shaking woke me. I had expected it to be my roommate, Megan, who, since the night I arrived, has started each night in her own twin bed but finished it in mine. Goldie knows, and I think it’s this, even more than the spell my mother used, that ultimately convinced her to let me stay. But last night, for the first time, Megan was curled up in her own bed. I knew before I flipped onto my side that it was Nate.
Tears had finally broken through the brave front he’s been pushing himself to maintain. Words, even if I knew the right ones, didn’t seem necessary. I simply pulled his head to mine and we lay there, squished together side by side, until his tremors no longer rocked the bed.
When I woke up this morning, he was gone.
I took my cue from him, not tracking him down, worried that he might be embarrassed even though he shouldn’t be.
I slide my hand down his arm and lace my fingers between his.
If anything, I feel even closer to him. And as I can tell from reading his mind, he feels it too. Spending the night in the same bed will do that to you, which I should know since it’s happened before. Except it was me, upon having just discovered my Afrit heritage, in need of comfort, and Henry was the one giving it, not Nate.
And you’re surprised by the kiss?
I was … and I am. With two strides, Nate presses me into the wall, nearly knocking the wind out of me. He hears my gasp and pulls away, but I clutch his other hand and pull him right back. He starts at my necklace, at my collarbone, a whisper of a touch so light it could be a breeze. But when his lips travel the length of my neck and his teeth graze the tip of my earlobe, the only breeze this could be is a tornado.
It feels both right and wrong for this kiss to be every bit as intense as the one on the beach the night of our second date, the night his father was killed.
Lost in Nate, it’s only when my fingertips hit warm skin that I realize I inadvertently unbuttoned his shirt with my magic. I skim my hands up and down his torso, rumpling and twisting the fabric, to cover for what I’ve done. Not trusting myself or my powers, I playfully break away and roll down the wall into Megan’s seafoam-green bedroom, leaning with my hands behind me against the hand-painted emerald vine that winds its way across this side of the room.
Nate follows but hangs back, his fingers toying with one of the paper flowers attached to the vine that gives the whole mural a killer 3-D effect. Mrs. Reese was—is—Mrs. Reese is something of an artist.
“Was that not okay?” Nate asks, self-consciously raking his hand through his cropped black hair.
I allow myself a nod, but my breath is too short for verbal communication. And my mind is too jumbled, juxtaposing this kiss with that kiss, for me to trust what may spill from my lips anyway.
Then, for the third time this morning, a tingling floods me like head-to-toe pins and needles, but the only part of me that’s numb are my lips.
Nate’s an extraordinary kisser, but this is more like walking out into a nor’easter. No, that’s not quite right. It’s more like the sensation we Jinn get when another member of our species is about to apport in. But this doesn’t feel like any Jinn I know—not the five lifelong friends who make up my mother’s Zar sisterhood and not their sixteen-year-old daughters who now make up mine.
From the sting of a wasp (my Zar sister Yasmin) to a stereo vibration (my Zar sister Hana) to the tickle of a feather (my mother’s best friend and Zar sister Samara), apporting Jinn have their own signature. Funny, I’ve never asked anyone what mine is.
With my back to Nate, I toss sweaters for myself and Megan into a backpack and tap into my abundance of adrenaline to strengthen my magic. I don’t sense another Jinn in the house. As nonchalantly as I can, I move to the windows and survey the backyard.
When my mother stops by to check up on me, she comes by car. She knows better than to magically
Tears had finally broken through the brave front he’s been pushing himself to maintain. Words, even if I knew the right ones, didn’t seem necessary. I simply pulled his head to mine and we lay there, squished together side by side, until his tremors no longer rocked the bed.
When I woke up this morning, he was gone.
I took my cue from him, not tracking him down, worried that he might be embarrassed even though he shouldn’t be.
I slide my hand down his arm and lace my fingers between his.
If anything, I feel even closer to him. And as I can tell from reading his mind, he feels it too. Spending the night in the same bed will do that to you, which I should know since it’s happened before. Except it was me, upon having just discovered my Afrit heritage, in need of comfort, and Henry was the one giving it, not Nate.
And you’re surprised by the kiss?
I was … and I am. With two strides, Nate presses me into the wall, nearly knocking the wind out of me. He hears my gasp and pulls away, but I clutch his other hand and pull him right back. He starts at my necklace, at my collarbone, a whisper of a touch so light it could be a breeze. But when his lips travel the length of my neck and his teeth graze the tip of my earlobe, the only breeze this could be is a tornado.
It feels both right and wrong for this kiss to be every bit as intense as the one on the beach the night of our second date, the night his father was killed.
Lost in Nate, it’s only when my fingertips hit warm skin that I realize I inadvertently unbuttoned his shirt with my magic. I skim my hands up and down his torso, rumpling and twisting the fabric, to cover for what I’ve done. Not trusting myself or my powers, I playfully break away and roll down the wall into Megan’s seafoam-green bedroom, leaning with my hands behind me against the hand-painted emerald vine that winds its way across this side of the room.
Nate follows but hangs back, his fingers toying with one of the paper flowers attached to the vine that gives the whole mural a killer 3-D effect. Mrs. Reese was—is—Mrs. Reese is something of an artist.
“Was that not okay?” Nate asks, self-consciously raking his hand through his cropped black hair.
I allow myself a nod, but my breath is too short for verbal communication. And my mind is too jumbled, juxtaposing this kiss with that kiss, for me to trust what may spill from my lips anyway.
Then, for the third time this morning, a tingling floods me like head-to-toe pins and needles, but the only part of me that’s numb are my lips.
Nate’s an extraordinary kisser, but this is more like walking out into a nor’easter. No, that’s not quite right. It’s more like the sensation we Jinn get when another member of our species is about to apport in. But this doesn’t feel like any Jinn I know—not the five lifelong friends who make up my mother’s Zar sisterhood and not their sixteen-year-old daughters who now make up mine.
From the sting of a wasp (my Zar sister Yasmin) to a stereo vibration (my Zar sister Hana) to the tickle of a feather (my mother’s best friend and Zar sister Samara), apporting Jinn have their own signature. Funny, I’ve never asked anyone what mine is.
With my back to Nate, I toss sweaters for myself and Megan into a backpack and tap into my abundance of adrenaline to strengthen my magic. I don’t sense another Jinn in the house. As nonchalantly as I can, I move to the windows and survey the backyard.
When my mother stops by to check up on me, she comes by car. She knows better than to magically
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