More than anything, Heather wanted to collapse on the bed in front of him, but the rope kept her in position. Rick leaned forward and nipped at her ribs, kissing down her waist as he pulled from her. His hands massaged her ass before he bit down on the skin, making her whimper as the welts protested. “You look so hot like this.”
“Please?” She whimpered, her eyes tracing the edges of his headboard since she couldn’t see him.
“Alright, hold on.” The tension on the rope gave way and her head dropped forward sharply. The muscles in her neck were tense, and he seemed to know that as his hand landed on the back of her neck and massaged. “Just take a few deep breaths.” She felt her ribs expand and he slid the metal from her. It was a weird absence to be aware of as he walked to the bathroom. She heard water running and a minute later he was back, unstrapping her ankles and pulling the sheets over them both.
“I can leave.” Now that their play was over, her voice came back. Rick had just laid his arm across her waist, ready to tuck her against him, but he stilled.
“Do you want to go?” He didn’t move. Not away from her, and he didn’t pull her towards him. Why was he such a good guy? Why couldn’t she be normal, so she could just be with him like any normal person?
And why was she so fucking selfish to even be considering staying, seeking comfort in his arms for the rest of the night?
“Not really.” Great time for honesty.
“Well, then -” Rick finished wrapping his arm around her waist and pulled her tight against his firm chest. The strength in his arms, the heat in his skin as his laugh rumbled against her back was heaven. “You’re staying. Don’t argue with me, we both have to be up for work in a few hours.”
Heather opened her mouth to speak, but he had relaxed against her and she really didn’t want to mess this up. Simple human interaction. No ulterior motives. Just two people enjoying each other, and sleeping next to each other. She wished she had the right to be this normal all the time. Regardless of her guilty conscience she fell asleep in his arms, warm and safe in a cocoon of temporary sanity, hidden from the rest of her life.
Chapter Three
February 12th
Rick had woken up in a great mood. He’d made her breakfast even though she had tried to leave immediately after gathering her clothes from the floor of his entryway. He had kissed her, told her she was always welcome, that if she was up for it he’d like to see her again.
She had only smiled, and said she’d be late for work if she didn’t hurry, and he had stepped back from her with a smile of his own. No possessive bullshit, no irritating questions she couldn’t answer, just a to-go cup of coffee and a protein bar he tucked into her purse while citing that she never ate enough. He was perfect. Fucking perfect.
Incredibly hot, and dominant, and strong in the bedroom. And so calm, and sweet, and playful, and still fucking hot the rest of the time.
Heather felt like a ghost as she went through her shift at the shop. She cold-shouldered her cousin Tisha, who was only eighteen and had claimed her power before the holidays. Tisha responded to the repeated brush-offs by grabbing Heather’s arm and blanketing her with the illusion of being at the top of a cliff, and then falling off. It was her scream that caused Aunt Carol to smack Tisha over the head and break her concentration. The illusion left Heather shaking, but she grit her teeth, trying not to give Tisha the satisfaction.
“What’s the rule about using magic against family, Tisha?” Carol’s voice sounded tired, like she’d said the same line over and over. Which she probably had.
“Don’t?” Tisha asked, her voice thick with teenage snark.
“Right.” Carol snapped her fingers and Tisha was knocked back into a chair. The seat of it caught her behind the knees causing her to sit down hard. “Maybe you should continue grinding those herbs, hmm?”
“Oh, THAT is hypocritical, Aunt Carol.” Tisha glared and Carol turned to her, the room crackling with the sudden pulse of magic.
“If you do not behave yourself Tisha Anne Pritchett, I will call your mother and have her come down here to discuss your behavior with you. And until she comes to pick you up, I’ll have you upside down in the stock room so you can think over your actions.” That had Tisha’s eyes wide and she turned in the chair towards the table and continued grinding herbs. Carol turned back to Heather whose pulse was only just now returning from heart attack territory. She touched her elbow and led her into her office in the back of the shop.
