by Watson, Rhea
Perfection.
Maybe my body just had an aversion to Benedict Hammond overall, because anytime I caught a whiff of his sandalwood cologne, my gut looped and mouth watered like I was about to vomit. Something in the mix just wasn’t right—like him. Playing the nice guy around campus, but rotten to the core.
“Hello, Miss Alice,” he boomed. The man was Canadian, same as me, but he sprinkled in a weird high-brow English accent every now and again—as if that made him cultured. I locked up tighter when his hand found my shoulder, clamping down and squeezing. “Professor Clarke. What a nice little corner you two have here.”
Alien as it still felt to smile at him, I did it, my facial features relying on muscle memory, just like my hands as I carried on making prep booklets. Alice, meanwhile, looked at up him with more earnest affection, which I couldn’t understand; Benedict was a supernatural snob, a man who only entertained the opinions of fellow witches and warlocks. Alice was one of us, sure, but in the eyes of many in our community, she was defective. The thought of him giving her the time of day, or any other special attention that made her all bright and bubbly, was almost laughable.
With trembling fingers, I grabbed paper after paper, stacking and tapping them, even as the blood drained from my face and static whispered around my skull. Whatever they were talking about, Alice animate and Benedict chuckling, was just white noise—because his hand was still there, on my shoulder, pressing down like we had that sort of relationship.
Like he could just… touch me.
I fucked up another staple when his thumb started to stroke my arm, slowly, softly, barely moving to outsiders but all I could feel as my body shifted into panic mode. Fight or flight. I might have decided to indulge him, to trust my gut that the right plan would fall into place at the right time to expose him, but the rest of me hadn’t caught up with that yet. The rest of me wanted to fight and fly—staple the shit out of his hand and then run.
I took a settling breath instead, one and then another, sinking into the mundane rhythm of stapling packets—and the memory of Jack’s firm hand on my ass. Weird, to fall back on a grown warlock spanking you as a coping mechanism, but that night, the blazing sting had shone brighter than anything else. Somehow it had grounded me, centered my scattered focus, reminded me that I was alive and not drowning in a sea of grief and fear.
The sound of a book sliding off a shelf had me snapping my head to the left suddenly, chin almost brushing Benedict’s arm. Down the nearby aisle stood a glowering Gavriel, a massive tome in his hand, dressed to the nines in his standard professional attire.
Only this time his lavender suit jacket had tails, which was just… a lot.
But he had the looks and confidence to pull it off, to seem effortlessly fashionable with his sideswept silvery-brown hair and a jawline that could cut glass.
Cheekbones that could carve diamonds.
And a scowl that probably sent students scattering to the winds.
His layered grey gaze flicked between me and Benedict, back and forth, back and forth, before he snapped the huge, weathered book shut and stalked toward us.
Oh. Gods. I shot him a pleading look not to draw attention to the fact that I was absolutely dying under Benedict’s hand.
“Oi,” he snapped, motioning to our table with the book and instantly silencing Alice and Benedict’s conversation, “chatterbirds.”
Alice giggled as she swiveled in her chair to face him. “It’s chatterboxes, sir.”
Gavriel feigned a little laugh, then rolled his eyes. “Right. Whatever. This is a library.” He charged directly into my personal bubble, not stopping until he was basically on top of me and Benedict, who was then forced to step back. The second his hand left my shoulder, I could breathe again. Gavriel, meanwhile, continued to glare like we were a bunch of misbehaving teenagers. “Either talk at a respectable volume, preferably not at all, or get out.”
Alice’s smile shriveled up, and Benedict huffed behind me. “This is quite inappropriate—”
“My house,” Gavriel sneered, “my rules.”
A tense quiet followed, and while I didn’t dare look back to see how the inevitable staring contest was going, Alice watched the pair for me, brow furrowed and pen gripped tightly.
“Well then,” Benedict Hammond growled at long last, the nice-guy façade falling away for just a moment—at least in his tone. Then, after clearing his throat, it was back, and he patted the table with his index finger, his nonchalant smile crumbling around the edges. “Until next time, ladies.”
