Page 93 of Tempest

“Do not joke about that right now.”

Clover chuckles, then seems to feel bad about it. She slows down and wraps an arm around my shoulders, our open umbrellas tangling. “I promise it’s just a little bit farther. I’ll even throw in one of Tempest’s espressos from his fancy coffee machine. Or how about hot chocolate?”

Clover knows exactly how to melt my insides. “Extra marshmallows?”

“You got it. C’mon, I’ll race you!”

“Clover—no!”

She releases me and races off, her dark clothing becoming one with the forest in too short of a blink.

“Clover?”

Her fading laughter follows.

“Clover! Don’t do this!”

My breaths become small. Rain patters against my umbrella, insistent and relentless. I squelch my way forward with careful steps, wary of fallen branches or—oh God—snakes.

“Over here, Ardyn!”

Clover’s voice is closer than I thought. I gasp in relief, picking up my steps and highlighting my way with my phone in a shaking hand.

She appears as if out of nowhere, standing in front of a clapboard house with a red front door sprouting out from the ground as if planted there by a mischievous fairy.

“That wasn’t funny,” I heave out.

“It was only a few steps.” When I don’t respond, Clover’s face falls. She steps off the porch. “Shit. I’m sorry, Ardy. Sometimes I forget what you… I shouldn’t have done that. I was playing around, trying to get you to loosen up…”

Pity is even worse than shame. I shake off her sad words. “You always were the bitchiest of us three. You just hid it better.”

Clover barks out in laughter. It cuts off abruptly.

Both of us realize what I said.

“Wow. Now I’m the one who’s sorry.” I shake my head while she takes us to the porch. “I can’t believe I said that.”

“It’s this forest. This house. I’ve heard it acts like a truth serum because of a curse put on it by the Andertons before they died.”

“That’s impossible,” I scoff, but eye the bright red door more warily.

Neither of us wants to enter into a conversation about Mila. Clover jostles my side, fishing through the duffel’s front pockets. She raises her hand, clutching something that glints silver.

“Are those house keys?” I ask dubiously.

“Tempest likes to think he’s the sole brains of the family. I prefer to see it as his overinflated ego preventing reality from smacking him between the eyeballs. I stole his keys a while ago and copied the one to Anderton Cottage.”

At my wide-eyed stare, she jangles the keys at my eye-line. “As if I’m not going to want to explore a witch’s cottage! He really should’ve seen this coming.”

I’m forced to agree. “How did you manage to do it without him noticing?”

“He hates summers at our home in Manhattan and spends most of his nights drunk off his ass and bringing girls home. All I had to do one time was sneak in while he was snoring with two girls draped on top of him and go through his pockets. I’m sneaky when I need to be.”

The unwanted image of Tempest entertaining orgies should be enough to shake off any excess feelings I have toward him.

Sadly, the twinge in my middle isn’t growing hatred. It’s jealousy.

“Has he done that recently?” I ask as casually as I can.

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