by Watson, Rhea
After swiping at her toes under the blankets, I went back to my things, about to scoop them up and then change into something more comfortable than my tweed teaching suit. One foot into my bedroom and—
“Hey?”
I nearly dropped everything again at that tiny wobble, the slight crack of her voice, and when I looked back, I found her eyes glistening.
“Missed you,” Alecto whispered, and this time I did drop everything. Without a care, I hurled my shit in the general direction of my bed and blitzed back to the couch. Kicked the coffee table well away, heart breaking for her, hating myself far more than I did Ash Cedar for making her cry, and then dropped to my knees in front of her. Cheeks hollow, Alecto shuffled around under the blankets to the edge of the cushion, and when that lone tear finally fell, I pounced.
My heart yearned to kiss her.
I hugged her instead. Snaked my arms along her legs and around to her back, and Alecto fell into me with a shuddering sigh. A lesser man might have rejoiced that she came chest-first, pillowy breasts suddenly in my face, but I turned to the side so I could rest my ear over her heart. Tentative fingers worked into my hair, one hand cupping the back of my head, the other toying with the soft wisps at the nape of my neck. Eyes closed, I hugged her tight, dragging her bundled, crumpled, sore body to me as she huffed a giggle into the side of my head.
While I so loved to hear her heart race, pounding through every pulse point, tonight I realized there was something even better: listening to it slow.
And knowing she felt safe in my arms again.
That she, like me, was finally home.
20
Alecto
“Hello, Professor Cedar!”
I stilled at the front of the main greenhouse, eraser in hand, my slack-jawed reflection captured in the whiteboard between my step-by-step potion recipe. Behind me, the general hubbub of students filing out at the end of a lesson continued as usual, but that fucking name rose above the din—and for a second I thought I was dreaming.
Because… why the fuck would Benedict Hammond be in my greenhouse in the middle of the afternoon? Not only had I just finished a ninety-minute sprint with my most scatterbrained first and second years, but I now had another ninety long minutes with my fourth years in no time at all. These kids had less than five minutes to bolt between classes throughout the day, and I had just as much time to clear down and set up for the next block.
“Hello, Montgomery—you all right?”
Gods. This wasn’t a dream. White-knuckling the eraser, I slashed through the recipe for a really basic brew—just a simple headache cure. Not a migraine: headache, preferably a tension ache. I always started my babies off with this one because at the academy, whether it was good ol’ Root Rot or preppy Glencrest, they were all due for a good headache.
And now, apparently one had just waltzed into my greenhouse.
I kept my back to him, refusing to even glance to the side to watch for his reflection in the glass windows. Teeth gritted, I hurriedly wiped away the recipe and did a mental walkthrough of my next lesson.
Thursday afternoon with my fourth years.
Usually I had something a little more intense planned for my elective students—the ones who actually wanted to study herbalism—but today was a free day to work on their ongoing projects. Fourth and fifth years had flora grimoires to create during the second term: they would put together their very own encyclopedia of all the plant life found in a chosen region, including lists of their magical and medicinal properties.
Plus diagrams—bonus points for accuracy.
So, really, my next block was pretty chill.
Benedict’s presence, however, had just drop-kicked my stress up to an eleven.
Peeping over my shoulder, standard faux-friendly smile strained today, I caught him sauntering toward me with a hand behind his back, stuffy warlock robes fluttering like massive mauve bat wings. In the distance, beneath a painfully sunny and clear winter sky, my fourth years trundled down the hillside steps in a giant herd, a lone den mother bringing up the rear.
“Alecto—”
“This really isn’t a good time,” I said curtly, back to clearing the whiteboard, body language screaming fuck off as politely as I could manage. “I have another class literally at the door.”
“Of course. I’ll be quick.”
I rolled my eyes. Of course he would say that—he’d be quick instead of doing the reasonable thing and clearing out. Exhaling sharply, I slammed my eraser into the little metal tray at the bottom of the whiteboard, then wheeled around with my arms crossed, eyebrows up.
All this attitude wasn’t great for my end goal. I decided weeks ago to get a taped confession and had already come to terms with the fact that the best way to do so would be to flirt information out of the bastard. Yeah, just the thought triggered my gag reflex, but I could suck it up for an hour if it meant getting all the evidence I needed to present to a high council—
To eventually watch him burn for what he had done.
So, really, I should be nicer.
Maybe next time.
“I’ve been trying to find the time to apologize for a little while now,” Benedict mused, finally stopping with only my desk between us. He brushed his fingers over the top, then tapped at it, all huffy and contrite, eyes down like I might fall for his sheepish charm.
Fuck off, dude. You’re like fifty. It’s not a good look.
Still mindful of my fourth years, I schooled my features and fluttered my lashes, hoping the hate didn’t bleed from my eyes to my expression.
“What, for Yule? It’s fine.” I waved him off with a terse chuckle. “We all probably had a little too much to drink that night—I barely remember it. People were passing around stuff behind Iris’s back, so, you know…”
Benedict stared at me for a moment.
And then his eye twitched.
