The Last Legacy by Adrienne Young

The Last Legacy by Adrienne Young

Author:Adrienne Young
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin’s Press


NINETEEN

The warmth of Ezra’s touch was still alive on my fingers, but now his hands were stuffed into the pockets of his trousers, the muscles in his arms clenched tight.

Tru had already disappeared, leaving the door to the workshop cracked open, and I could smell Henrik’s pipe all the way from his study.

“Better go,” Ezra said, but his voice was strained. He looked like he was about to come out of his skin.

I let my hand drop from the table, hurt curling between my ribs. I felt foolish suddenly, standing there in a glittering gown in the dim light of the workshop, my cards laid out on the table. Ezra still held all of his.

My slick palms clutched my skirts as I started toward the door, but Ezra’s voice stopped me. “Wait.”

I turned back, the tightness in my chest loosening just enough to let me breathe.

Ezra looked at me before he went to the shelf on the wall, picking up a small round tin. He walked toward me, holding it in the air between us. “Twice a day until it’s healed.” His eyes dropped to my arm.

I looked down, only just remembering it was there—the ouroboros. It stained the inside of my arm, where the sleeve of my gown was still cinched up to my elbow. I could hardly feel the reddened skin, every inch of me humming with how close Ezra had been only seconds ago.

He turned away and went to the table along the wall, leaving me standing there alone. I wanted him to say something. Anything that would make it feel like he wasn’t turning his back on me. When he didn’t, I pressed the tin between my palms and left him in the workshop.

The house felt empty as I walked down the dark hallway, but Henrik’s shadow moved in the crack of light on the floor.

His voice called out as I lifted my hand to knock. “Come in.”

The door opened and Henrik stood beside the fire, puffing on his pipe. The room was filled with fragrant smoke, making it look like a scene from one of my great-aunt’s oil paintings. His suit jacket was flung over one of the leather chairs, but his white shirt was still buttoned all the way to the neck.

A feeling of dread crept through me, slow and cold. I was afraid he knew, like Ezra, that I had lied. Or he wanted to reprimand me for what I’d said to him at the dinner. Or that somehow, he knew about the almost kiss in the workshop, and the wild tangle of vines around my heart that squeezed tight every time I thought about Ezra.

His attention went to the tattoo that marked my arm and he smiled, coming around the desk to take hold of my wrist. He held my arm toward the firelight so he could inspect it. “Very good,” he said, almost to himself.

There was a kind of ownership in his eyes that I didn’t like. Something possessive.

“I wanted to speak with you privately.



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