Page 6 of Wicching Hour

“The bartender called the cops right away. One guy tried to intervene and was thrown across the bar. Luckily, a patrol car was close. By the time Wade stopped punching and stormed out the front door, the cops had arrived, guns drawn.

“Wade flipped them off and went to his truck. The cops told him to stop or they’d shoot. Instead, he decided to attack and ended up dead in the dirt in front of the bar.”

Declan’s fingertips had been brushing up and down my arm as he spoke. “He didn’t have to die. Neither of them did, damn it.” We were quiet for a while, him no doubt worrying about his pack.

I, on the other hand, was furious. Calliope did this. She’d sold her soul to acquire power she hadn’t been born with. Small and petty, filled with envy and too many grievances, she’d run to sorcery. She’d chosen the power a demon could lend her over her family, her own mother.

Nauseated and filled with shame, I hugged Declan to me. It felt like Cal was getting her sooty fingerprints all over him because of me. Had she not seen him with me at her mother’s wake, would she have targeted the wolves?

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered.

Declan kissed the top of my head. “Me too. Now shh. You’re thinking too loud. Time for sleep.”

Exhausted, I gave up and let myself tumble into dreamless oblivion.

“Wake up,” Declan grumbled, his voice deeper than usual from sleep. He kissed my shoulder. “I have to get to work, and you need to get up. Your agent and that couple will be here soon.”

I dragged the pillow over my head and tried to burrow into the quiet dark. I’d been working tirelessly for so long to make this gallery a reality and I’d done it. Now I just wanted to sleep.

The covers were ruthlessly yanked off me, but I curled up in self-defense, trying to conserve the stolen warmth. Soft lips and a scratchy beard made their way over my hip and down my leg. Grinning breathlessly under the pillow, I waited to see his next move.

By the time his kisses made it to my ankles, I was having a hard time pretending to be annoyed. A giggle escaped and he wrapped his hands around my ankles and dragged me into the center of the bed.

“Siren,” he growled, sliding down my panties.

I tried to take off my t-shirt while lying down and ended up getting tangled in it. A moment later it was tugged off and thrown onto my laundry chair. Declan’s gaze was hot and possessive as he took in every inch of me.

“Calling men to your shores,” he continued, crawling up my body. “Luring us in only to destroy us.”

What that man could do with his mouth should be illegal. “Not all men,” I said on a sigh. “I only destroy the bad ones. There are still one or two of you I let live.” I wrapped my legs around him as he nibbled on my neck.

“Only one,” he murmured between kisses. “Only one of me.” He slid his lips over my jaw and then sank into a kiss that had me forgetting my name. Bracing himself on his elbows, he stared down at me, his warm gaze making my insides gooey. “Only me”

I knew what he was asking. I nodded, my hand sliding down his ripped abdomen. “Only you.”

When his arm slid under my leg, pulling it up, opening me to him, I expected fierce and possessive. Instead, he was slow and measured, watching my every reaction and responding with the single focus of an apex predator. He had me panting and quivering, but still he worked, drawing out every ounce of pleasure he could until I was moaning his name.

Later, both of us sweaty and spent, he picked me up and carried me into the shower. “No passing out,” he said, putting me on my feet. “We both need to get cleaned up and get to work.”

While he turned on the water and adjusted the temperature, I tried to stand on jelly legs.Damn.

I kind of loved that he always wanted to shampoo and condition my hair. I got a scalp massage while he dealt with the mass of curls. Once we were both cleaned and dried, my hair still up in a towel, he gave me another knee-weakening kiss and took off at a jog. He needed to get back to his place across the road before the workers showed up.

Instead of my usual overalls, I put on nice jeans, a thin, long-sleeved sweater, and paint-free sneakers. On my way to the bathroom to deal with my hair, I heard a knock at the back door.

Flicking my fingers, the shutters went up and I saw Mary Beth on the deck. Another flick and the door unlocked. Mary Beth walked in, wearing a very chic and asymmetrical black suit, her gaze going straight to me in the loft.

“Good morning,” she said, all efficiency. “You finish getting ready and I’ll get some tea brewing. We have about twenty minutes before the Winslows—George and Rose—arrive. I’ll tidy down here. Is the hot shop presentable?”

“I think so,” I said on a shrug. The fire room—as I’d named it—was where I did both my glassmaking and pottery. It was large and open, with high ceilings, like the rest of the former cannery, though I’d had my contractor add hinged windows to the roof so I’d have lots of natural light and good ventilation in there.

The door to the deck accordioned open, allowing for maximum airflow from the ocean to help cool the space when needed. The kiln was in a fireproof room with good ventilation that was built for it.

I walked through the workrooms in my head while I dealt with my hair. Had I left anything out that would be dangerous for them? I didn’t think so. I got my hair to not-dripping-wet and called it good before putting on some mascara and lip gloss. As I jogged down the stairs, Mary Beth sailed through the studio and into the gallery to get the front door.

The couple were more interesting than I’d thought they’d be. They knew art. They didn’t just collect it. They studied and appreciated it. Thankfully, Mary Beth did most of the talking. I just had to follow along, add some insights into the genesis of a project, and then let them debate its meaning and importance. Considering how much they were paying me, it was the least I could do.

As they were getting ready to leave, discussing with Mary Beth the best way to get everything shipped to them, I saw movement on my deck. Detective Hernández stood at the open doorway, hand lifted to knock on the doorframe before she saw the group standing in my studio. I put up a finger, asking her to wait, and then finished with the Winslows. It wouldn’t do to piss off the people financing the next couple years of my art.

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