“I’m fine, Aunt Carol. Tisha’s just a bitch.” Heather looked over the small library of books collected in the shelf to her left, but Carol pulled her attention back.
“Heather, how are you?” Carol’s face was gentle. She was more like her mom than their sisters Marguerite or Fiona.
“I just said I’m fine.”
“That’s not what I mean and you know it, and if you want to have an attitude I can just as easily hang you upside down.” The snap in her aunt’s voice reminded her to be respectful. Pritchett women were unpredictable, even the nice ones.
“I’m going to do it. I don’t need another lecture, or another threat. I’m going to do it for you.” Heather sat on the edge of the chair in front of the desk and Carol sighed.
“It’s for all of us, Heather, and that includes you. I know you’ve always felt different, but you’re a Pritchett, and that comes with certain responsibilities. Completing the rite is just one of them.” She sounded like a kindly elementary school teacher, patient and gentle. Except she was talking about murdering someone. An innocent person whose only crime was wanting to get laid.
“Right. And I’m going to do it. Okay?” She wiped her hands on her jeans, realizing she should probably change and at least try and look decent before the speed dating thing.
“Darling, it’s always quick. You know that right? Herja is a Valkyrie, she takes them swiftly, like she has for millennia.” Carol waved her hand and a thick book came to her from the shelf. She flipped it open and Heather could see rows of neat handwriting in what looked like an accounting book. “Listen to this… car accident, died on impact. Heart attack. Brain aneurism. Heart attack. Heart attack. Car accident.”
“What —” Heather was staring at her aunt like she was crazy.
“It’s the record of how the sacrifices have been taken. All instantaneous, painless.” Carol said it in that sweet, calm voice of hers. Which was incredibly fucked up. She was reading from her family’s death ledger like it was a bedtime story. Since when had death ever been painless. That was just bullshit people told families so they didn’t torture themselves.
“Great. Good to know. I need to leave and get ready.” Heather stood up and moved to the door, which slammed shut in front of her, the door passing so close to her face that she felt the rush of air.
“Heather. You cannot back out on it this time.” Her aunt was serious, the threat of what Theresa had told her hanging over her head like the proverbial axe. Carol was referencing the time when, at twenty, Heather had come to the shop while she was still in college, taken the ingredients for the rite and gone out with a boy from her Medieval Europe history course. She had lit the candles, used the oil, and then he had kissed her so gently, his hands on either side of her face. He’d called her beautiful, trailing his mouth down her body whispering so many wonderful things.
And she had never summoned Herja. Never called out for her.
Aunt Marguerite had been furious. She’d pulled her out of school, forced her to withdraw. Marguerite had tried to convince her cousin Laura to dig through her brain for the boy’s name. Laura had refused after Heather had screamed and cried and begged them to just leave him alone. She’d destroyed her cell phone so they couldn’t get his name or number. She’d never gone back to campus. She’d changed her entire routine to avoid ever running in to him again. New apartment. New favorite restaurants, favorite stores. New everything to keep him away from Marguerite’s vengeance.
Like it fucking mattered. She was right b
ack where she’d been four years ago. She was going to kill some guy so she wouldn’t die.
Why had it taken that fight with Theresa to see how selfish she was? It wasn’t the way Theresa had meant it, but choosing herself over another human being? Showing up at Rick’s and giving him hope that she’d get back together with him? Using people like they didn’t matter? What else would you call it?
She really was a Pritchett.
“I understand, Aunt Carol. I will complete the rite, I swear.” Heather sounded hollow, empty, and Carol didn’t seem to care.
“Good. I’ll have the kit ready for you to pick up tomorrow. I’ll make it myself.” She breathed a sigh and the door opened a few inches. “See if you can get him to go out with you tomorrow night. The moon is waning, and the rite seems to be the strongest with a full moon. You don’t want to be any closer to the new moon.”
