The Prince Of Curses h.s.

Thirty one

I spent the next two days reading as much as I could, trying desperately to figure out how to break the curse.

Harry would take me outside in the evenings and have me practice everything I had learned. I felt like my magic was really starting to build on itself and that I had better control over it than I ever did. There was a deeper connection between my magic and myself, one that I never thought I would be able to establish.

I learned a lot about magic while being here. As I read over every spellbook and every piece of writing I grew more and more connected to my ancestors. Every book contained a different writing style with different handwriting and sets of information. Every once in a while I would stop and think about who that person was and what kind of life they must've lived. 

I lifted my book from my nose. Harry was standing in the kitchenette, his back to me as he stirred a steaming pot. My feet were propped up on the table adjacent to the couch I sat on. The couch had his scent all over it, and it made me want to lavish in it.

I tried inviting him to the bedroom the past few nights but he didn't seem interested. There was a piece inside me that saddened me when he declined my offer. All I wanted to do was touch him— or have him touch me. I knew our time here was growing short, and I began to resent the fact that we would have to return. I didn't want to go back to the castle, I didn't want to be stuck within the same few rooms, and I certainly didn't want to go back to living such a polished lifestyle. 

Staying out here— with dirt on my clothes and mud on my shoes. This was the life I think I was envious of living.

My eyes were beginning to throb over the constant reading. But I reminded myself to keep going because we were heading back tomorrow and I wouldn't have so many books at my disposal. 

I stared at the back of Harry's figure, admiring him. His crown sat next to my feet. He hasn't worn it much since we've been here. I like seeing him without it, it made him seem normal. I don't know if it's because we're away from the castle or the simple fact that I was seeing another side of him— but I liked it. I liked how free he seemed here, less demeaning. 

I dropped my book in my lap, folding it closed with my fingers as I continued to watch him. He had been quiet today and I couldn't figure out why. 

Harry's sleeves were rolled up enough to expose his elbows and the flex of muscles in his forearms. The bottom of his tattoo was showing. I stared at it, a feeling curling in my stomach. Maybe I didnt want to get rid of our tattoos, because in a way, as long as we have them, there's a clear mark that signifies that he's mine. He belongs to me. 

There was something gratifying about that. Someone so scary, so cruel, someone with so much power— and I had them all to myself. We were bound together, whether I meant to or not, and no one else could take that from us. 

As I sat there and watched him cook, I couldn't help but think about our intimate moments. It was satisfying that his body reacted to mine as much as I did to his. He wanted me as much as I wanted him. Something about that thought— that instinctual, feral thought, made my toes curl in my boots.

"It's not nice to stare," Harry said with his back still facing me. He clicked off the stove, grabbing a hand towel and wiping his hands with it. His head slightly turned, his eyes gazing over his shoulder. His hair was unruly, wisping over most of his forehead. 

"It's not nice to peep into someone's thoughts," I countered, giving him a smug smile. I sat the book on the couch, standing up and walking toward him. He turned and leaned against the counter. "Whatcha making?"

"Pasta," Harry shrugged, "it was all I could find in this dingy cabin."

Before I could reply one of the upper cabinet doors flew open and whacked Harry in his head. I let out a laugh as Harry scowled, rubbing the spot where he was hit. I could feel the magic of this house humming in response.