Page 30 of Avalon Tower
She shrugs. “Like I said, humans have no magic. So, you must be demi-Fey.”
The world feels unsteady beneath my feet as I follow her further up the stairs. Just a week ago, I was ordinary little Nia, quietly shelving books in a shop. And I can’t quite escape the feeling that perhaps all of this is a mistake, that I’m in over my head and don’t belong.
My lungs shriek, and my airways narrow. I reach into my satchel, pull out my inhaler, and take two puffs. This thing is nearly empty.
Serana watches me shove it back into my bag. “Asthma?”
“I thought it might be better by the seaside.”
“Does the sea air really work?”
I consider that for a moment. “Not really.”
“Right. Anyway, let’s get you dressed.” The stairwell opens up to a landing, and she stops before a large oak door.
“Where are we?”
Instead of replying, she knocks. When there’s no answer, she knocks again.
“This is the wardrobe?” I ask.
“Who is it?” A deep voice pierces the oak.
“It’s Serana and the recruit. She has no proper clothes.”
For some reason, I wasn’t expecting a man to oversee the wardrobe, but maybe I needed to reexamine my assumptions.
“Give us a minute.” A woman’s voice this time.
I feel as if I’m interrupting something, and Serana turns to me, raising an eyebrow.
At last, the door opens, and a woman crosses out, the door slamming shut behind her. She’s tall, with platinum hair, sun-kissed skin, and a golden torc. She’s exquisitely dressed in a sheer, silvery gown and diamond jewelry. As her gaze sweeps up and down my body, her lip curls, and her nose wrinkles. “Oh, dear.” Then she walks past us, her hips swaying.
“Ignore her,” whispers Serana. “Her name is Ginevra, and she’s a Pendragon agent from MI-13. Direct descendant of Arthur and Guinevere. Awful snob.”
The door creaks open, and Raphael is standing there, looking stunningly, frustratingly hot. I’m utterly unsurprised that he was spending his time with someone described as an awful snob.
But I’m also unable to stop staring at him. Towering windows let in morning light behind him, gilding his body, illuminating the dark waves of his hair. He isn’t wearing a shirt, and my gaze lingers over his carved V-line, his thickly corded muscles, the whispers of shadow against tanned skin…gods, what would it feel like to be pinned against the wall by this warrior’s body? Ginevra probably knows.
My fingers curl into fists, and I pierce my palms with my nails. Remember, Nia. He’s an absolute dick.
But also, I shouldn’t think of the word dick while I’m staring at his absolutely godlike bare chest. I raise my eyes instead to his golden torc.
“Mr. Launcelot,” says Serana. “Your new cadet needs clothing for her training.” Her tone is suddenly a lot more clipped, respectful.
His gaze cuts from Serana down to me. “Ah. Didn’t see the little pixie princess down there.”
So much for respect.
Still, I can’t stop staring. Sinuous vines are tattooed on his golden skin, following the lines of his carved muscles. On one of his large, athletic shoulders, he has a tattoo of grapevines that sweep over his collarbone and chest. They wrap around a nautical star, a ship, and a swallow.
I can’t tear my gaze away. Apparently, all it takes for me to forget about how much I hate him is for him to take his shirt off.
And he’s watching me looking at him, and I cannot even begin to interpret his expression. The man is a cipher.
Why did he answer the door half-dressed? Was it to show off?
“Come in.” He turns and pulls on a crisp white shirt.