Page 19 of The Witch is Back

Tia frowned at her from the crowd, jerking her chin at Bastian in a What the actual fuck? motion. Her friend was confused at the engagement announcement. She could join the club. They could meet every Wednesday and Friday and recite a pledge: Emma is an idiot and a pushover.

Emma shook her head in a slight movement. Later, when they were alone, when they were back in Chicago. Home. Then she could explain. It would have to be one of her other conditions—she wouldn’t lie to her best friend. Even if she’d wanted to, if she didn’t explain, Tia would assume she’d fallen back into Bastian’s arms and would likely strip her hide off with her tongue, bundle her into a portal and keep her restrained in the bar’s office while she tried to cure the spell that had obviously been put on her. What were friends for if not to cure curses?

But Goddess, what would she tell Sloane? Nothing, she decided in the next minute. At least not yet; it wasn’t like she was planning on leaving to rejoin New Orleans society. Separate lives meant she could keep Bastian and Sloane separate, too. Just as she’d managed to keep everyone else down here ignorant of her greatest secret. Keeping Sloane safe was more important than anything Bastian could do to her.

Speaking of, Tia’s eyes shifted to Bastian and narrowed. When she glanced back at Emma, she lifted a hex bag with her head cocked in question. Since Emma had patted her down, she dreaded to think where Tia had pulled that from.

It did make her lips tip up, though. She shook her head again and kept moving forward with Bastian.

Fourteen...thirteen...twelve...

Music played in the background as they continued to walk. She wasn’t sure if Bastian had a direction in mind or if he was just putting on a show, displaying the engaged couple as if they were an act in a zoo.

Eight...seven...six...

She sure felt like an exhibit, people staring, whispering, noses going into the air behind delicately fluttering fans. Her stomach twisted as she realized everyone was looking at them. Her breathing grew shallow and heat flashed to her cheeks, her nape. Goddess, she hated attention.

Four...three...two...

“Emmaline.”

One.

Emma’s fingers dug into Bastian’s arm. He shot her a searching look even as he turned them to face the woman who’d spoken.

Her posture was perfect, her features classically beautiful and sharp enough to cut ice cubes for a dozen drinks. Platinum hair was artfully piled into curls atop her head, her dress a deep shade of crimson. Her eyes were as brown as the ones they drilled into, if cooler with the ever-present disappointment.

Emma swallowed over the lump that always appeared in her throat. “Hello, Mother.”

Bastian tipped his head in polite, if equally cool, greeting. He never had been a fan of her mother’s. “Clarissa.”

“Bastian. How nice to see you’ve returned” was the neutral response. “You look tanned.”

He nodded, his expression guarded. “I spend a lot of time in Africa.”

“My, my.” Clarissa’s lips nudged up into what was either a tight smile or an involuntary spasm. “You must tell me about it sometime. You and my daughter will come to the house for dinner.”

“If you’d like,” Bastian said.

Emma didn’t speak. She knew her agreement wasn’t necessary.

As predicted, her mother moved on. “May I be one of the first to offer my congratulations and wishes for a successful marriage.”

No words of happiness, Emma noted. She supposed that wasn’t a necessary ingredient in the witch world.

Bastian didn’t say anything, his gaze fixed on Emma. She realized he was determined she should reply, hold up her end of this engagement.

“Thank you, Mother,” she managed. And stalled.

Clarissa’s lips thinned. “She speaks. I was beginning to wonder if I should search you for a hex bag.”

Emma’s throat constricted. Her tongue felt thick and clumsy in her mouth as she cast about for something to say.

“As you can see, her lessons in social graces never did improve.” Clarissa sighed, the short, irritated noise that had resonated throughout Emma’s childhood. “Perhaps a refresher is in order, Emmaline. You’re going to be married to an important man. Even if he has a tendency to scamper about.” The insult was scathing but Emma barely heard it.

A refresher? Horror filled her at the idea, images flashing through her head.

Bastian’s arm went taut under her hand. “I don’t think we will need your guidance, Clarissa.” His tone was one she’d rarely heard—quiet steel, a sword hidden in the shadows.

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