Page 132 of Ashen Souls

“Good morning to you too.”

Harper pushed herself upright, the blanket sliding down to her waist, and she stared at me the way she looked at people who were about to make a terrible decision and pretend it was poetry.

“I knew it. You’re awake early. You’re glowing.”

“I am not glowing.”

“You are,” she insisted, gesturing at my face with vague accusation. “Your eyes have that look.”

“What look?”

“The look of a woman who has decided to romanticize the one man in her life who is both emotionally functional and legally complicated.”

I swung my legs out of bed and stood, pretending the room suddenly required my full attention. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You don’t know what I mean,” she echoed, already pulling the blanket around her shoulders like a cape. “Aveline, I can feel your desperation from across the mattress.”

“That’s insulting.”

“It’s accurate,” she corrected, then rubbed her eyes and squinted at the window. “Why are you awake before the alarm, and why do you look like you’re about to audition for the role of The Girl Who Finally Chooses the Healthy Option After Being Emotionally Terrorized by an Immortal Entity?”

I turned to face her, crossing my arms. “I’m just… looking forward to class.”

Harper’s mouth twitched. “Sure.”

“It’s mythology.”

“It’s Ethan,” she countered.

My hesitation lasted barely a second, but it was enough.

Harper pointed at me. “There it is. That pause. That was guilt.”

“I’m not guilty.”

“You’re guilty.” She slipped out of bed and stretched like a cat. “You’re also excited, which is adorable and infuriating, because you are still technically attached to a demon through a cursed marriage pact, and yet you are thinking about your professor’s hands like we didn’t spend last night reading the words restoration must be forced.”

“I am not thinking about his hands,” I snapped.

Harper’s eyebrows rose. “Okay. So you are thinking about his hands.”

I groaned and retreated to the safety of my closet.

Behind me, I heard her footsteps padding toward the door.

“I’m making coffee,” she announced. “Because if we’re doing this, we’re doing it caffeinated.”

“We’re doing what?” I asked, pulling open a drawer.

“Watching you attempt to behave like a normal person,” Harper said. “Which will be difficult, because you are not a normal person, and also because Professor Hale apparently has the emotional range of a man who knows exactly what restraint costs.”

I turned, giving her a deadpan look. “Stop.”

She grinned. “No.”

I grabbed a sweater and a pair of jeans, then hesitated, staring at the options as if picking the right clothes could somehow insulate me from what was coming today.

Harper’s voice drifted from the kitchen. “Wear something that says ‘I am a serious student,’ not ‘I am one bad decision away from becoming a mythological cautionary tale.’”