Page 11 of Our Covenant

“The meeting is over,” Asher warns, the low rumble of a threat tingling up my spine to the magic ramping up in my gut. Our gifts vary greatly, but Asher’s is the most visceral when provoked.

Both men stand their ground. Asher has tenfold the strength compared to either of them and would only need a fraction to lay Alric out flat.

“No need to get upset.” Alric turns his head so we can see his profile, a nasty grin drawing up into his cheek. “What’s a little friendly fire between friends, eh, James?”

Though he doesn’t meet Alric’s ego again, my father agrees and exits the room. It isn’t until his footsteps out in the hall have faded that Asher retracts his threat on Alric’s well-being.

“Such a good and protective legacy,” Alric states as he starts toward the doorway. “Long live the kings.”

With his last bit of consideration, he departs.

“Fucking hate that asshole,” Asher grumbles.

“Maybe we’ll find the cure to his ailment while we’re searching for a solution to our issue.”

And with that, we make our way to the archives at the legacy manor.

Home.

7

THORNE

I’ve checked my watch several times in the last fifteen minutes. Each and every glance is just a reminder of how pathetic it is to be sitting at this Michelin-starred restaurant alone at a table set for two.

I asked Elsbeth out to dinner a few weeks ago, before the harvest ritual. Now, I regret not canceling. But my mother taught me to be a gentleman, and gentlemen do not withdraw invitations the day of unless it’s life or death. Though, I would argue that being distracted by the constant nagging inner monologue and recount of last night could be seen as ungentlemanly.

My notifications are empty and the thread of sparse texts we’ve exchanged mocks me further as I refresh them. I don’t know what I’m hoping for. If she’s ghosting me, she won’t send a text. If she’s in trouble somewhere, she likely has more pressing concerns than the date she’s late for. Dealing with rejection isn’t considered my strong suit.

When I finally dare to stand from the table, I catch sight of the hostess leading Elsbeth over to me. The sight of her in a skintight black dress makes me forget any malice that was torturing me moments ago. Waves of her auburn hair flow over her bare, freckled shoulders and frames her favorite necklace that sits on her chest.

Elsbeth is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever met. It’s rare to see her outside of the gym, and the few times I’ve caught her in passing on campus, she’s been dressed casually for class. Tonight, she’s a seductress in that dress and a pair of stilettos that make me want to humiliate myself in the middle of this restaurant.

The gently smudged makeup around her eyes makes the entrancing green of them brighter. I move to her side to pull out her chair, fumbling to straighten its legs and present the seat to her like a throne.

“I’m sorry I’m a bit late. Traffic was a nightmare,” she says, sitting down and giving me a sheepish smile with her apology.

The hostess nods as I offer a twenty between my fingers for delivering me the one thing I’m interested in devouring. I’ve seen her in skimpier work-out outfits for months, but the way her dress clings to the curves of her hips reminds me of sculptures of Venus. Her soft and succulent body makes me wonder if the impressions of my fingertips will mimic those thousands-year-old marble statues in the Acropolis.

“Not a problem,” I reply and take my seat across from her.

Her eyes drop to the wine list, but I’ve already ordered a bottle of 1982 Chateau Lafite Rothschild that’s been breathing with the sommelier.

“Wow, I don’t think I recognize any of these.” Her gaze drifts back to the top then to me as if she asked a question.

“Red or white?” I ask, holding out a hand for the menu.

She purses her deep red lips for a moment while she thinks of her answer. “Red.”

“How dry?”

“As a desert.”

The corner of my mouth tips up. “I have the perfect one.”

I send a look to the sommelier. She nods and saunters over with two wide glasses and the neck of the bottle dangling between her fingers. Tableside, she pours Elsbeth’s glass first, swirls it, then sets it in front of her. The action is repeated for me before the expert dives into an explanation of the grapes, vintage, tannins, region, and about a million other descriptors that don’t make the deep plum-colored alcohol any less bitter—it’s frankly the most atrocious thing I’ve ever had in my mouth.

“Thank you.” I tip the sommelier generously for their fruitless education, and they head off to drone on to someone else who has paid far too much for a bottle of old, fermented juice.