Reaching out with a single hand, I brushed a line across her cheek that was marred by the faintest trail of her dried blood. The scent of it was a distraction I didn’t need, a temptation driving me to do things I hadn’t intended when I’d come here.
I didn’t know what I’d intended by coming here.
The old evidence of what remained on her arms and hands was the only indication that she’d used the forbidden magics, that she was aware of the innate power of witch’s blood. Her mother hadn’t practiced the old ways when she’d lived in Crystal Hollow. Flora had been raised by her mother with Susannah’s constant input and interference until her mother died. It was on that night that she’d faked her own death, escaping the possibility of having Susannah as her sole guardian even though she’d been a teenager.
I hadn’t known her well. Hadn’t known any of the fledgling witches at the time, with Hollow’s Grove already having closed down after the massacre six years prior. My interactions with them had been as limited as possible to begin with, and she hadn’t even come of age when she’d left.
So what had happened to Flora Madizza after she left Crystal Hollow, and why had it motivated her to return to the lost ways of magic? I suspected the little witchling sleeping peacefully knew far more than she wanted to admit, and I wished I could take her amulet and demand the answers I needed.
Instead, I watched her shift positions, rubbing her legs together as if she desperately wanted to get more comfortable. I sighed, glancing toward the stack of pajamas on her dresser on the opposite wall. I lifted her shirt slowly until it revealed the thinnest line of skin on her stomach. I slowly unhooked the button on her jeans, keeping my eyes on her face. I felt confident her magical exhaustion was too much, and she stood no risk of waking, but I wanted to know at the first sign if I needed to flee before she found me in her room.
The witchling would never let me hear the end of it.
I unzipped her pants next; the sound echoing through the silence of the room. She still didn’t stir, not even as I curled my fingers into the waistband and carefully peeled them down over her hips. Her skin was soft against my fingers, the curve of her thighs coming into view as the jeans pulled down slowly.
I paused when I reached her knees, shifting myself lower on the bed so that I could carefully maneuver the tight fabric over her calves and ankles, taking them off her feet and tossing them to the floor beside the bed.
Her underwear were black, a lacy boyshort that curved down her stomach in a low V before resting higher on her hips. They were the perfect pair for her body, drawing my stare to her curves and the softness of her figure.
I let my fingers drift over the slight swell of her stomach, enjoying the sleepy little moan that came from her throat in response to my touch. She rolled her head farther to the side, arching her back so that she pressed into my touch.
“Fuck,” I hissed between gritted teeth, forcing myself to stand from the bed and put distance between us as my cock hardened in my slacks and my fangs throbbed with the need to feed.
I couldn’t risk putting Crystal Hollow and my ability to cohabitate with the witches at risk, especially not for a witchling I didn’t even know.
One thing was clear. I wanted to fuck Willow Madizza.
She’d just have to be awake when I did it.
13
WILLOW
I tugged at the bottom of my green and black plaid skirt, wishing I could close the gap between the hem and the top of my thigh-high stockings. Wearing a skirt was so impractical if I was going to be burying bodies in the woods.
Even if my plan was to try to keep the violence to a minimum, I wasn’t known for my lack of impulsivity.
My reflection in the mirror was something I didn’t recognize. I’d left my hair down, falling around my shoulders. The color was glaring against the white of my dress shirt. My forest green blazer rested over the end of the bed, the black shoes they’d set out for me forgotten and tucked under the edge.
My combat boots didn’t look quite right with the thigh-high socks and the absurd little ribbon that knotted into a very loose sort of bow in the place of a tie. I’d deal with the skirt without a fight, but I’d go to war over footwear.
I lifted the blazer, shrugging my arms into it and settling it to rest over my shoulders comfortably. There were no buttons down the center, leaving it to drape open and leave the high waist of the skirt where the shirt tucked in visible.
I rolled my eyes as I moved to the door to my bedroom, pulling it open to find three faces staring back at me. They were all somewhere around my age, and I knew they were probably all descendants of the original families.