“Bye, Professor,” Alice squeaked. Over my shoulder, I watched the warlock dip into an unnecessary bow, like he and Gavriel had been in on this little display. His dark gaze slid to me, but I only offered a thin, fleeting smile, then my back, waiting, tensed, until his curt footsteps disappeared down a nearby aisle.
Shaking his head, Gavriel watched him go, then glanced down at me. Impossible to read, this fae, whenever something serious happened. Put him in a situation where he could flirt and schmooze and the guy was an open book. With Alice staring at us, however, I couldn’t press the issue. Instead, I grinned up at him—genuine, this time—and fluttered my lashes, then made the motion of zipping my lips.
Which earned me another eye roll.
And a faint, barely there smirk.
The world became routine again when he left us, Alice sinking into her alchemy homework, me stapling test prep packets and organizing the massive stacks by year.
The rest of the day carried on as usual, too, dinner followed by my early evening class with fourth years, now a week into our new potions unit. It ended with the usual stroll back to the flat with Bjorn around curfew. Chats about our students, a brief indulgence in wine and reality TV drama.
I only deviated just before bed, opting for a shower.
A scalding hot shower, wherein I scrubbed the shoulder he had touched raw.
But even then, I could still feel him, still lugged Benedict fucking Hammond around with me.
Sore and exhausted, I went to bed hoping, praying, that the gods would show me some guidance soon—because the nonchalance, string-him-along thing was bound to take its toll.
One way or another.
11
Gavriel
Right. Easing back in my office chair, I closed my eyes and counted the bells chiming through the castle, each stroke designating the hour.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine.
My eyes snapped open. Nine. Only nine? Scowling, I lurched for my laptop and smacked the space bar, the screen flickering back to life. Sure enough, curfew had just come into effect.
Fuck me. Two bottles of pricey Merlot deep and it was only nine o’-fucking-clock.
Tipsy, alone, empty inside, I slammed my laptop shut and sighed, the exhale turning into a long, raging groan. All the little librarians outside my door would have gone by now, their shift ended a half hour ago. I usually stayed on until curfew, but good fucking luck to any of the urchins in need of bibliographic assistance at this late hour; if it really mattered, they would have gone to the information desk sooner.
I’d finished all my work for the day ages ago. Managed the budget and sent that off to Prewett. Skimmed employee evaluations that I’d had my crew perform on each other—rather savage, some of the reviews. Done my daily cataloguing. Tinkered with the back-end data for our online resources that a few of the more human-tech-savvy students relied on. Filed several boxes of new arrivals throughout the library. Monitored things. Told a few loudmouths to shut the fuck up already—kicked three of them out for hurling paper balls at a den mother while she tried to help a first year with the computer.
All in a fucking day’s work here at Root Rot. Ordinarily, the real work began at night. Sure, I might indulge in a smoke after dinner. Drink to numb everything, but I could set aside all the mundane bullshit of the day—so much bitching among my underlings, like our job was so taxing—and invest my time, energy, and focus into what
mattered: finding students worthy of Darkwell Academy.
Couldn’t send them by force, mind you.
All about free will with that smug fallen angel.
Had to seduce and butter up and coax—
But I had returned the batch of files I’d nicked from the admin wing days ago because all the new arrivals this term were shit.
I mean. Shit for my purposes. Fewer black souls roaming the castle corridors these days now that Leroy and his girl had been dethroned. Thus far, no one came close to their level of cool-kid prestige.
Or Lucy’s skill.
So, yeah. Just great. Just fucking great.
Blinking the blur out of my tired eyes, I stood and meandered over to the window. Ice gathered in the corners, December just as cold this year as it had been the last three. Not a soul in the highlands tonight save the poor security bastards on perimeter detail—
A light stretched across the back grounds, warm and soft compared to the savagery of the surrounding landscape. Yellow and inviting, it stemmed from the greenhouses, strings of lightbulbs stretched around the enchanted outdoor vegetable and herb gardens.
