Page 50 of Our Covenant

“I’m not arrogant enough to think I’m untouchable. It’s not hard to prepare for your own downfall if you know it’s imminent.” Her retort lacks bite, and I look up to see why.

Her nose is already in the middle of one of the older books, her fingers weaving through the next few pages for quick scanning.

“You’d be surprised what I can find useful in your digital footprint.” I click through her location settings to find the history. “Worst-case scenario, I could always use your homework as leverage.”

She glances over the old diary. “Now who’s the optimistic one?”

Of course, she has copies of her work. The many versions of her assignments and extensive notes make it obvious that she’s not just an overachiever, but competitive. Not that it comes as a surprise. Thorne, Asher, and Maddox are the same way. It’s an essential personality trait to have for the Ivy League crowd. One that never took root in me.

“The legacies sure are chatty,” she says, not looking up from the dusty pages in her hands. “‘Johan Corey, 1793, June. I’ve come to find the new sacrifice to be more beautiful than the others. Her bosom is as plump as the sacks of wheat at the end of harvest. Her womb will be ripe with my seed by year's end and forebear many of my children, as long as her father permits it.’ I’d say it was romantic if it weren’t for the use of ‘seed.’”

“I haven’t read his accounts. We tend to stick to our own lines,” I reply without looking away from her screen before I send a copy of all her files to my computer.

“So, you don’t know what’s in all of these?” She pans across the wall. “That seems like a waste.”

“The coven has them all scanned and catalogued for historical purposes. But otherwise, spending too much time looking back takes us away from stewarding the future.”

She replaces the diary before plucking another to flip through its pages.

“‘Lives of great men all remind us, We can make our lives sublime,’” she begins, stealing my attention from the work in front of me. “‘And, departing, leave behind us, Footprints on the sands of time.’”

It’s a phrase my father has told me countlessly. The comfort of Longfellow’s words are meant to inspire the four of us to fall in line with what’s expected of us, but have always reminded me that to be a great man worth mentioning, we would have to break free of our chains.

“There are plenty of footprints in the sand,” I quip.

“That’s evident,” she replies, shutting the book and tucking it back on the shelf.

Has her curious mind been sated or just subdued for the time being? I make a mental reminder to ward the door tonight before I go to bed. Though I doubt there’s anything worth her time in these brittle pages, we are long past underestimating her abilities to use information to further her intentions.

She crosses the room to lean against the edge of the desk next to me. My eyes follow the length of her legs up to the hem of the T-shirt at the middle of her thigh.

“If your coven doesn’t care to study the lives of your most prominent men, then why house them here?”

“Where would you suggest we keep them? They’re safe here, and they serve as reminders as to how our place is both vital and ephemeral.”

Her brows knit together as she considers me.

“Why do you spend your time locked up with them? Why not have some fun?” She almost sounds sincere, if it weren’t for the undertone of condescension.

“My ailment comes with . . . perks.” I clasp my hands behind my head and swivel my chair slightly to face her fully.

“Like what?”

“It may sound ridiculous, but it gives me purpose. I’ve never had to question my place in the world because it was predesigned that we have positions bigger than most. I’ll never worry whether I can protect my family or friends. Whatever terrors lurk in the shadows, I know I’m worse. The things that we’re capable of together . . . No one stands a chance.”

She stares at me. There’s no challenge or worry in her eyes, but I swear there is a gleam of hope or something close to it.

“And we have a kick-ass dental plan.” I smile wide and she laughs. It’s like a sunbeam filtering through her usual wall of storm clouds.

“That’s all you get out of this? A life to live for others?” She teases at a loose curl and moves a little closer. “Even Gandhi wasn’t that selfless.”

“When you’re part of something like this, you don’t look for anything else.”

“I would think an entire coven of women fawning over the four of you would be part of the appeal. A lot of men would kill for that arrangement.”

Her gaze wanders down my face to my chest before tempting lower.

“We aren’t like other men,” I say and lean over to plant my forearms on my thighs so that she has to look me in the eyes again. My fingertips brush her calves, settling against her warm skin. “We’ve learned how to separate quality over quantity.”