Like I had said something wrong—annoyed him. My heart skipped a beat, and as the silence stretched on, it was like my ears slowly and steadily filled with cotton, muffling the rest of the world, until—
“No,” the warlock remarked slowly, really drawing it out as if to purposefully waste my time. “Not quite.”
I gestured to the bundled-up teens meandering toward the greenhouse behind him. “Sorry, but I really need to set up for my next class.”
I didn’t, and I definitely wasn’t sorry, but his presence in my space—the slightly murderous glint in his eye because, what, I wasn’t paying enough attention to his dogshit apology?—had me flustered. Made my neck hot and my heart pound.
Ugh. Flirting a confession out of him might require booze—a lot of booze. While I was still working on the specifics, I had finally decided to get things rolling during the next weeklong term break. Fewer kids on campus seemed ideal, but I was still debating whether or not to bring Jack in on the plan. After all, this fucker was one of his model employees, and if I had my way, he would be gone—preferably in chains—before third term started.
Unfortunately, while I trusted Jack with kink, our preferences aligned, my heart always happy to see him, feel him, this was another issue completely. This was… my soul. It went deeper than a bit of delicious flogging and cuddly aftercare.
During one of my recent midnight musings, as I lay awake tortured by my indecisiveness, I briefly considered asking Bjorn to just beat a confession out of him. No doubt a former Viking could do it like a total pro, but the thought of sharing my own confession with him made my skin crawl.
I mean, I had been all just talk to me, blah, blah, blah, the other week. Sure, it had fixed things—we were back to normal and then some, all stolen glances and thighs brushing under the dinner table, getting closer and closer on the couch with passing each night. But then here I was, lying, keeping something huge from him when I preached open and honest communication.
With Bjorn, I was… scared.
Scared to lose him when he learned the truth, that I wasn’t Alecto Clarke, that the last
surviving Corwin witch came here with ulterior motives when his sole purpose at Root Rot was to heal the broken.
Irrational as it was, I feared his judgment, his rejection, and his hurt upon realizing that I had pulled the wool over his eyes for our entire relationship.
The sting would be even sharper when he clued in to the fact that I was still doing it now as we tiptoed out of the friend zone and into something more serious.
Guh.
And then this piece of shit goes and produces a rose from behind his back. Benedict offered it to me with flourish, a perfectly red long-stemmed rose—one that looked suspiciously like those me and my student gardening club had babied since August.
Seriously, what was it with this warlock and roses? Did he just lack imagination—or was it really all about tradition? The white ones he shoved at me on Yule were still alive in my bedroom, but that was because I didn’t have the heart to let them die.
Not on my watch.
Not out of spite, anyway.
“Give me a chance, Alecto,” Benedict drawled, bowing a little as he thrust the rose across my desk. Behind him, my fourth years were close enough to make out the details in their faces, to hear the chatter as they crossed the cobblestone courtyard toward the greenhouses. His face suddenly popped into my line of sight, blocking them, his smile wavering somewhat as he added, “Let me prove to you that I’m better than any warlock you’ve ever known.”
What the actual fuck.
I bit the insides of my cheeks so I didn’t guffaw directly into his smug face. This whole spiel must have worked on so many witches in the past: Benedict was a good-looking warlock, worldly and well traveled with a stable career, and there had to be women out there who dug this whole… controlling, intrusive thing.
Right?
Hating the thought of my students walking in on me being offered a rose from another professor, I snatched it by the stem and let it hang at my side, hidden behind the desk.
“Look, uh, this is very sweet.” Oh gods: I’d nearly said Benedict. Panic burned in my cheeks, and I did my best to distract from it with a dazzling smile. “I just…” Don’t fuck this up for future entrapment opportunities. “I really try not to date colleagues. I made that rule for myself when I first started teaching… Things get so complicated, you know?”
Another eye twitch. Benedict straightened and smoothed out his mauve robes, his already much larger figure doubled in size courtesy of all that rigid brocade. “Is that so?”
I gulped, hyperaware of my wand in its forearm holster.
That sounded like a threat.
Surprise, surprise: Benedict Hammond couldn’t handle rejection.
The door creaked open at the far end of the greenhouse, cold, dry air gusting over the herb gardens on the shelves to the left, conversations flooding in with the arrival of my fourth years. Knowing his pride, his ego, I expected Benedict to march out of here with his head held high—and then I would have to really sweet-talk him later to get back in his good graces.
Instead, he blinked, and up came the mask of normalcy, anger gone but no less threatening. He then lashed out and snagged my hand, yanked it across the desk between us, and planted his lips firmly to the top.
I dropped the rose.
Everything inside went cold as soon as his mouth touched my skin. Some of the chatter died down, and one student—fucking Rebecca Martin—had the audacity to gasp, a few of her friends pointing and whispering.
“I’ll find a way to change your mind,” Benedict whispered with a wink, words skittering up my arm like cockroaches. My hand flopped onto the desk as soon as he let go, fight-or-flight in reboot mode, my mouth hanging open.
And from the cruel twinkle in his eye, the saccharine twist of his lips, that was exactly what he wanted.
To shock me into submission—in front of my students and a very disapproving den mother. Radiating a haughty victory, Benedict flicked an eyebrow up before strolling out of the greenhouse.
