to gain rational thought and shook my head.

“But you’re white,” I stupidly blurted, making me want to crawl underneath something.

“You are incredibly astute,” he said tightly.

“I’m sorry, I was-I was just expecting an African,” I stammered.

“My name is Ian. Dingane is a nickname, but I am African. My ancestors came to South Africa in the seventeen-hundreds from England,” he explained although he seemed annoyed to be doing so, as if I deserved no such courtesy.

His accent sounded like a mix of formal English, Australian and Dutch. That’s the only way I could describe it. I’d never heard its equal. It was so incredibly beautiful and unique. Every film I’d ever watched that featured the South African accent completely butchered it. Listening to him was like listening to velvet.

“Oh,” I spit out intelligently. “What-what does Dingane mean?” I sputtered, still unable to remove my stare from his face.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, apparently no longer humoring me and bending to pick up the luggage I’d only just realized I’d dropped.

“I can get that,” I said stupidly, reaching toward the floor. What is wrong with me? I’m the one who strikes men dumb! Not the other way ’round!

“I already have them. Follow me,” he ordered, standing to his full height.

I swallowed the embarrassing five-minute loss of sanity and began to follow him like a meek mouse. I didn’t feel like myself, didn’t feel like Sophie Price. Wake up, Sophie. I picked up my head, remembered who the hell I was and met every stride he strode. We were neck and neck and I could tell this surprised him by the way he spied me from the corner of his eye. I kept my face neutral. Eat that, Dingane.

He lead us to a white beat-up jeep and I stopped just short of visibly balking. He threw my bags with little care into the exposed back and began to strap them down.