by Ivy Asher
“From a skunk that can’t even spray?” he counters ungratefully.
“I didn’t know that at the time, you ass. It twerked in my direction, and I got the fuck out of the way. I didn’t stop and examine its equipment.”
“Gibson does not twerk.”
“Hate to break it to you, Rogan, but he sure as hell does.”
“Why are you naked?” he asks, and my mouth flops open wordlessly.
So much for his not noticing. His thumb paints an arc on the skin of my hip, and I all at once can’t help but notice how his body feels against mine. I clear my throat, brushing aside the way his soft T-shirt teases my now peaked breasts. Or the way the rough texture of his jeans feels between my thighs. I ignore how close his face is to mine, or just how intimate our current position is.
“Because your towel abandoned me in my time of need,” I defend, suddenly feeling a little breathless. “You should really get towels made of sturdier stuff.”
“I’ll get right on that,” he answers without missing a beat, his eyes fixed on mine and unreadable.
I know I should tell him to close his eyes while I get out of his lap. I know I shouldn’t feel any amount of satisfaction as he hardens beneath me. Excitement shouldn’t light up my insides simply because his breaths are coming a little quicker. His response to me shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t matter. But as his eyes dip down to my lips, and his fingertips warm my hips, there’s no denying that something is here...and it matters.
My heart picks up its pace, and I’m not sure what I should do. I feel like I’m on the cusp of something, but I’m not sure exactly what. Will he lean in? Do I want to kiss him? Is it wise to add this potential complication to an already messed up situation? His eyes flick back up to mine, and I can practically see the same questions swirling in his gaze. We stare at each other, one second flowing into another. We don’t advance. We don’t retreat. We just sit in indecision until doubt starts to bloom in my chest.
We have more important things to worry about right now. This is silly and rash and the last thing we need to add to our plates. I could be reading him wrong, and really he’s just waiting for me to get my naked ass off him.
“We should, uh…” I start, shattering the weighted silence. I’m not sure if I’m putting a stop to things or offering one last opening and waiting to see if he’ll seize it.
“Right,” Rogan agrees, snapping out of his transfixed state.
I push up from him, and his hands at my waist help lift me as I go. It’s not until I stand up that I realize what a bad idea this was. Because now my crotch is staring him right in his face. He clears his throat softly, and I scramble away from him. I hurry to pluck my towel from the ground and wrap it around me. I hope like hell it serves as a tourniquet and stops the embarrassment bleeding out of me all over the place.
I probably look like some desperate thot who just keeps throwing myself at him. My face is on fire with mortification. Rogan gets to his feet, but I can’t bring myself to look at him. I don’t want to see what might be written all over his face. Or worse, look and see that he doesn’t give a shit at all.
“I’ll, uh...I’ll be in the kitchen...when you’re ready,” he declares, and then just like that, he’s gone. It’s like he couldn’t get out of here fast enough. I plop onto the edge of the bed and let my face fall into my hands.
What am I doing?
I look up to find Hoot and Gibson are gone. Seems like the show is over, or maybe all of this was too much for them, not that I can blame them. It’s too much for me too…or maybe the issue is that it’s not enough? I growl into my hands in exasperation and get up to get dressed.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid, Leni. What are you thinking? You want to fuck him, but you don’t trust him. You want to get lost in the feel of him, but at what cost?” I ask myself as I step into my underwear and wiggle into a pair of jeans.
How can I so easily forgive what’s happened between us, what brought me here in the first place? Gibson is his ex-familiar because he made me his against my will. He tethered us together with no thought as to how I would feel about it. He can claim it’s all for the greater good, and maybe it was, but it doesn’t make it right. It doesn’t excuse the violation. And now, I what...think we’re somehow going to find happily ever after in missing witches, Order attacks, secrecy, and lies?
