15 The Dance

My admission about how strong a grip the drugs still has on me--and how that makes other people view me--makes me nervous. Is he judging me?

Suddenly, Aiden sits up, brushing off his thighs. "No."

The irritation in his tone throws me. "It's because they think you're bad. Because you do something that's bad for you. Drugs destroy you. They kill your body, riddle your mind with holes. And they cost—money, time, dignity. You end up making shitty decisions to get the cash to get the high. Use all your time searching for it. It's not the high that's a problem. It's the consequences of what you'd do to get out of your mind—and how long you'll say high if you can—completely check out of life. If you were doing something that made you feel that good, that didn't cost you, didn't tear your life apart, still left your mind free and clear to do what needed to be done, they wouldn't call you an addict. They'd call you a happy person."

He's making a weird kind of sense. "What's your point?" I say warily.

"My point is, the power's incredible, Kate. Look at all those people over there." He nods to the fire. I follow his gaze to the crowd undulating around its base. "Those people feel like they're high even though they aren't. Their brains are untouched. They're ecstatic. Completely free. But if you took them to a doctor right now, it wouldn't matter what test they did, or how many hours they waited. Nothing would show up. They're clean as a whistle. It's . . . beautiful," he says, still watching the bacchanalian chaos, "because none of them have lost touch with who they are. And they never will."

I lean back, away, terrified of the rush of desire that surges in my chest at those words—not desire for him, but for whatever they're on. But Aiden presses the advantage, turning his head to hold my gaze with his icy-blues.

"They channeled on each other," he says. "They decided how long they wanted to be high, and how high they wanted to go. They decided if they'll remember what they do tonight, or if their minds will be a blank slate in the morning. They're in complete control of what happens to them. No cost. No problems. No consequences. No trace."

"No trace?" An undetectable high? My lungs tighten and I shiver under my skin with pure, undiluted want. I can barely breathe.

I could get high. No one would know. I wouldn't have to tell Mom and Dad. I'd—

"Like I said, if they got tested right now their blood, urine, everything would be clean as a whistle. Do you hear me, Kate? It's the perfect high. It's free. It never stops feeling awesome—and the more powerful you get, the quicker it sends you into orbit." He sighs like he's reliving a memory. And I want to be there with him. So, so badly. "The taste I gave you of the power yesterday, that was nothing compared to being Bound," he says.

Then he catches my eyes and I stare, because his are full of a promise. And I want it. I want it badly.

My heart pounds and the back of my throat washes in a metallic tang. My hands tremble.

"You need to stop," I say, no longer whispering. My eyes are too wide, but I can't make them relax. I know I look shocked. I feel scared. There's a whole crowd of people out there, and they're all high on channeling? All under the influence of . . . power?

And there's no trace?

Remember the downsides. Remember the price. The shame. The humiliation . . . My counsellor's voice echoes in my head.

"No, Kate, you're not getting it. This isn't dangerous. Nothing gets destroyed. Your body stays healthy. Brain untouched. No consequences."

"But . . . What do they do while they're . . . bound?" Some of the worst parts of my history are things I did or said when I was out of it.

Aiden shrugs. "Whatever they feel like. They set the binding on each other earlier. It'll get stronger over the next few hours, lower inhibitions, pump them up. Then it'll ease off. By tomorrow they're back to normal. No harm. No foul."

I watch the people in the distance, try to see the difference between them and me and my friends when we were partying. Can't take my eyes off them.

I remember that power charging through my veins the other day. What was the word Aiden used? Intoxicating?

He wasn't joking.

"What does it feel like?"

Aiden goes very still. "It's incredible," he says softly. "Like the top of your head'll blow off with pure joy. You feel like you're invincible. Like no one could ever hurt you. Like life is good." He shivers.

My jaw drops. "So why aren't you in there? Why aren't you bound?"

"I was hoping you'd show up." And he looks at me. Really looks at me—his chin tipped down, eyes boring out from beneath his dark brows, lips turned up halfway between suggestive and sheepish. It makes my stomach trill.

I try to fight off the smile my face is determined to form, force myself to look at the crowd, the flames rising up behind them, flaring and swelling, like its fueling them. What he's describing is scary—and incredible. But right now I want Aiden to lean in, to touch me, to do what's on his mind. Because I can see it in his eyes and my gut's saying yes, even though I know it's a bad idea.

The cravings beat a drum in my head.

Intoxicating. Untraceable. Power, not substance.

Bound. Get bound.

I close my eyes to force it back.

"So, is that what it does then? Makes fire show up on my fingers and gets me . . . high?"

There's this moment, then, that sticks with me later. It's like Aiden's making a choice. A thousand different emotions cross his face, and each one carries me with it, desperate to figure out what his answer is about to be. But finally he looks down, and sighs. Shakes his head. Looks off across the waves, then back at me.

He's smirking.

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