A Lesson in Thorns (Thornchapel #1)(79)

The cakes and ale ended up being small shortbread cookies Abby made for us and a bottle of Prosecco from Delphine’s never-ending supply. Abby made the cookies stamped with a St. Brigid’s cross on top because we told her we were having a St. Brigid’s Day party, and they’re nestled artfully in a picnic basket along with the wine and some slender glass flutes.

That’s Thornchapel for you. Even when you’re on your way to the muddy, magic sex rite, all the little details must be handled with class. No Tupperware and plastic cups shoved into backpacks at Thornchapel.

“What happened to choosing with intention?” Saint asks. “I seem to remember you giving a little speech about that.”

Becket’s about to answer, but I cut in. “I think this is the best way too. If someone gets chosen and they just can’t do it, then we’ll choose someone else, no big deal.”

Saint darts a fast look over at Auden, who’s currently squatting down to pet Sir James Frazer. “I guess,” Saint says slowly.

I’m still not over what happened between us last night, so my voice is sharp when I say, “Look, no one wants to nominate themselves—that would feel weird and greedy—but it’s impossible to nominate someone else for something like this. The only choice is no choice.”

“Maybe fate will decide,” Delphine says wistfully.

“Fate is a lie,” comes Rebecca’s predictable answer.

Becket rocks up on his heels, like he’s getting ready to launch into a sermon about cynicism, and Saint looks like he’s about to argue some more, and Auden just keeps petting the dog, like our squabbling is some kind of relaxing background noise that he doesn’t need to pay attention to. Except then his green-brown eyes flick up to mine with a perceptive heat that makes me shiver, and I recognize that he’s been paying attention all along.

“Draw, Proserpina,” he tells me. “You go first.”

It’s not an exhortation but a command, and I’m obeying before I even understand why I’m obeying.

Not that I need long to understand why I’m doing it.

It’s Auden. It’s because it’s Auden, and I’m still angry over what happened in the tower, I’m still angry about what I confessed and am embarrassed that he only pushed me into confessing because he was heartbroken over Delphine—but my anger and embarrassment still isn’t enough to stop the curl of pleasure I get when he nods in approval at my obedience.

God, this would all just be so much easier if Saint and Auden weren’t here.

But then if they weren’t here, would I still be trembling with hungry, horny eagerness as I stick my hand into the bowl of paper and pick?

Becket made the slips, and he kept them simple—a black circle for the bride, a black X for the person who will play the lord. So there’s no mistaking what I’ll be doing when I unfold the paper and see the crooked O scrawled in hasty marker.

My blood is running so hot and fast that I think I might be catching fire. Tonight is the night I finally take my not-a-gateway step, tonight is the night when I’ll lose my construct-or-not virginity.

I want this.

I want this.

And I don’t even care who the lord is. I glance around at all my friends, all their eyes trained on me, and I know I’d be safe and happy with any one of them. If it’s Becket, then I know he’ll be thoughtful, and if it’s Delphine, then I know it will be sweet. If it’s Rebecca, and I hope it is, she’ll know exactly what a sub girl needs for her first time.

If it’s Saint or it’s Auden—well, then I don’t know anything except what it’s been like in my dreams, and in my dreams, it’s always been a gorgeous, filthy fuck that leaves me gasping and begging for more, more, more. Even if I hate them both a little bit right now, that hate is only a thorn on the stem of something much bigger and much older.

“I’m St. Brigid. The bride,” I tell them, my mouth dry with excitement and maybe a little bit of fear, but the fun kind. “I’m going to keep it. I mean, I want to do it. I want to be her.”

“Okay then,” Becket says. Behind me, I hear Auden stand up, but I don’t dare look at him right now, or Saint. I don’t think I can bear it if they see all the things I feel made obvious in my red-stained cheeks.

There’s a pause when no one really knows who should go next, and then Saint just mutters, “Fuck it,” and grabs the bowl off the table, holding it out for everyone. And all at once, the five others reach in, fingers and palms moving past each other in a jostling foreplay of what’s about to come, and everyone seems to realize it all at the same time, that soon it will be just more than hands and wrists touching. There’s a slightly awkward moment when everyone pulls back at the same time, looking down at their papers to avoid looking at anyone else.

“It’s not me,” Becket says, and when I look over at him, his face is inscrutable. I can’t tell if he’s disappointed or relieved.

And I don’t know if I’m disappointed or relieved when Saint says, “Me neither.”

“It’s not me,” Rebecca adds, showing us the blank paper.

Auden runs a hand through his hair and then drops it to his side. I try not to remember the memory of that hand wrapped in my own hair as it pulled me down to my knees. “It’s not me.”

Delphine gives a shy little beam and then shows us the X. “Looks like I’m the lord of Thornchapel tonight.”