Page 116 of What The Hex (The Family Spells)
Despite what he’d put me through, I felt sorry for him.
I smacked my cheeks and Caine raised his gaze up to mine.
“Coven Wyrmwood isn’t all bad,” Hex hedged, scratching at his temple and trying to look as if he was telling the truth. I appreciated the effort on his part. “Really, it’s not.”
“I don’t give a shit if it’s Satan’s toilet bowl. Don’t affect me none.” Caine slammed the book shut and tossed it aside. I almost smiled at his reference to Satan—a sixteenth century Hael king who was a total fuckface—but my husband was too disturbed for me to find any joy in this. He could say whatever he wanted, but he was bothered by his origin story.
“If it’s Satan’s toilet bowl then we’re both demon-sucking turds,” Hex said, putting his hands on his hips. He seemed surprised when Spectre held out a glass of brandy for him. We liked to take care of each other in the Family Spells; he’d have to get used to it. “Don’t think like that.”
“Don’t you tell me what to do, shit-stain,” Caine growled, and Spectre gave him a look.
“He’s trying here, Caine. Besides, shouldn’t you be in a good mood? You expected this visit to suck serious ass, and it’s going well. That’s something, right?” He offered our werewolf hubby some alcohol, but Caine brushed him off and stood up.
Without a word, he stepped into the hallway and closed the door very quietly behind him. Even in the middle of a mantrum, he knew better than to wake sleeping babies.
“Sorry about that,” I said, but Hex just shrugged.
“You don’t me any apologies because of his actions,” is what he said which sort of surprised the crap out of me. Maybe Hex was a tad more mature than I first figured him to be? “I’m gonna take a shower and jack-off.”
Or not.
He offered me up a brilliant grin which I ignored. Sort of. As stupid as he was, I found him charming.
“I’ll go check on Caine,” I said, and Argent gave me his classic ‘bored immortal’ look in response.
“We won’t wait up then.” He and Spectre exchanged looks as I rolled my eyes, slipped on my coat—it was chock-full of charms for warmth—and headed out after my husband.
I found him standing in the lobby, looking up at the tree. It was fairly traditional, by American human standards anyway, with an angel on top, red and green balls with little metal hooks, and heaps of tinsel. There were tiny woodland creature ornaments as well—deer, owls, foxes, porcupines, a skunk.
“I was hopin’ you’d join me,” he said as I sidled up to him and breathed in his scent, that woodsy musk of wolf and wild that made my toes curl and inspired me to create bath bombs titled Werewolf Love Letter that were shaped like maple leaves.
“I assumed you’d be wolfing out and taking off into the moonlit snow.” Did I sound bitter when I said that? I think I did, but that was okay. Caine liked it. He flashed a grin down at me.
“Now you got me over here wondering if you think you’re any less of a perfect wife because you got no werewolf in your blood. Graceley Spells, you must be nuts.” Caine reached into the pocket of his jeans—he’d shucked his coat before we’d even left his mother’s house—and produced a small peppermint, wrapped in plastic and tied with a tiny bow. It was no bigger than my thumb.
“What’s this?” I asked, taking it from him with a frown. As a witch, I knew that things were not always what they seemed. If my husband was offering up a tiny candy as if it were a million-dollar lottery ticket, then it must be special.
“Take it,” he replied with a filthy grin. “Just trust me on this one.”
Because I trusted him implicitly, I did as he asked, slipping the candy out of the wrapping and popping it into my mouth. While I sucked on it, I cuddled against his side and observed the tree, the sweet pine smell of it, the cozy, close-in feeling the lodge supplied, even with its twenty-foot ceilings, the far-away rafters wrapped in fresh garland.
When the peppermint itself was a bit smaller, I cracked it with my teeth, chewed it up, and swallowed it.
I knew immediately that I was about to find myself on a metaphysical ride.
“Come on, sweet stuff.” Caine took my hand and pulled me outside into the snow. Fat flakes were fluttering down, and the world was strangely quiet, muffled. No bird or rodent sounds, no distant car noise, certainly no people.
Even the lodge itself was dimmed for the night, the outdoor Christmas lights switched off, the windows glowing faintly behind the snowfall.
“Take your clothes off.” Caine did it first, stripping his shirt, chucking his boots, and tearing off his jeans before I had a chance to truly register what it was that he’d just asked of me.