I shake my head as I hook my bra together behind my back. No. It doesn’t matter that sex with him would probably be epic. It’s a distraction that we don’t have time for. I pull a shirt on, fluffing my disgruntled curls as I search for my shoes. Nope. Just going to pretend like this never happened. So he saw me naked, who cares? I love what I’m working with, so no shame there. Yes, he took a bush to the face. It’s unfortunate, but there’s no getting around it now. I’m sure we can both behave like civilized adults and just never talk about it again.
Yep. Solid plan.
My stomach growls, and I know there’s no avoiding the kitchen. Crap. Please don’t let me turn beet red as soon as I see him, I plead with myself, pulling on my big girl panties and heading down to the kitchen. I take the stairs a little louder than usual, announcing to Rogan that I’m coming and it’s time to prepare for his role in Operation Avoidance.
“Hey,” I offer casually as I pass the kitchen island, making a beeline for the fancy coffee machine. Dammit. I still don’t know how to make it submit.
“Hey,” he offers back, taking the large mug from my hand without missing a beat and getting to work making me a delicious cup of decadent brew.
I give him room to sweet talk the machine and grab a seat at the island. I look around the kitchen to try and figure out what time it is, but there isn’t a clock anywhere. Note to self, get Rogan a clock.
“How long was I out?” I ask, taking in his jeans and T-shirt. It’s definitely the middle of the night, but he’s dressed and ready to go, which is a little odd.
“It’s just past four in the morning,” he tells me as the coffee machine starts gurgling and making noises that tell me a hot cup of joe is not too far away.
“Oh, I feel like I’ve been asleep forever, but I’ll take a handful of hours,” I note with a shrug.
“No, it’s four in the morning on Wednesday. You’ve been asleep for more than a day,” he reveals casually as he opens the fridge and pulls out those fancy syrups and things that I used to think people could only get at a legit coffee shop. I wonder if Riggs is his supplier. I’ll have to get in on that if he is.
“Wait. What?” I squeak out in surprise as what he says registers. How did I crash for that long? “What about the meeting with the coven? Did Marx come tell us what the hell is going on? Did I miss anything else?” I fire at him, not even stopping to reload the air in my lungs as worry sends my pulse galloping.
Rogan hands me a large cup filled with liquid salvation, but I’m too shocked and worried to dunk my face in it like I normally would.
“I rescheduled the meeting with the coven for this afternoon. Marx hasn’t come by yet; he got tied up with the attack, and it took longer to square up than he thought. I got a message from him just before you naked tackled me. He said he’d drop by in a couple of hours to fill us in on what’s happening.”
I narrow my eyes at him—mentioning the thing we’re not supposed to be mentioning is not part of the plan. Then again, maybe if I clued Rogan into the plan, he might follow it better. But that means I’d have to bring up the thing that I don’t want to bring up, so I’ll just shoot him a warning glare and hope he picks up what I’m putting down.
“The only other thing you missed was this…” Rogan continues as though my warning shot fell on deaf ears. He walks out of the kitchen, and I debate for a moment if I was supposed to follow him. Before I can make up my mind one way or the other, he comes back with a massive white box. He sets it on the island next to me and hands me an envelope. I open it, pulling out a card that has a neat but masculine scrawl on it.
Lennox,
When we
heard what happened, Alpha Riggs insisted on sending you this. I, of course, then insisted on playing delivery boy. When you’re well and rested, call me. I’d like to take you to dinner sometime, maybe even find a stump and see where the night takes us.
Saxon.
He drew a winky face just before his number and a heart just before his name. I trace the angle of Saxon’s handwriting as I read the note again, and a small smile works to claim my mouth. I set the note and envelope down and reach for the lid of the huge box. Sadly, it’s too big to be a jackalope antler, but who knows, maybe this is one of those present inside a present tricks that are fun to do to people, but annoying when you’re the one opening fifty boxes just to find a lame-ass cuddle coupon. Rogan plucks the note from the counter, reading it and grunting with annoyance before tossing it aside. I pull the top off and find a stack of various bones. I study them for a quick second and realize it’s a duplicate of the bone order that I lost in the accident.
My smile grows even wider. Looks like I’ve got some spelling to do.