“Sure.” Heather didn’t turn around, she just reached for the door handle, waiting to see if Carol would slam the door again. “Can I leave?”
“Of course you can. Go home and get ready. Theresa told us the event is at eight o’clock, we’ll all be thinking of you.” Carol sounded so cheerful, as if she hadn’t just locked her niece in the office using magic and then proceeded to threaten her to make sure she killed someone. For the family.
“You’re right, I’d hate not to look pretty.” Heather jerked the door open and walked through it before Carol could respond. This time she didn’t stop her. Tisha didn’t even look at her as she grabbed her coat and pulled it on, storming out of the shop.
Heather was in a gray sweater dress, black tights, and tall boots. The lady hosting the speed dating event had welcomed her at the door in a hot pink shirt that read ‘Love is just 120 seconds away!’ with another fucking chubby cupid. Heather was number nineteen. The woman sat her down at a table in the restaurant, and walked away when she realized Heather wasn't interested in being chatty. Other women around her were primping their hair and adjusting their breasts for maximum cleavage. Bright red dresses, short skirts, low cut blouses, jewelry, manicured nails, and a fucking sea of perfume that was making Heather nauseous. Hostess lady was talking again. Apparently the women stayed seated and the men rotated tables.
Great.
The hostess rang a bell and then set it down, clapping her hands excitedly. “We’re about to begin, ladies! The gentlemen will walk in soon, they’re with my husband in the other room. We met at an event just like this! Just remember to be your best self, and write down the number of any man you’d like to see again. If he writes your number down too, you may just have a date for Valentine’s!” Her voice was somewhere between hyper Chihuahua and obnoxious late-night infomercial. Delightful.
Heather adjusted the number name tag pinned to her dress, and took a steadying breath, trying to detach from the situation. Maybe she’d just write all their numbers down and the first one to call her would be the one she’d choose. Then it was up to fate. It wouldn’t exactly be her choosing, right?
The bell clanged again and a stream of men came through the double doors from the other dining room. A lot of cute guys, some average ones, and one guy who was way too old to be at this singles event. Who the fuck cares?
Each of the men sat down across from the woman with the same number. Male #19 was a grinning fool when he sat. He spent the first sixty seconds talking about how he was a Big Brother to a kid in the city and they were going to spend Valentine’s Day surprising the kid’s mom with a home cooked dinner because she worked two jobs. How could she choose a guy like him? How could she be the one to rip him away from that kid, from all the good he was doing? When it was her turn to talk, Heather mumbled something about being a college drop-out and working at her aunt’s store because she didn’t know what she wanted with her life. Number 19 gave her a weird look as he stood, and she didn’t see him write anything down when the bell rang. Heather’s pen was poised over her sheet to write down his number, but she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t write down number 19. She wouldn't.
Number twenty was a fucking doctor. Seriously. He had spent the summer volunteering in Portugal and traveling between villages. He talked a little over his sixty seconds, but Heather didn’t care. She wasn’t going to write down number 20 either. Was this a sign? A sign from the world that she should just let herself die?
Heather had her head in her hands when she saw number 20 writing her number down. Idiot. The clang of the bell made her want to throw up. The urge to run into traffic was back with a vengeance. She could just end all of the insanity right now. She didn’t have to wait for the Pritchetts to take her out.
“Hey.” Number 21 was talking to her. He had sandy blond hair, blue eyes, and dimples. Actual dimples. With her luck he’d be a missionary in Africa or something like that.
“Hi.” Heather sounded beaten down, and he tilted his head and chuckled.
“Do you hate this as much as I do?” Great, his smile was charming. She sat up straighter and fought the urge to fix her hair. She was not primping for this guy.
“Yes.”
“My co-worker made me come to this; he said my life is depressing enough that it’s starting to bother him.” Number 21 laughed again, and she found herself laughing with him. The uncomfortable ache in her chest faded a bit.
