Page 3 of De-Witched

Leah wished she had all the accessories for her nineteenth-century costume. There were only so many times a woman could coquettishly waft a feathered fan. “Maybe I don’t want to talk to you.”

“I came to your rescue,” he pointed out.

“She didn’t need rescuing.”

Laurence’s surly input had the moment shattering. His nose was now intact, though dried blood painted his face.

His lips peeled back from his teeth. “I should give you a taste of your own, witch.”

“But you won’t.”

The firm warning from the stranger made Laurence’s eyes narrow. “What’s it to you, Goodnight?”

“You forced your magic on her.”

“So?” he blustered.

“So, it’s not done.” The warlock called Goodnight cocked his head, light sliding down his face to reveal a perfect pair of lips. He wore his power comfortably as he warned, “Remember yourself, Brochard.”

Laurence cast a hateful look at Goodnight, then stomped toward the doors. Leah shifted so they didn’t touch, watching as he threw open the glass doors, letting out the ruckus of the party before they closed behind him.

And then it was just the two of them.

“Thank you,” she said to break the silence, shifting her weight. “For getting rid of him.”

“I suspect you could have done that.”

“It might have gotten ugly.”

Truth. And, seriously, what the hell had she been thinking, punching a warlock? She really needed to buy a clue and stop being so impulsive before it got her into hot water. Hotter water.

A sudden thought had her head snapping his way. “How long were you standing there?” Had he seen their second-rate make-out session? Embarrassment threatened to curl her toes in her gorgeous shoes.

“I came up the steps as you were scolding him for insulting the Truenotes.”

Relief kissed her heated skin. “Manners matter,” she told him. Absently, she rubbed a gentle thumb over her sore knuckles. “I should’ve known it would end badly. It always does.”

“It?”

“Me. Men—ah, warlocks. But you have to keep trying. Kiss those frogs.”

A beat passed. “Frogs?”

Oh, God. It must be a human idiom. Shoot her now. “I just mean, I have the worst taste.”

Clearing her throat, she clasped her hands lightly and wandered toward the view. She settled, choosing to forget that Kole would be furious when he found her. She wasn’t ready to leave yet. “So, why were you in the garden?” Behind him she saw the faint shadow of a winding stone staircase leading off below.

He didn’t speak.

“Space?” she guessed, throwing him a quick once-over. “You don’t strike me as a party person.” Not when he stood there, all quiet and solemn in the shadows, posture perfect.

After a beat, he inclined that sharp chin. “Not precisely.”

“Me, I love a party.” Leah hated silence more than anything. She’d had too much of that in her teenage years. “Surrounded by the press of people, listening to everyone laugh and talk.”

“It’s easier to be alone.”

The lack of emotion there made her wonder if that was really true. Since she couldn’t offer a hug—she doubted that would go down well—she said the first thing that came to mind. A bad habit. “You can be alone with me.”

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