Page 27 of Autumn Ritual

My gut soured.

Before I could decide what to say, the front door banged open. Drusilla Ravello descended onto her front porch with an air of a queen looking over her domain.

“Camillo! Lucian is looking for you,” she sniped, propping a hand on her hip. The pencil skirt hugged her curves and showed off her toned, long legs that ended in a pair of skyscraper heels that had some kind of fancy designer label.

“You’re an errand girl now, Drew?” Cam snorted.

Her mouth twisted, and she was about to make a nasty comment, when those hawkish eyes flicked toward me. Her sharp gaze softened, but only a fraction. Pity scrawled across her face.

Poor Sara, the sick girl. But I was used to it.

Either the locals ignored me, because I was the odd duckling, or they remembered my fight with cancer in my late teens and were drenched with sympathy. Honestly, I preferred being known as a quirk. Their compassion was always tinged with relief that they’d been spared the terrible diagnosis.

“Thank you for having me, Drew,” I called out politely.

“You’re always welcome, Sara,” she said with a drop of kindness that didn’t sound too forced. For the mafia princess, that was something.

I gave her a nod and hurried to my car. The moment with Cam was done. I would wait, because another opportunity to engage with him was coming soon.

And I, for one, couldn’t freaking wait.

Chapter 11 – Sara

Rom coms were cute and adorable. That was part of the reason I didn’t swear often. I’d always kept my dialogue trained to write that way, but it was changing as I ventured into my dark romantasy era. Another thing that changed was that rom coms required very little scene research. Maybe a new dish at a restaurant that could be turned into a comical disaster. Or walking in a park to imagine the main characters bumbling about on an awkward first date.

Those stories certainly didn’t encourage the author to tie herself from a hook in the ceiling as her tiptoes balanced on a rotund white pumpkin that her mother insisted accompany her to the lake house for seasonal décor.

But here I was, dangling in the brisk autumn air. Devoted to my craft. Ready to make this scene feel as real as possible when I rewrote it tomorrow. Writer’s block was a bitch. The scene sounded hollow. I needed vivid details to capture the moment.

Losing feeling in my fingertips was pretty damn vivid.

The cool air cut through my flannel shirt. My nipples were frozen tips on my chest. The flannel pajama set might have long sleeves and pants, but the fabric was painfully thin. The wind cut straight through it. I wobbled about, wondering for the thousandth time if this would end the way I hoped. The eight-foot length of rope was tied around each wrist, and it had taken more than one try to toss it over the hook up in the rafters. I nudged my glasses up my nose with my bicep yet again, thinking that contacts might have been a better choice for tonight’s research.

“Quit whining! You left the heroine in the same position for hours,” I reminded myself.

The poor thing. At least she was in the bowels of the arena, imprisoned in a dungeon. The north wind wasn’t licking her face every few seconds. And her feet had boots, although they couldn’t touch the floor. My bare piggies, with nails painted a shiny onyx, were freezing!

But you smell better.

“Yes, squirrel, I have the luxury of cosmetics,” I laughed to myself, inhaling the scent of my midnight rose body lotion and matching shower gel.

The crunch of leaves had my head snapping across the front lawn. The candles I’d lit in preparation danced in greeting. A few had been extinguished, but the remaining orbs of light glowed in greeting.

The shadowy specter unfolded from the trees, stopping to scan the scene. That stupid Yankee’s cap was pulled low, and I couldn’t see his face.

“Boy, I’m so glad you showed. This was getting exhausting!” I called out. Thankfully, my teeth didn’t chatter.

The devil moved quickly across the lawn. He kicked each candle over, plunging the space into darkness with every step.

“What were you thinking?” he barked. The strangled quality of his voice didn’t have to be forced. If I didn’t already know who he was, it would be hard to guess based on that gruff pitch.

“I was thinking that several details in my manuscript were wrong,” I said with a shrug. “And I was right. Help me do a bit of…uh…research?”

I shifted my body.

It wasn’t as seductive as I thought. I could write it that way, though. My readers would see it as sensual in their heads, when it was the furthest thing from reality.

I just hoped he took the hint.