“My cousin is always trying to make me date.” Not exactly a lie. “She saw the flyer for this and insisted I go. She said she’d kill me if I didn’t.” Heather laughed bitterly at her own dark joke, but number 21 didn’t get it.
“Well, at least they’re trying?” He pushed a hand through his hair and she couldn’t stop herself from noticing the way his suit jacket pulled across his broad shoulders, the fabric revealing strong arms.
“Right. At least there’s that.” Heather smiled politely, and he leaned forward on his elbows.
“Oh, I’m supposed to be talking about me. Looks like I’ve only got twenty seconds, so here goes. I was in the army for a few years; I just got back about six months ago. I have a decent job, but a shitty apartment. I’ve never lived in Massachusetts before so I’m kind of pathetically alone, but bonus, if you date me there’s no awkward meeting the parents! I was in foster care. No weird family issues to deal with.” The bell rang as he finished and he laughed, pushing out a breath like he’d been running.
Heather was stunned. Shocked. Number 21 was staring at her, the smile on his face fading until his forehead crinkled with concern.
“Hey, you okay?” He reached across the table and took her hand, and she wanted to bolt. She didn’t want him to be across from her. She didn’t want to have heard anything he'd just said, to know that he had literally been a warrior, that he had no family, no friends around to miss him. Theresa had joked about a man falling into her lap. Aunt Carol had said they’d all be thinking of her. And here he was. Unlucky number 21. She didn’t want to fucking know him, or be attracted to him, or his dimples, or his gentle touch on her wrist. “Yoo-hoo, number 19? Earth to number 19?”
She snapped out of her daze and took her hand from his to brush her hair behind her ears. What the fuck was she going to do? What could she say, what could she — “I’m a witch.”
The words fell out of her mouth and his eyes went wide. Then he started laughing. “Seriously?”
“Actually, yes.” Heather stared at him, tense as she waited to see what he’d do.
“So — what? Are you in, like, a tribe of witches?” He was still grinning at her, and he wasn’t running.
“You mean a coven?” she corrected.
“I don’t know. Do I mean coven?” His smile was intoxicating. Why did he have to be so cute?
“I think so.” Heather found herself smiling back.
“Is a coven like a tribe of witches?”
“…yes. It’s like a tribe of witches.” She laughed. Who hadn’t watched enough Hollywood movies to know the term coven?
“Okay… so — what? Are you in a coven?” He reached for her hand, running his thumb over her palm
like he wasn’t concerned at all. He wasn’t acting like she was crazy, or demanding the weird, peppy hostess lady switch them early.
“Yeah. I’m in a coven. With my family.” It was weird to say the truth out loud, and she intently stared at him, waiting for a reaction other than this casual acceptance.
He smiled at her, “Well, number 19 the witch, I’m writing your number down because you are the only girl here who is both interesting and pretty.” Then he did, black pen scrawling the numbers one and nine on the first line of his paper.
The bell clanged, and he looked over at the hostess and rolled his eyes. “Write my number down. Come on, do it.” He stood up but he didn’t move away from the seat, his hands braced on the table top. Number 22 was glaring at him. “Come on, 19. Write it down.” He grinned at her, all cocky bravado, and — she did. Her pen carefully marking out the numbers two and one next to each other on the first line. He put his hands together like he was praying and mouthed a ‘thank you’ before he dropped into the chair at the next table.
Why was he thanking her? She winced, guilt racking her already.
Number 22 made some grumbling comment as he sat down, but Heather didn’t even hear it. She wasn’t writing any other numbers down. What was the point? Number 21 was perfect. Perfectly alone, perfectly unattached. She swallowed, trying to look interested in 22, but she couldn’t focus.
She had chosen, and if number 21 called and asked her out, she was going to say yes because he was everything she had ever hoped for in someone to complete the rite with.
Heather stared down at her paper where the numbers stood out stark in dark ink against the white paper. It was a veritable death warrant.
The Darker Side of Love (A Dark Erotica Boxed Set) Page 18
