by Rebecca Main
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I’m pushed against the stairway railing, my back slamming painfully against the wood driving the air from my lungs. His lips are unforgiving, kissing me hard and gripping me even harder. I should fight back. Should push him away, but he steals my breath; completely dashes away my senses, drowning me in sensory overload.
I tear my lips away with great effort, panting from the exertion. His wild eyes capture mine. They are flecked with gold. Almost glowing. Oh.
“What are you doing?”
“Something I should have finished last night,” he tells me hoarsely, fingers burying themselves into my curls.
“No,” I protest instantly. Stopping, he takes me in with a hunter’s eye before drawing himself upward and inward. Almost every inch of his body presses against my own.
“You don’t want me?” he asks quietly. I hesitate, mouth falling open in dismay. It’s all the permission he needs, for my half-second hesitation is enough to betray me. His eyes gleam, the amber gold flashing brighter against his lush green irises.
His head dips, nudging my face to the side so that he can explore the length of my neck. I shudder a sigh, gripping the banister behind me with taught knuckles. I can feel the curve of his smile against my neck and instantly feel ashamed, but then his teeth rake themselves downward leaving goose bumps in their wake. His fingers tighten in my hair tilting my head further back as he sucks harshly against the abused flesh. His nails scrape against my scalp in delicious friction as he continues to assert his control. When he lets out a moan of his own, I feel myself grow hot and let my thighs tighten around his leg.
It is almost my undoing, for Xander counters with a sinful thrust that leaves us both gasping. His arm crushes me to him, and I marvel at his strength. The power that lies within his bones. His raw strength is both terrifying and electric.
And so tempting.
He lets out a small moan, my name falling reverently from his lips as they recapture my own. Though his lips are soft, his kiss is bruising, volatile. I whimper in response; a picture of Ben breathing my name as we lay together spent in bed crosses my mind. Before I know what I am doing, my hands slam into his chest and shove him away.
He eyes me incredulously and takes an uncertain step forward, hand outstretched. I snatch myself away and stare at the offered hand warily. All too aware of the way it makes my blood sing. Makes my mind go blank as my body succumbs to his persuasion.
“Don’t come any closer to me,” I tell him breathlessly. “Get out.”
“No.” He pants harshly, “If you let that boy kiss you, then so will I.”
“He’s my boyfriend!” I shout back incredulously. “He’s. My. Boyfriend.”
“And what am I?”
I pause. The air between us grows tight and thick with tension. “An inconvenience.”
Xander’s face pales, but his eyes remain a turbulent storm. “I see.”
“Where do you get off coming here, and—and, kissing me!”
He growls, the sound of low thunder, and paces the space between us. “You’re my soulmark. Mine.”
“I’m nobody’s but my own, and you’d do well to remember it.” I reprimand him harshly.
“Or what?” he asks, voice deceptively calm.
“Or you can forget our deal.” If possible, his face goes even whiter, the storm receding from behind his eyes. “In fact,” I say, my mind spinning around images of Ben and me together. “I think it best we take a small break from this little arrangement we have. You seem to have trouble keeping to all that we agreed on. I think you need time to reacquaint yourself with all our rules.” And so I can learn how to control this supernatural desire I have for you and pull my thoughts together.
He takes a hesitant step toward me. “Don’t be rash, Zoelle. You know what it will do to me. To us.”
“It’s Zoe!” I tell him shrilly. “And I mean it, Xander. I want you out. Gone! Do you understand me?” He freezes in his approach, swallowing with some effort. Outside a car door slams shut, and he cocks an ear.
“Your grandmother has returned,” he tells me quietly. “Are you positive this is what you want… more time?”
“Time away from you? Yes.” I tell him resolutely though I find myself shaking. Why am I shaking? His eyes close, a grimace following the action, but he manages to nod his head.
“Of course. A week then?”
My nose tips higher into the air. “Maybe more.”
He exits as Gran and the aunts enter, his head kept low as he passes by them. The women take me in; eyebrows raised comically high. Heat floods my cheeks as I stare right back.
“Good night,” I tell them through gritted teeth, darting up the stairs and locking myself in my room. There’s no reason to doubt it anymore… I’m a cheater.
– Chapter 6 –
Cookies are a Girl’s Best Friend
There are several paths that I knew my life would never take me.
I would never be an astronaut, pilot, or professional skydiver, my acrophobia too daunting a fear to overcome.
I would never be an entertainer, my disdain for spotlight clear from an early age.
And I would never be a cheater. Or so I thought.