“Told you that you’d have a problem on your hands with that one,” Rogan grumbles, jutting his chin in the direction of the tossed aside note.
I snort out a laugh. “Oh yeah, a dinner invitation and the drop of the digits is stage five clinger status. Alert the authorities,” I gasp in faux outrage. “Oh wait, they tried to kill us,” I point out snarkily, adding an eye roll for effect.
He shakes his head but doesn’t say anything else. I take a sip of my coffee, and it forces me to close my eyes and revel in the explosion of flavors on my tongue. I welcome the heat that pours down my throat as I swallow, and I swear this cup of coffee is a better lover than a fair percentage of my past dalliances.
“I want to have your babies,” I state matter-of-factly, opening my blissed-out gaze and leveling an arduous look on the coffee machine. Rogan barks out a laugh.
“Should I leave the two of you alone?” he teases.
“Please don’t, you know she only puts out for me because you tell her to,” I plead, and he laughs even harder.
It’s a nice sound. He looks so carefree and relaxed with his head tilted back and a chuckle bouncing around the kitchen. It warms something in me to see him not bogged down by stress and worry, even if only for a moment. I dropkick that marshmallow of a thought as far away as I can. Not today, Satan. Not. Today.
“Alright, Rogan Kendrick,” I announce, taking another sip of my delicious mocha to help fortify my resolve. “I’m going to whip up some potions and protections, and while I do, you are going to sit here and tell me, once and for all, what the fuck is going on. Enough is enough, it’s time to get it all out of the cauldron. And before you even think about holding out on me, you should know that I have a recipe for a potion that will leave you unsatisfied by anything you taste, do, or fuck until the antidote is given. So if I were you, I’d have a seat and spill it.”
Rogan’s green gaze looks more interested than cowed as it dips down my body and then floats back up. “We wouldn’t want that, now would we,” he practically purrs, and his deep irreverent tone lights up my lady bits like it’s accelerant and a struck match all in one.
Well, crap. I just handed over my king on that one. My vagina screams at me that’s checkmate, bitch, and then practically squeals with excitement, ready to be plundered. I wrangle the wayward direction of my thoughts and focus back on Rogan, who is now wearing a knowing grin.
Stick with the plan, Leni. Stick with the damn plan.
I toss him an unimpressed smile, hoping he can’t see the new pink tinge of my cheeks. Note to self: no more sex threats. I don’t think the plan can take it.
19
I find the pelvic bone of the female wolf and lift it out of the box. Closing my eyes, I thank the spirit of the wolf for its offering and then move back over to the large mortar and pestle that Rogan supplied me with. It worked out for me that Rogan’s brother often does spell work here; I’ve been able to find everything I need and more.
Rogan watches me work, the worry and tension back in his eyes, and it has nothing to do with my promises to make him spill all his secrets. I know he’s picturing the last time his brother was here, prepping spell work like I am now. Rogan’s fear and sadness are almost palpable, and I wish we had new news in the search for Elon and the other missing witches. I find myself wondering where he might be, if he’s okay, and how he might feel about me messing with his things.
I reduce the pelvic bone into a fine powder in the bowl and then add some raw amber and sandalwood to the mix. Two spelled splashes of frankincense oil join the potion, and then I go about crushing and grinding everything together with the pestle. Rogan’s eyes watch the rhythm of my movements as I work the potion into the consistency that I need. I wait patiently for his green gaze to find my expectant one.
“You can start now,” I tell him, when he finally looks up at my face. I’m done asking him to source equipment and the ingredients that I need for today’s work, and we can get on with the gab sesh.
He leans back in his stool and releases a resigned sigh, running a hand down his tired face. “What do you want to know?” he asks after a beat, and I flip open my mental list of observations and questions that I’ve been tabulating since he first showed up in my shop.
