Page 2 of De-Witched

Okay, Leah understood now why Emma had left this society behind before hooking up with Bastian again. What an asshole.

“They probably wanted some decent people on the guest list, if all Higher sons are like you,” she said flatly. She wasn’t rude by nature, but bad manners really jammed every button she had. “This is their home. Shouldn’t you show them some respect?”

He straightened his tailcoat. “Warlocks respect only their equals.” His blue eyes swept over her, clearly cataloging everything as his lip curled. “And you are not mine.”

The words slid into her like knives, piercing the quiet insecurity that whispered he was right. That she didn’t belong here. She faltered as he brought his face close.

“If you tell anyone about this...”

That piece of ridiculousness snapped her back. “You think I want to brag about my kiss with the warlock washing machine?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Leah picked up her full skirts, silvery satin that reflected the moon above them. “Get a clue, Brochard. You can’t kiss for shit.”

She shoved past him, aiming for the glass doors that led back to the masquerade, only to be yanked back when a telekinetic hand seized her elbow.

Two things happened then.

A male voice from the side clipped out: “Unhand the—”

And Leah, considering telekinesis an act of aggression, smashed her fist into Laurence’s face.

Something crunched. Blood spurted from Laurence’s nose, gushing down his face and onto his pretty clothes. He cupped his nose with a babbling cry—a spell, maybe, or perhaps he was trying to make sense of being punched by a lower born. Imagine if he’d known she was human.

“—lady,” the crisp voice finished on a bemused note.

Her eyes flew to the shadows, body tensing in readiness as she supported her throbbing hand. A witness. Was there a fine for punching a Higher son? Would she get sent to witch prison?

Was there such a thing as witch prison?

A question for another time.

Leah stepped away, both from Laurence and from the man hidden by the dark at the side of the balcony. Adrenaline rushed inside her as she wondered if she could make it to the doors.

“I suppose inquiring if you’re well is redundant.”

It took Leah a moment to realize the question was for her and not the warlock slumped against the balustrade.

Her mind emptied of words. “Um,” she said inelegantly.

“You didn’t use magic.” Curiosity wound through the accented words like ribbons around a maypole. “Why?”

Hoping for an air of mystery, Leah lifted her shoulders.

“You didn’t need it,” he answered for her. “But did you have to break his nose?”

Leah shrugged again, sidling toward the glass doors.

He matched her step to the right. Now he’d moved, the faint outline of his hair was visible, a dark wave swept back. Light glinted off the sharper features like his chin, nose, a hint of cheekbone. He stood taller than her, not hard since she topped five feet seven in three-inch heels. And, she realized, placing the accent, he was British.

Her heart thudded against her ribs. Fear? Nerves? Delight? All three, maybe.

Her libido cheered.

This was a warlock made for balconies.

“Nothing to say?”

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