My fingernails dig into my palm unconsciously, a curl of guilt and shame twisting my stomach. How did I let this happen? Especially, after everything that happened with Jamie. Jamie who broke my heart after cheating on me for months? The heartache still lingers inside me, touting with doubt and fear.
An angry tear almost slips into my batter. I hastily drag the back of my hand over both eyes, letting out a long, slow breath before taking up my task again. I’m guilt cooking, and it is not pretty.
My heart lies in neat little jagged pieces, and my emotions are a steady flow of remorse and anger. I’m drowning in shame, unable to come to terms with the way I succumbed to my body’s desires. Even if for just a short amount of time. Even if the magical pull between Xander and I cannot be undone. I should have done more to end the kiss, I think, gut clenching painfully once more, and Xander should have never kissed me in the first place.
I beat the batter with more force than necessary. The whisk scrapes against the bottom of the bowl with every flick of my wrist.
Who does he think he is?
My kisses, my body, my love—they belong to Ben. Reliable, loving, sweet Ben, and while my mind tries to reconcile itself with these thoughts, another emotion continues to rear its ugly head: sadness. A deep, throbbing depression forging its way across my flesh and bones, and it stems from the soulmark. Unfortunately, there’s no tea or spell that seems to dull its effects. My only therapy is cooking.
The kitchen becomes a balm to my bruised heart. An outlet for my thoughts and rampant emotions. Thankfully, the aunts and Gran seem to understand and steer clear, when they hear me inside. A fact I appreciate. I need the time alone to figure out how to break the news to Ben.
I slow my whisking, thoughts turning a mile a minute in my head. If Ben leaves me, then nothing will stand in Xander’s way from pursuing me full force. For a moment I struggle to breathe.
Full force…? I coerce my traitorous lungs into taking a deep breath. To think he isn’t doing so now is… unnerving. I quell the shiver rising on the nape of my neck.
My cooking stops altogether as I duck my head, a furrow coming to my brow. How can I possibly explain to Ben the forces that draw Xander and I together? How can I tell him I’m trying to be faithful to him, but oh so slowly, I feel the center of my world edges closer towards a man I’ve only just met? A man who is half wolf? And that I am a witch? I will try harder to keep Xander at arm’s length if it means I can keep Ben. I’ll just need to learn to deal with the soulmark’s negative effects. My teeth sink into my bottom lip. I squeeze my eyes shut as I take in a shaking breath.
God, what do I do? Can I really ignore the soulmark?
All of the warnings, everything I have been told and read, pale in comparison to its power. I feel him. His drive, his
passion, his hunger—hunger for me. My eyes snap open as my resolve hardens. I need to tell Ben about what happened in person. He deserves that much.
I push my thoughts to the task at hand, when a strange pull at my heart distracts me. It’s Xander. The current of his emotions trickle through the soulmark. I do my best to force them away, but they still manage to thrum at the back of my mind. He’s angry. Angry because Gran placed a spell on the house, barring him entry.
It’s a spell Gran promises to teach me, so that I may take on the burden. But I’ve only mastered simple spells of levitation and will binding once. The former is a novice-level spell but contains elements similar to will binding in that they both require clear direction of power onto inanimate objects.
Gran gives me a small book of enchantments and spells to study, allotting me till week’s end to gain some level of control over my magic. The pressure weighs dauntingly on my shoulders, but it can’t snuff out my excitement.
The spell book, with its sage words and illuminating enchantments, easily steals my attentions. I feel connected to the family heirloom, and in turn, feel more connected with the magic inside of me. The scrawling script speaks to me. The written words call my magic to attention and leave me breathless time and time again. It’s odd, certainly. But somehow, so right.
Simple spells and enchantments are woven between thoughtful verses of lecture on best practices to connect the mind and body with magic. How to clear the soul and think with the heart to better capture a spell or enchantments intent. Because intention is everything; and in knowing yourself, the magic inside you will grow all the more powerful. And with age, it professes you will only learn to know yourself better. Hence, with age, a thoughtful witch gains more power.
How, after twenty-four years with all the things life has thrown at me, am I not wise beyond my years? Yet, this supernatural world leaves me second-guessing everything I know. How can I possibly know myself when I’m torn in so many directions? I desperately wish for an easy solution, but know all too well, time can’t be rushed.
Though the book calms and excites me, it’s also a thoroughly frustrating affair. My progress is nonexistent, and nothing I do seems to help. Of course, my frustration bleeds into my guilt cooking.