“What are you keeping from me?” I start, tackling the biggest issue and concern I have when it comes to Rogan Kendrick and the mystery of the missing Osteomancers. “And before you do me the disservice of saying it’s nothing or asking me what I’m talking about, I want you to think through the consequences of doing that. I’m here, trying to help you, trying to trust you. Please don’t taint that with omissions and lies,” I tell him, my gaze pleading with him to trust me, to arm me with what I need to know about him, his brother, and what’s happening.
He studies me for a moment, his gaze intense and searching as it bounces back and forth between my resolute stare. He blinks and I can see the conviction of a decision in his eyes. I hope for the sake of whatever we have, or might have, between us that he’s going to drop the bullshit and be real with me.
“I’m not purposefully trying to keep things from you, Lennox. It’s not personal, I promise you that. It’s just that…” He leans forward and rests his elbows on the counter, releasing a weary exhale. “It’s just that I’m used to keeping to myself. I’m accustomed to only relying on a very small circle of people. People who have earned my trust.”
“And I haven’t?” I ask simply as I add mugwort and obsidian tears to the mortar.
“It’s not that, you have...” he answers with a shake of his head, his stare trained on his clasped hands. “You have,” he repeats as though it’s as much a confession to himself as it is to me.
His eyes lift to find mine, and he traces my features with his gaze for a beat. “My mother is Sorrel Adair,” he tells me, and it’s clear he expects me to know the name.
My brow furrows in thought as I search for why I should know that name. “Adair…” I repeat as though saying it out loud will conjure recognition. “Wait,” I exclaim, my eyes growing wider with understanding. “Adair as in High Priestess Adair?”
“The very one,” he confirms, and the admission sends me reeling.
His mother is the leader of the Order, she’s more or less the Queen of the Witches.
“Holy fuck,” I whisper in awe. “But I thought you said your uncles held the magic in your line?”
“No, I said that they were Elon’s and my predecessors, not that they were the only magic in my line. My mother, as you know, is a fire-wielding Vicinal Witch. My father, the High Priest, is a Soul Witch. And my two uncles on my mother’s side are...were...a Blood Witch, and a Bone Witch. They were both Order Summoners, or High Lieutenants as they’re called now.”
I take in what he’s saying as I reach for the green velvet bag that has all the vessel options in it for amulets. I quickly pluck an oval ring from the bag and try it on my hand.
“Okaaay, so you’r
e witch royalty. Should I brush up on my curtsey skills or something?” I tease, a little deflated.
This is the big secret? This is what’s been setting off my internal don’t trust him alarms? The ring fits snugly on my middle finger, and I pull it off and look into the bag for a second option. I pull a chain out and then freeze, the bag of jewelry all at once forgotten as a bomb of understanding explodes in my mind.
“Holy shit. You murdered your uncle,” I accuse, dropping the chain next to the ring as memories surge through me, and I recall the stories I’ve heard about the High Priestess and her messed up sons.
I stare at him, completely aghast. I don’t pay attention to witch politics at all, but even I heard about the brothers who brutally murdered their uncle in a grab for power. Rogan doesn’t say anything, he just watches me like he’s waiting for something, and then it hits me in a wave of shock and rage.
“Rogan, you were renounced. You and Elon were cast out,” I half shout, half wheeze as panic floods me.
I’m tethered to someone who is cursed and renounced by the Order and therefore supposed to be cursed and renounced by all witches. Nausea threatens to climb up my throat. He did something so fucked up that there was no coming back from it, and now I’m here in his kitchen trying to help him find his brother.
I shoved my bush in the face of an evil, renounced witch!
Outrage morphs my features, and I move menacingly toward where he’s just sitting and watching me.
“What have you done?” I snarl, fighting the urge to punch him in his too pretty face. “You linked us, knowing it could be a death sentence for me,” I yell at him. And when he doesn’t respond in any way, it pisses me off even more. “They could purge me just for associating with you! Is that what the whole shit show with Prek was about?” I demand, and something flashes in Rogan’s eyes, but he doesn’t say a word. “Answer me!” I snap, getting in his face. “If you’re going to condemn me to death or shunning, the least you can fucking do is explain why!”
