Page 8 of Waltzing With Witches

I hesitate to be vulnerable and share the truth, but as he watches me, something crumbles in my chest. It was a long and uncomfortable night sleeping in the chair, even though Town Hall kept a pleasant fire on for me after I dusted all the paintings.

“The Annabelle kicked me out,” I admit finally.

There’s an awkward pause before his perfectly manicured black brows curve up, two angry slashes that make him even more brutally handsome. He’s silent and still, then he moves so fast, I can barely follow him, stalking across the office toward me. He stops so close, I could reach out and touch him.

If I wanted to.

Which I don’t.

Well, I do. But I won’t. It’s a matter of principle.

“What do you mean?” His voice is pure steel, the Keeper in his element as Ever’s leader. When I say nothing, he takes a step closer, close enough that my boobs nearly touch his chest. I’ve never been this close to him, not in the entire month since we arrived. Not when he took me to breakfast. Not even when the castle called him away, and he acted like he was going to hug me but then rushed out of the Galloping Green Bean like his hair was on fire.

“Morgan,” he presses again. “Tell me what happened.”

When I look up, there’s a look of real concern on his face, and it breaks the last of my defenses.

I want to hate him for being such a cold-hearted bastard, but I can’t deny the effect he has on me. Not to mention the fact that he smells so fucking good. I’ve never been close enough to know if he wore cologne or not. And I don’t think it is. Just soap, and something else.

The story tumbles out of me in a rush of word vomit, and with every sentence, his expression falls into a scowl, and finally, a mask of barely withheld fury. My cheeks heat, warmth spreading down to my chest until I’m vibrating with tension.

“She’s been weird for a while,” I finish with a huff. “I guess she’s had enough of me.”

It stings to say that, but as I say it, I realize it feels true.

The Keeper’s fists are balled by his side, but when my eyes fall to them, he unfurls his fisted hands. He says nothing in response to my story, but bends down and grabs my bag, slinging it over his muscular shoulder. Narrowed eyes meet mine as he jerks his head toward the door. “Come with me.”

“Am I in trouble?” I blurt out. “Are you trying to kick me out of town?”

He cocks his head to the side, eyes wide in apparent disbelief. After a tense moment, he shakes his head. “I’m taking you home, Morgan.”

“I don’t think Annabelle will let me back in,” I huff, tapping my foot. What the hell am I gonna do if I can’t go to the Annabelle? I guess I can go stay with Wren or Thea, but damn, that’ll be awkward since they’re both in relationships.

“I’ll speak with Catherine about it,” he says in a flat, cold tone.

“So,” I draw out the O. “I can’t go home. Unless you mean New York City?”

This is it. The moment he’ll tell me he needs me gone from town for some reason he’s never bothered to share. And I am going to engage in an epic throwdown if that happens, because I’m not leaving my sisters or Lou here. I can’t protect them if I’m not here. And I haven’t even begun to learn the first thing about harnessing my own black magic. Swear to God, if he—

“My home, Morgan,” he says. “Let’s go.”

I sputter, blinking rapidly as I attempt to process what he said. “The castle? You’re taking me there?”

“That’s where I live.” He purses his lips as if it should be obvious to me.

“I know you live there,” I grumble.

“Great.” He turns and heads for the door without another word.

And fuck me six ways from Sunday, because even though I hesitate for a long moment, I eventually follow.

CHAPTER FOUR

KEEPER

My mind picks through what Morgan shared as I head up the hall toward the building’s exit. The Annabelle kicked her out? What she’s talking about is a level of discord I’ve never seen in any of Ever’s buildings. Some are more pleasant than others, but this is…new. This is out of character. I suppose it’s possible that the Annabelle is somehow triggered by Morgan’s black magic. Or perhaps her inability to access it.

I mull that over, holding my breath as she trails silently behind me. Despite not breathing in, I can sense the blood that courses rich through her veins, fast because she’s ruffled. When I arrived at my office to find her asleep in my chair, her blood flowed slowly, peacefully through her body. She suffocated me with dark chocolate and whiskey-soaked cherries. I allowed myself a moment to drink it in, but the bloodlust rose so hard, I had to tamp it down fast. I’m never out of control—I can’t afford to be—but I haven’t drunk from another being in nearly a hundred years.

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