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Sunday
It’s difficult to “think with my heart”, when it is flooded with guilt, let alone “clear my soul.”
Everything seems inconsequential compared to the bruising pain I feel when my thoughts wander to Ben, instead of focusing on the levitation spell, resurgemus. Gran has tasked me with learning the spell as a precursor to the barring spell I must take over from her, adding another burden on my mind. An ominous presence lurks around my shoulders, leaving me rattled and second guessing myself. I can’t stand it.
I lean back in my chair, eyes narrowing with contempt at the chopsticks resting on my dinner plate. Dinner had been a beautiful balsamic chicken pizza with caramelized sweet onion, and crispy bacon. A tried and true favorite of mine to make when my head is muddled with too many thoughts. The methodical treatment of each ingredient always managed to aide in sorting my thoughts.
Unfortunately, it hadn’t worked, despite the ease in which I executed the meal.
With one bite I knew it to be rotten. The entire pizza felt disjointed, none of the elements complementing each other as they normally did. The balsamic tang tasted sour and spoiled. The chicken chewed like tough rubber. And the bacon left a bitter taste on the back my tongue.
Dinner turned into an order of Thai food, with the chopsticks now acting as the test subject for my spell.
“Resurgemus.” The word is gently spoken. Barely audible. My palms face upward, identifying the direction in which the chopsticks should move. Nothing. “Resurgemus.” I attempt once more with feeling.
Nothing. “Dammit.”
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Monday
Monday lives up to its reputation and proves to be a tiresome day. Nothing goes right. I find a stain on my favorite white blouse. I don’t have enough money for the ingredients at the grocery store—why hadn’t I just brought my debit card? And I receive seven text messages and two missed calls from Xander, but nothing from Ben.
My nails dig into the soft flesh of my palm as I recount the other mindless incidents of the day that have somehow made it even worse.
A mess of laundry scattered around my room.
The paper cut on my index and middle finger.
The near empty bottle of orange juice left in the fridge instead of being finished and put in the trash.
I put my fist to good use and smash it into my dough, kneading it ruthlessly. I’ve pushed past my guilt from yesterday, tucking it away to a dark corner of my heart, and I grasp hold of anger.
Anger at Xander.
Anger at magic.
Anger at myself.
The sticky dough takes my beating with good grace. Slowly transforming into something smooth and malleable. I wipe my brow with my forearm, surprised to find a light pant falling past my lips. Why can’t life be as straightforward as baking?
I didn’t want magic in my life, or the complications it brought.
Liar, a soft chime rings in my head. I swallow convulsively for a long moment, before regaining my grasp on my anger.
Magic is the source of all my problems. It brought Xander into my life. It looms like an angry cloud over my relationship with Ben, as a secret I know I can never tell. Yet, even as magic burrows itself deeper into my life, somehow it remains elusive to me. The resurgemus spell continues to lie beyond my reach, unbearably so, and it shakes me to my core. Why can’t I do it? What am I missing? I am unbalanced, where I was once sure-footed. And magic is wholly to blame.
Shoulders sinking, I carefully place my dough in a well-oiled bowl, covering it with plastic wrap and once more wiping at my forehead. The churning of anger turns to spite, before sifting to sadness. The flesh around my soulmark tingles in response, a distant echo of anger and sadness that only solidifies my own.
I spin around from the counter and face the sink, my heart beating twice its normal pace. Don’t focus on him, I tell myself sternly, focus on the spell—for Gran.
I raise my hand, palm outward and eyes fixated on the dishrag hanging off the sink’s faucet.
“Resurgemus.” My eyes close in defeat as my hand falls to my side.
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Wednesday
My anger, so potent at the beginning of the week, turns to stout disappointment. Dozens of cookies litter the kitchen island in a pathetic attempt to appease the constant ache in my heart. Another chocolate chip pretzel cookie disappears inside my mouth and I release a leaden sigh. It does little to help, except in expanding my waistline.
I thought anger had been the answer. It burned clear through me after all. But I was wrong.
Anger doesn’t solve my problems, most certainly not those of the magical variety.
I swallow past the hard lump in my throat, clearing my throat of delicious cookie crumbs and reach blindly for another. My magic isn’t working, no matter how hard I try. No matter how much I concentrate or attempt to clear my heart. Nothing works.
In the middle of my baking frenzy lies a torn piece of paper, dotted with several grease spots and a smear of chocolate. I stare at it somewhat contemptuously as I chew, my nose scrunched and brows pinching slightly together. It’s a list the aunts and Gran have made for me to help me clear my soul.
