Live to Venture (#0)

11 | The Attempts of Adventure

Novari had one destination in mind.

She didn't go back to her room. She didn't wait outside his room. She knew exactly what she had to do.

It wasn't to tell Seira, even though Novari knew she'd be up. How could she tell her mother that she hadn't seen it the whole time? She should've seen it. She should've seen the lies written so clearly on his face. She should've known the moment she asked—when she was on his knees, looking up at him—that the reason her tactics weren't getting him to tell was because he had nothing to tell. She should've seen it all. She didn't misread people like that.

It was all so frustrating to her. The mind games that hadn't worked, his games that had. She was one of the many, a girl who fell for the same formula that worked every time.

Novari was not going to tell Seira.

She wasn't going to sleep, either. She couldn't go to sleep with this on her mind. Not him, exactly, but the idea of him. That charming smile, those gentle fingers. The patience it took for a man like that to let her lead, the self-surety it took. All that talk of adventure and rings and repetition left her drunk mind spiralling. She was not careful, was not prone to a life of nothing new. She was not hiding in fear of the unknown.

Novari stopped in the hallway. Was this what people felt like after a night with her? Was this the kind of existential crisis they had? She didn't think so. Was he better at this than her?

She kept walking, even more determined now. Novari was the queen of seduction, of persuasion. She was not afraid of the unknown. She was calm, collected, uniquely brilliant. He was none of those things.

Before she killed him, she just needed to prove that the fluttering feeling had been a product of her own creation, not his. She had to prove she could recreate that desire with anyone else. She was the inspiration for it, not him.

Novari wasn't going to Sam. She was going to his brother.

Her footsteps made no sound in the dark and silent space, no absence of sound to prove that she'd paused in front of his door. Still, she only paused for a moment before she pushed it open. No second guesses, only surety, like him when he'd decided what he wanted.

Edward sat up in his bed, up on his elbows, leaning like Novari had been—

Oh, it was enough already. She'd done that. That feeling was hers, and she'd have it again with someone she'd saved for this very moment. Somebody fresh and new and exciting and bold. Not repetitive at all.

"Evening, love," she whispered. She moved around the bed and folded a leg under her as she sat.

He was frozen for a moment, still drunk. He'd thought he'd have to play the long game, reel her in and in and in. He never thought it'd be this easy, and she took his confusion in stride.

No wasted time. He was out of his mind with lust, like always. He lost his confidence the moment her lips touched his, forgot how his hands worked, misjudged distance and acted like a fool. Like always.

In stride. Let him adjust. Let him realize she wasn't the Devil or the angels, she was just a person. Just like everyone else. Let him get comfortable, then he'd give her that feeling.

But he didn't. He never calmed down, never got comfortable, never even got close to recreating what she wanted. Edward was not a fraction of what she wanted. No zest or confidence, no patience or elegance. Nothing. Just like everyone else.

She wanted to blame it on the liquor, blame it on Edward, even blame it on herself. Blame anything and everything for this happening.

Novari reached for his shirt, anything that might spark something. She was willing to be the kind of person who tore siblings apart and played with people as payback for someone else. Anything to feel original again.