Alecto must have been down there, braving the elements to tend to her flock.
With nothing else to do, pipe smoked and wine fridge empty, my mind drifted toward the next best distraction: fantastic sex. Even though Bjorn’s rescue elevated my reputation around the academy, I just couldn’t be bothered with the women who fawned over me.
To most of them, I was the hero—for however much longer was anyone’s guess. But at first, I’d milked that for all its worth. Even the ones who were cross with me for one reason or another came crawling back, and I basked in the attention, the grabbers-on boosting my ego, my worth… albeit temporarily. Still, this was how it would feel as a noble fae one day in the Ash Court: creatures I could barely have a conversation with licking my boots—my cock—for a flicker of my attention.
But it got old.
In a few days, actually, I was over it, but I stretched it on longer than my patience allowed because this was the life I eventually wanted—wasn’t it?
Tonight, when I thought of carnal distraction, I didn’t want a simpering, mewling, hero-worshipping woman in my bed.
I craved a fight.
Passion.
Anger and brutality and a fury’s nails raking up my chest, down my back, her teeth on my neck until I eventually pinned her—
Right. Evening plans sorted, then.
Leaving my minimalistic office behind, I stumbled down to the outdoors in a haze. It took a lot more than two bottles of human wine to intoxicate a fae, but tonight the alcohol made me more honest than usual, more open to myself about my own wants and needs.
I’d have to get a grip on that before I kissed her.
Tuck it all away so she couldn’t use it against me.
Assaulted by the bitter night air, I trundled all the way to the main greenhouse, steeling my emotions—only to find it empty. Lights on, nobody home. Scowling, I checked the other two, cupping my hands over the glass and peering inside. Greenery greeted me, the walls fogged with the temperature difference, and it wasn’t until something clanked way to the left that I realized she was outside.
Quiet as a mouse but swift as a fae, I crept to the corner of the main greenhouse, next to which stretched rows of raised gardens—and in the thick of it, Alecto. Something in the fertilizer made the foliage immune to winter’s kiss; it had rained this morning, which had turned to snow around noon, then back to freezing rain come supper. As the temperatures took their usual nightly plunge, ice built up, frost spread, but Alecto’s vegetables thrived, her bunches of herbs and spices spilling over the sides of their wooden beds.
Looking a bit wild down here—someone needed to tame those things.
Which, to her credit, Alecto seemed to be doing, working her way through a lavender bush, snipping and pruning and gathering a bushel of the stalks. Bathed in the warm glow of the little lights strung around all the beds and up to the greenhouses, she looked rather… cute tonight.
Not a word I used often, nor one I associated with a fury, but sporting an earthly autumnal color palette—oranges and browns and ruddy reds—and all those layers gave her this bundled-up, adorable sheen that I rarely appreciated. Usually she was quite fashionable, but this look was soft. Cozy. Layered with scarves that clamped her curls down around her ears like wild muffs. The fingerless gloves gave her an advantage with harvesting, maneuverable enough to manage the scissors, and her brown boots had this rustic buckle on them that really… did something to me.
What the actual fuck.
I wasn’t here for sweet and cozy, for cheeks kissed by the chill and flyaway curls.
After cracking both sides of my neck, decidedly more sober in the cold but in no mood to retreat inside, I waited until she put down the clippers before I made my move. Gathering her harvested lavender to her chest, the witch turned just before I pounced, nostrils flaring, eyes wide, breath catching.
“Gavriel—”
I caught her parted lips in a kiss that made her moan, her lashes fluttering, her folded arms and precious lavender crushed between us. Snaking an arm around her waist, I dragged her to me, forced her up on her toes and kissed her deep—hard but desperately passionate, the rhythm coming far too easy.
And she kissed me back.