Taking his time, once again, so that everyone got their fill of him, like he was king of his own warped, twisted court.
My eyes narrowed. Finally, things clicked back into place, and I wrenched my hand away from the desk, arms crossed, and tucked it out of sight.
That fucking asshole.
Every time he had hit on me had been about power—power over me, over Bjorn when he tried to stake his claim on New Year’s Eve, and then now, back onto me and my kids. It wasn’t about flirting with some pretty witch like he said: his dance was about intimidation, control, and force.
How many other witches had he bullied into a relationship before me?
Fuck him—so hard.
Shaking, battling to keep my cool when every instinct demanded I go hex him into oblivion, I went left and ducked out the seldom-used side door between the greenhouses. Behind me, my fourth years settled into their seats, whispers and giggles chasing after me.
Once inside the secondary greenhouse, door shut hard enough to make the windows tremble, I stalked down the aisle and dropped to my knees in front of a pile of folded burlap under one of the long tables. Seething, I yanked out two scratchy brown fabric sheets, something we used for the plants not enchanted to withstand the winter frost, then shoved my face into them…
And screamed.
Screamed as loud and hard as I could.
Screamed until I stripped my throat raw.
Until I had nothing left.
Then, adrenaline fading, I folded both burlap blankets and put them away, smoothed my frizzy flyaways along the sides of my head, readjusted my ponytail, and wiped under my eyes.
Not a tear shed this time.
Just a drained body and a bloody throat.
I could work with that.
Shoulders back and knees dusted clean, I returned to the main greenhouse and started the next ninety-minute block like nothing had happened.
Even as humiliation scorched through my veins.
And Benedict’s kiss became just another scar.
21
Gavriel
No.
No.
Definitely not.
Never.
Fuck no.
I tossed the final new arrival’s file aside with a groan, then slumped in my office chair and scrubbed at my face. Five new little shits had walked through Root Rot’s doors since the start of the year, and with February only a few days away, you’d think at least one might have shown some dark aptitude.
But no.
They lacked the grades. No noted special skills. Petty crimes and bullshit charges.
Nothing to impress the admissions board at Darkwell.
No one to fill my quota, which, lately, had felt more and more impossible to conquer.
And maybe that was the point.
Maybe this was some torturous lesson from the head fallen angel himself—something about patience and tenacity and fortitude.
Fuck him.
I had plenty of all that; these fucking kids were the unexceptional ones. What I wouldn’t do for an army of Lucy Eastwicks to parade through the front doors, all gangly and pimply and awkward little swans waiting to blossom, destined for dark espionage and war against the Silver City.
Instead I had this lot, painfully unremarkable and depressingly ordinary. Eyes like slits, I glowered at the folders as if the names taped across the tabs could feel my frustration, then lunged for the bottom right drawer of my desk to grab the mini bottle of bourbon inside. After all, I had finished the double Irish coffee whipped up by one of the lovely chef trainees ages ago, and with that depressing read over with, I required another boost to just… exist.
A firm knock stopped me on the cusp of the drawer handle, and I straightened with a frown, eyes flicking to the tiny clock at the top corner of my laptop screen. Nearly midnight now, all my underlings dismissed, the library a silent cavern on the other side of that door.
Who the fuck…?
I stood with a bristly exhale, then marched to the door and wrench
ed it open—
Ah.
Of course.
And found Alecto loitering on the other side, hair wild, eyes shrouded in dark, exhausted circles. A slight frown touched that full, luscious mouth of hers, and I cocked my head to the side, unsure if she was actually annoyed or if that was just the expression she wore around me these days.
The quick up-and-down scan of her figure showed a remarkably put-together Alecto Clarke given the late hour. Ordinarily she retreated into sweats after curfew, but she stood before me now in a silky white blouse, the material soft and fragile with a droopy bow crowning the high neckline, her cuffs buttoned with pearls and the tails tucked in to a tight, high-waisted black pencil skirt. Tartan stockings and low heels. She looked ready for a day in the classroom—not for me and my office in some shadowy faraway corner.
Still. Fucking scrumptious, the combination of a put-together outfit, prim and proper, and those wild, untamed curls begging for a fist.
My fist.
“What?” I demanded, eyebrows up as I braced an arm on either side of the doorway. If I could remember what had happened on New Year’s Eve, perhaps I might be embarrassed around her. As it stood, the night was one hazy blur, and the only reason I knew Alecto had any part in it was the fact that I woke up the following morning to her vanilla scent on my sheets and pillow.
That and someone had replaced my bedtime flask’s booze with water, and who else would be presumptuous enough to tinker with a fae’s alcohol?
At one point in the last two weeks I had considered asking her about it, but every time I saw her she looked ready to decapitate anyone who dared glance her way.
So. You know. Yeah.
I’d steered clear of her—and a number of the female Root Rot species who had taken that damn potion recently. Loved the stuff—totally covered my ass from any accidental heirs who would go on to inherit all my nothing in the Ash Court—but, stars above, did it ever turn the sweetest of womenkind into terrifying swamp monsters.
