Page 114 of The Witch is Back

“At least they talk to me.” Betsy looked back out. “It’s better to be inside than outside. You should know.”

Emma wavered, then slowly walked to join Betsy at the railing. “My friends wouldn’t talk to me like that.”

“Well, lucky you.” Color rode Betsy’s cheeks like flags, visible even on the shadowy terrace. “I live in society. This is what it’s like. Maybe you’ve forgotten.”

Maybe she had.

Betsy continued, scorn biting at the air. “It’s dog-eat-dog. You have to be the predator to survive.”

“How do you think the prey feels?”

Betsy gave a jerky shrug. “This is their world. We’re just living in it.”

And looking at her old tormentor, a witch who had stood in front of umpteen people and declared that “poor Emmaline” would need stronger bait to catch her man and haul him to shore, Emma felt the strangest feelings of pity. Ask her before and she’d have said Betsy had it all, riding with the celebrated witches. She was attractive and had a decent handle on magic.

Yet she was miserable, trapped in a world Emma no longer had to be part of. Emma might be awkward and not fit the mold of what a witch should be, but she had the freedom of her own business, she had great friends, a perfect sister, and she had a man who treated her with respect and desire.

“You could get out,” she said. “Leave.”

“Why would I want to do that?” Betsy stared into the night. “I have it all.”

Emma didn’t comment. Instead she wrapped her arms around herself, the cold air beginning to raise goose pimples on her skin. “If you ever feel like you need to talk about it—”

“Please. I don’t need poor Emmaline pitying me.” The words were harsh but lacked heat. “I have it all.” She repeated it as if speaking the words would make it true.

Emma’s lips parted but she couldn’t think of anything to say. The best thing for her to do, she realized, was walk away. Her wrist tingled as she went, familiar and alarming. She paused in the doorway to read. Compassion.

She huffed an amused breath as she was absorbed back into the throng. In the witch world, that was like being described as “nice.” Better “ambitious” or “ruthless” than a washed-out version of being a pushover. Just another example of her being different.

But for perhaps the first time, Emma acknowledged that that was not always a bad thing.

Bastian had managed to lose Maybelline after ten minutes and a strong cosmo, which he feared would come back to haunt him as she’d declared she was switching to her dancing shoes and had been on her way to badger the band into playing “something she could shake her hips to.”

He’d lost sight of Emma in the crowd; hardly a surprise, but he didn’t feel comfortable leaving her alone in this pool of sharks. His Emma could go toe-to-toe with him, but under these lights she seemed to lose her nerve. He’d promised himself he’d make this night fun for her if it killed him, but he hadn’t anticipated Maybelline. Who did? He had to grin as he spotted the waving feather determinedly approach the band.

If he hadn’t caught Emma’s fleeting projection of kill-me-now embarrassment, he’d have stuck it out and wouldn’t have left his fiancée at all. But he had and, after her childhood revelations, he wanted—no, needed—to...make her happy. Stupid, he told himself, head nodding to acquaintances as he continued his search. It wasn’t like he could change the past, but he was resolved to affect the future. Give them a chance.

He thought they might have one. Not that he’d told Emma, but he was picking up more and more of her emotions, some good, some bad. He could only assume it was because he instinctively wrapped his mind around hers now when she threatened to lose her control over magic during sex. She’d let him in.

It had led to the beginnings of an idea that had at first seemed ridiculous and now... Hope glinted, just out of sight.

He wanted to mind-meld with her.

Merging minds with another witch was dangerous, and took great skill. Only those very experienced with mind magic could even attempt it. But it was one way to see inside someone’s mind.

Or have them see inside yours.

When Emma had told him what she’d gone through, what she’d really lost when he’d left...it was as if she’d reached in and clawed long bloody scores down his insides, leaving salt in her wake.

He needed her to know he hadn’t left of his own volition. Not entirely and not because of her. For her. For them. And if he’d known then what he knew now, he wasn’t sure what he’d have done. The silencing hex forbade him to speak of it, but if he merged minds with Emma, she’d finally know the truth.

And maybe they’d have a shot at a real future.

He’d caught how important Sloane was to her, even the few comments in passing, the odd calls and texts now making sense. And yet, she hadn’t told Sloane about the wedding. Emma was still not thinking of it as a real marriage. A real husband. A real future.

He wanted her to believe in him. In them.

He’d spoken at length to Ethan this morning, both friend and go-to researcher for these types of old casts and spells. Ethan had warned that the meld, if done incorrectly, might go wrong. He could lose pieces of himself, get stuck; there were a number of risks for the caster if he fucked up. Bastian was willing to take that chance.

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