Stars above as my witness, she kissed me, lips pliant, tongue tangling and tussling and showing what fire she possessed beneath all those many cute layers. My free hand cupped her cheek, thumb stroking the chilled flesh. Just as my fingers wove into her mane, however, Alecto inhaled sharply—then tried to pull away. I held firm, enjoying the struggle, the fight, the push and pull between us, cock already swelling with interest at the thought of some rough and tumble in the conservatory.
Only she really fought, and with one sharp twist, she jammed her elbow into my chest, then staggered back—but only because I let her. My lips quirked at the sight of hers all red and plump, and I prowled after her retreating figure, ready to take—and perhaps give, just a little—when the witch shook her head and thrust her lavender harvest between us as she once had her wand.
“No,” she said breathlessly, holding my gaze and shaking her head. My barking laugh echoed through the gardens, and I did a quick scan of our surroundings. Had she spotted someone watching? No. Not a soul to be found, not a single supernatural aura shimmering in the ether. Totally alone, us two.
“Come on—”
“No,” she rasped, firmer this time as she marched backward to counteract my approach. She then stabbed the lavender at me, brandishing the bunch like a sword, and hurled this look that insisted she was serious. Really. Her. Serious—about not fucking? The witch who let me pound her into the courtyard wall all those months back after exchanging maybe five words total? The one who permitted me to bend her over the table inside her greenhouse and then screamed—literally shrieked—through an orgasm that had her clamping around my cock like a vise?
Right. Sure. “Look, I haven’t pinched a single thing from you since—”
“It’s not that.” Lavender still drooped between us, Alecto brushed a few curls back with a huff that briefly fogged in front of her flushed face. Frowning, I crossed my arms and arched an eyebrow. Was this a new game for us? Did she want me to fight harder? Or… did she prefer that I beg?
Under the right circumstances, I’d consider it.
At least it was something different.
“Well, what is it, then?” I demanded. “You’re attracted to me.”
Her smirk gave me hope for a swift resolution to… this. “Yup.”
“You want to fuck me.” I cocked my head, making a show of looking her up and down, letting her feel desired. “And vice versa.”
She finally dropped the lavender, arm falling to her side, then pinched the bridge of her nose. “Oh my gods, Gavriel.” After taking a moment, perhaps to collect herself given the oddly resolute twinkle in her eye when she straightened, Al
ecto took yet another deep breath before squaring off with me. “Okay, so I’ve been thinking—”
“Didn’t I tell you that was dangerous?”
Her cheeks might have hollowed and her eyes might have narrowed, but none of that detracted from her impish grin. Clearly my charms still worked on her—so, what the fuck was she doing?
“We’re really similar,” Alecto started, slow and cautious, like she was taking care with her word choice. Before she could get any further, however, I laughed. Not because I found the statement funny, but because it struck an uncomfortable chord in me that I wasn’t sure how else to process. Alecto readjusted her massive reddish-brown scarf, waiting for my cool chuckles to fade, then added, “We use sex to cope with feeling like shit.”
“That’s…” True. Painfully true. “That’s rubbish.”
“No, it’s not,” she fired back without missing a beat. “We use sex and alcohol—Mr. Merlot, I can smell you from here—and a surly attitude to push people away when we feel bad about ourselves, and it’s not… healthy.”
This uppity little—
How dare she read me like an open book? Who gave her the right to possess that sort of insight? “Well, that’s not for you to decide.”
“I decide for me.” Alecto stepped back again to counter my third attempt to close the distance between us. “No more. It’s… I can’t keep doing the same old crap, and it’s not good for you, either.”
Everything inside me hardened to ice. “If I wanted a psych eval, I’d have an actual conversation with my roommate.”
Honestly, Seamus would have a fucking field day picking around inside my brain. Psychology was his secret obsession, the bookshelves around our flat crawling with human tomes about manipulating the mind. Bit weird, actually.
“Just…” Alecto licked her lips, her pretty speech floundering a little. “If you want to talk, we can talk, but we shouldn’t…” She gestured between us with the lavender. “You know. It’s not healthy.”
