Page 32 of Cursed By the Love Witch

Tears stream down my cheeks, catching on the parchment as it flutters onto my desk. I should burn it—pay a hexes student to cast one upon him for his cruelty, but I can’t bring myself to. All I feel is achingly alone. I should call for Prue, but she’s happy with Zander.

She would understand, but I don’t wish to put this burden on her, especially when her love is so new. She is a good friend to me—always taking me home with her during the holidays and never asking why. Her parents are just as kind, including me intheir traditions in ways my parents never would. I am grateful to have them.

Still, I wish I had someone like she has Zander. If I could turn to another for comfort, my family’s final disownment would sting less. I wouldn’t have to explain myself; they could just hold me and let the tears flow for the family I’ll never have.

Besides, it’s my fault for inviting them in the first place. My loneliness had gotten the better of me all those weeks ago and encouraged me to write it. I’d take it back if I could—as I would all those awful memories.

Suddenly, my room is too hot, and the scent of lilacs overwhelms my senses. I rush to the window and throw it open, allowing a cold breeze to disturb the contents of my room. Tearing at my clothes, I shed them as quickly as I can. Once naked, I see my pale skin marred with red along my chest and knees—a fine sheen of sweat dots my forehead.

Turning slightly, I stare at them in the light from my candles—a permanent reminder of their hatred for what I truly am. My fingers graze over the raised and puckered skin. I remember receiving each one and being told that a parent’s love is not given—it is earned—and I will surely never earn theirs.

A sob catches in my throat. Exhaustion flows through me. I wish Bael were here.

The thought appears so suddenly, and yet I cannot deny it. My heart reaches for him—calls to him on the wind as if there was any way he could hear me. I know his being here would make me feel better. He would make me whole again if his feelings for me were genuine. He would allow me to cry in his arms and soothe me through it, continuously reminding me that I wasn’t alone.

That loving me wasn’t something I had to earn.

A fresh wave of sadness spreads throughout my body. I am alone tonight. I should take a sip of my sleeping dram before thenightmares appear tonight. However, I can’t bring myself to do anything except slide on a silk nightgown, crawl into bed, and curl up under the quilt.

The candles in my room go out in an instant. In the dark, I let myself sob and sob until exhaustion makes me delirious. Before I succumb to the darkness, something flutters at my window. A raven has returned, but I swear, just before I’m pulled into sleep, I glimpse its eyes.

Ones that are the same shade as Bael’s.

15

THE HIGH WARLOCK

He should’ve stayed a bird and remained perched on her window.

Venturing into her room was a gross misstep, but he couldn’t help himself. He had to come and see her. He had felt her reach for him—call out to him in a way only his kind can fully understand. Still, he should’ve remained distant and never looked through her things.

Seeing her tear-stained cheeks and hearing her soft whimpers snapped something inside of him. What was the cause of her distress? What had brought such sadness to someone so vibrant?

When he had spied the letter on her desk, everything became clear. A hot rush of anger swam in his blood—the desire to find the one responsible and tear him apart was palpable. How could anyone send someone as lovely as Darcee such vile words?

He wanted to demand answers from her and make those responsible pay, but as her breathing finally turned deep and even, he decided to remain a silent visitor. Her room was exactly as he remembered from watching her days ago. Being inside of it was even better than he imagined.

Everything smelt like Darcee—the fresh scent of his lilac bouquet mixed with her unique smell. Everything was pink, from her bedding to the frilly clothes spilling out of her closet. Used candles and incense littered her desk. Various spell jars and an empty cauldron sat near her altar. He thumbed through a book entitledMy Lovers, expecting to find a list of all the people Darcee had been with.

Not that he much cared; the past was the past, but he was curious—wanting to know everything about her, even in an unethical way. However, it wasn’t a list of her lovers but all those she had brought together. As he went through each page, pride swam in his chest.

She was a talented love witch, of that he was sure. Her kindness and compassion danced through every story. No wonder he had always been drawn to her—Darcee is frightfully easy to love.

He would know.

His eyes find the note again. Reading it over again, his anger burns hot. How could a father write this to his daughter? His hands began to tremble. If only he knew?—

“Bael?” Darcee’s soft voice cuts through the room.

He turns on his heel, knowing that a quick transformation is out of the question. She’s spotted him, and he should own up to it now.

Her eyes are wide, and her hair is a mess of pink curls. She holds a thin pink sheet to her chest as if it or the scrap of fabric she calls a nightgown conceals any part of her. Swaths of pale skin are on display, glimmering in the moonlight. Her lips are still puffy from his kisses earlier.

His entire body hardens in an instant at the delicious sight of her.

Darcee’s magenta eyes blink under lowered brows.

“Bael?” she repeats. “Is—is that you?”

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