Page 15 of The Witch is Back

She didn’t move, gaze shuttered. “I have—some things I need to say.”

His arm remained, even as some of the relief diverted into suspicion.

Both a desperate urge to know the truth and a dizzying kind of panic at the idea had him pushing his arm closer, a silent demand to take it. “Not here.”

She blinked, mouth pursing as she swept a look around at their audience. He tried not to let her obvious reluctance bother him as she gave in and let him steer her off the dancefloor.

People tried to intercept them, of course. Society matrons disguised as well-wishers, old so-called friends of his whom he’d only spent time with because they’d grown up in the same Higher family social circle, catty witches who were all eyes for him and teeth for Emmaline. Or would have been if he’d slowed down.

“We need some alone time” was all he said, a stab of guilty pleasure in his chest at Emma’s vibrant blush.

He squashed the feeling as he led them across the veranda, down the back steps, and drew her into the folly his dad had created years ago as an anniversary gift for his mom. Memory enclosed them as much as the hedges and trees hiding them from view.

This was where they’d always escaped to, often with a bottle of champagne that Bastian had snagged. They’d wandered the folly or found the stone love seat at its center and talked, gossiped, bitched. Well, Bastian had, and Emmaline had listened. She’d always listened and just...let him be. Everyone had let them be—they were, after all, encouraged to spend time together. To grow the bond. To ensure they were following the plan.

His thoughts turned dark and a hint of that earlier panic spiraled through him. Did he want to know?

Yes.

No.

Yes. He gulped a breath of air, sweet with heat. He’d missed New Orleans and her idiosyncrasies, including the air you could almost drink. He’d missed a lot. And whose fault was that?

Only the faintest of music reached the center of the folly, where he stopped. Emma immediately stepped away from him. She closed her hand into her palm like a fist.

Awkward, he gestured. “You want to sit?”

“No.”

He nodded, took another breath. Unintentionally mirroring her, he closed one hand into a fist at his side. “What do you have to tell me?”

Something strange flashed across her face before she turned to the hedges. She began to fiddle with the tiny leaves. “I have conditions before we do this.”

“What conditions?” She’d already have him, and through him, his family’s magic, at her disposal. The contract specified that she would be able to drain that power for her own use. What more could she ask for? His gut roiled at the possibilities.

Her arms wrapped tight around her stomach. He didn’t think she’d noticed, but the flowers blooming on the hedges around her had withered into husks. Not a great sign.

He watched the vertical crease slide between her eyebrows, a line that had always made an appearance when he’d dared her to do something she thought outrageous. She’d always been so serious, but Goddess, sometimes she’d made him laugh.

“I know it has to be a true marriage,” she said, her voice so like the one that had haunted his dreams when he’d first left, his soft-spoken best friend, that emotion pincered his heart.

He struggled past it. “Is that what you want? A true marriage?” He infused carnal meaning into the word, unsure how he felt about that. How could he sleep with her if he didn’t trust her?

He’d never thought about bedding Emmaline much when they were young. But in any case, Emmaline had apparently gone, and he was left with Emma.

Emma was standoffish. She was silent, reserved. Angry. She didn’t laugh like each moment was stolen. She didn’t laugh. He couldn’t even equate her in his mind with the girl he’d kissed once when she’d turned eighteen. A friendly gesture, nothing more. She’d gone scarlet and hadn’t talked to him for the rest of her birthday. He’d found it sweet.

His gaze settled on her lips now. They were parted, shallow breaths emerging from them. Kind of sexy if he thought about it, how they almost made a bow. He watched them shape the word she spoke.

“No.”

He couldn’t remember ever hearing that word from her in the past and now he heard it entirely too much.

He forced himself to say the words he needed to in order to close the deal. “We can have a true marriage, Emmaline. If that’s what you want.”

Something about what he’d said made an angry glimmer appear within her brown irises. Color bloomed in her cheeks. “Thank you for your sacrifice,” she said in a tone that rode the line between snide and simpering. “But you won’t have to lower yourself to that.”

Lower himself? “We’ll be married,” he said slowly, searching her face. It held no answers, no hint of what she wanted him to say. What he could do to make her happy to agree. He just hoped she hadn’t learned any of her mother’s tricks while he’d been gone. Or had she learned them before?

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