Page 48 of What The Hex (The Family Spells)
I coughed violently, rolling onto my side until the fit passed, and I was accepting a glass of cool cucumber-lavender water from the demon’s pheromone-laced fingertips.
My heart was pounding like crazy as I sipped, my brain putting together bits and pieces that were seemingly out of order until I remembered that I’d been dreaming for … weeks, at the very least. One dream in particular stood out from the others, this vibrant, beautiful memory where I shifted from maidenhood to womanhood with Monster as the consort to my inner goddess.
Cocksucking cantrips, I groaned internally, finishing the drink and allowing Monster to help me into a sitting position. I was still too out of it to decide if he was using his pheromones on me or if I was simply attracted to him. Either way, my body tingled, and I could feel a warm heat between my thighs.
What a dream.
I’d had the same one over and over again, that much I knew for certain. At least a dozen times over.
“What are you doing here?” I managed to croak out, looking around the room and realizing after a few careful blinks that I was in my bedroom at home. Alone with Monster. “What …?” I tried to finish that second question, but ended up coughing again, trembling as I struggled to shift from the dreamworld and back to the harshness of reality.
“Keeping you alive—a rather thankless task, I might add.” Monster snatched the empty water glass from me.
I just fucking stared at him.
“You’ve been caring for me?” I ground out, looking up at the ceiling with an accusatory glare. My house shifted and creaked around us in an almost bashful sort of way. Sure, Monster had been acquainted with it some time ago, when we’d once snuck in here to have sex as teenagers …
It hadn’t been my house then, but I’d had my eye on it.
On the house … and on him.
Even now, seeing him sitting here in my bedroom made me burn and ache for something I couldn’t have. I stared at him, and he looked right back at me, unashamedly.
“Grace—” he began, in that spider silk and fresh blood voice of his. Neither of those things were sounds, but once you’d heard the deep timbre of a category nine demon’s voice, you knew there were no words in the English language to accurately describe it.
I didn’t know much of his language, but there was a word in it—averianas—that meant beautiful beyond explanation. That was Monster’s voice, averianas.
The door to the bedroom burst open and there stood Argent, soaked in sweat and panting, trembling even. He took three steps forward and fell to his knees beside the bed, lifting his gaze up to mine.
“Graceley …” he breathed, curling his silver hands in the fabric of our quilted comforter. Monster watched absently, his breathing slightly heavier than it should’ve been for such a moment. Argent turned a mint green glare up to the demon on our bed and snarled at him in the language of the sidhe which, like the demon tongue, I didn’t speak much of. Pretty sure he was demanding to know what the man had done to end up in such a situation. Frankly, I was pretty curious about that, too. “Why are you here?”
“I brought you all here after the spell,” Monster explained, as our house once again shifted, as if it were trying to tell me something. Witch houses tended to be semi-sentient; the longer a family lived in one, the more personality it gained. My mother’s house knew exactly what temperature she liked her bathwater, and which windows to open to catch a floral-scented breeze in spring.
“The coven …” Argent ground out, forcing himself up and then collapsing onto the edge of the bed beside me. The very first thing I did was put my hand against his cheek—ignoring the strange spark of memory and the growl from Monster—and slant my lips against his.
Argent tasted sweet, like springtime and wildflower honey, and I kissed him with a fear I didn’t dare give voice to.
Did the spell work? Is my mother okay?
“Where are my children?” I asked instead, pulling away from my panting husband to look up at Monster. Each time I laid eyes on him, a dichotomous ripple tore through me. Half excited to see him, half heartbroken at what he’d done to me when I’d trusted him the most.
“With your parents and Calla,” Monster explained, and I made a sharp, choked sound.
“She’s alive?” I asked, and he gave a slight incline of his head. “What day is it?”
Monster folded up his diaphanous, shadow-like wings, and they disappeared in a puff of smoke as he stood up.
“November twenty-eighth,” he said, crossing his huge, muscular arms over his chest. He smirked at me and cocked his head to one side. “Lucky for you, I was there to help with the spell or else you might never have woken up.”
