Page 42 of What The Hex (The Family Spells)
With a sweep of my hand, I sent both Giles and Calla flying out the door where they slammed into the Maiden and two of her guards. The five of them went down in a heap as I stalked over to the spell circle and lifted the writhing, screaming form of Abigail Spells into my arms.
Carefully, so as not to cause the injured woman anymore pain than she was already in, I deposited her and her silk pillow on the floor in front of the spell chamber door.
And then I slammed it shut.
Grace’s dreams began that night as I sat beside her massive bed in the room she shared with her husbands. It killed me to sit there, to see the intimate space the family had carved for themselves.
It was homey and oh so witchy, just the way Grace liked it. Antique furniture, including a spelled headboard that had been passed down for generations in the Spells family, worn but cozy rugs, hardwood floors that creaked, and the wet dirt and magic scent of witch.
Just walking through the front door was hard for me.
Firstly, the house not only remembered me but welcomed me in. Seeing that was a reminder that I could have been a part of this, but that I chose not to. Because of Grace’s nature, because of who she was, I made that choice willingly.
But it hurt.
Each second, minute, hour that we’d spent apart hurt, tore at me, threatened to rip me apart.
I dragged a large hand over my face and let it fall to my lap.
The men I’d dumped in the other rooms, two to a bed. Hex and Spectre in one, Argent and Caine in the other. I’d thrown blankets over them—I wasn’t entirely cruel-hearted—but it was Grace who I tucked in comfortably, Grace who got a lavender and lemon sachet beneath her pillow to encourage pleasant dreams, Grace whose hair I brushed until it was free of knots and snarls.
I’d considered shaving the eyebrows and lashes off of all her men, but I was beyond such petty tricks. I lifted my head up to stare at a framed photograph of her children on the wall, the four of them tucked into matching outfits. Based on the ages of the pups, I guessed it was a fairly recent photo.
My breath escaped me again, and a heavy melancholy settled over me that I could not shake. I turned my head to look at Grace and, against my own best judgement, I ignored the witches outside the wards in the yard, poking and prodding and looking for a way in.
They wouldn’t get in; I’d made certain of it.
I crawled into bed with Graceley and, after forcibly relaxing my body’s need to overproduce my natural pheromones, I curled up against her back. She tucked so perfectly against me that I had to grit my teeth against the pain. Even worse was when she murmured appreciatively and wiggled back against me.
My cock responded immediately, but I ignored it, closing my eyes and wrapping Grace in my arms, as if not a single moment had passed since we’d last seen each other. Questing with my magic, I found her in my own dreams and let myself fall asleep.
Even though I shouldn’t. Even though it was pure, fucking torture.
I opened my eyes to another time and another place, standing in a field of black tulips in spring. We were in Hael, of course, but even the dusky gray-red sky and the sulfur-tinted breeze didn’t change the beauty of the moment.
Hael wasn’t a bad place, in and of itself. It was a world like any other, just a speck in an infinite, endless universe. It could be beautiful just as it could be ugly, same as the world in which Grace hailed from.
“Look at this,” she said to me, squatting down beside one of the tulips and extending a finger covered in honey. The flower, with its rows upon rows of sharp teeth, leaned forward and sucked her finger into the center of its ebon black petals. Grace laughed, the sound open and free, inviting in a way I’d never been invited by anyone before.
I stood there in the knee-high grass, the dream-Grace’s head just barely visible over the swaying strands. She allowed the flower to clean her finger of honey and then removed it, rising to her feet and turning to look at me.
My heart shattered in my chest. Worse than a simple dream, Grace was reliving a memory, one that had been awakened at the sight of me. A forget-for-now potion does not work when the subject of said potion is curled around you in your bedroom.
“Come,” she said, turning in her gauzy white gown and pausing at each flower she passed to feed it some of the honey. Once she’d appeased enough of them, she laid out the blanket that she had draped over her arm on the ground. “Well, what are you waiting for?”
