Page 12 of Curses and Cauldrons

I press my palm to my stomach, not sure if I’m trying to still my shaking hand or quell the nervous butterflies.

Roman inclines his head, but his eyes are all over the place. Studying my face, sliding down my body in an inquisitive look that has my skin heating.

“Houses Blackthorn, Draven, and Roth all checking in. We’ve left our blood offerings at the door. I believe we have fulfilled the unnecessary commitment of visiting all founding houses tonight.”

“How did you know you’re supposed to check in with me?”

“You’re the only Delvaux I see.” His eyes bore into mine. It almost feels like his statement has a double meaning, but that’s just wishful thinking. “Doing the grunt work of the family?”

Or maybe I imagined the spark of interest. Not that I can do anything about it anyway. For one, he’s part of the Tenebris coven. More importantly, I can’t touch him. I don’t imagine Roman Blackthorn wants to be friends. I can’t even picture him wanting a relationship except one of a sexual nature. That’s not something he can ever have with me. Not unless he wants to sleep with someone frozen in pain and having a miserable time.

Who wouldn’t be interested in that?

Franklin Messier, one of the higher-status Lumen coven members, shoves into Roman’s back, pushing him right into me. Roman instinctively reaches out to steady me. As our bodies collide, he whips his head around and sneers over his shoulder.

“Watch where you’re going, Messier.”

Franklin says something back, but I can’t hear it. I can’t hear anything. My body is braced for the pain; every muscle clenched for the agony of both of Roman’s large hands clasping my upper arms. Except…it doesn’t come.

I freeze, waiting for the burn to sink into my muscles, to burrow its way through my flesh until my very bones ache. It doesn’t happen. All I feel is the warmth of Roman’s palms, the press of his chest to mine. Roman’s head slowly swivels around. Franklin is still speaking, but Roman has turned his attention to me fully. His eyes are wide, and the intensity with which he’s staring at me has my heart hammering in my chest. He has the oddest look on his face.

Roman drags his hand down my arm in a lingering caress, and I gasp. His eyes are bright with confusion, and his fingers tighten around my wrist. Can he feel my pulse pounding beneath his hand? I want to shout, to demand to know what’s happening, but I’m scared to lose this moment.

Ever since my curse kicked in when I was sixteen, I haven’t felt a touch that wasn’t painful. This small bit of human contacthas me close to bursting into tears. Goosebumps break out over my skin, and my breaths thrash out in shuddered exhales.

“How?” Roman demands, shaking his head. His body crowds mine, his spiced scent wrapping around me. It’s a masculine cologne, heady, drugging. I’ve never smelled anything as mouthwatering.

I blink up at him dumbly. He still hasn’t removed his hands from my arms, and I don’t want him to.

“How…what?” I stumble over my words. Does Roman know that I feel pain when touched? Is he trying to hurt me and stunned that he can’t? Is that the reason for the look on his face? Does he realize that there’s something different with his touch? Is that what he’s asking me?

“I feel you.” His words sound like an accusation.

I’m lost.

None of this makes sense, but I’m afraid to question it. What if the pain is just delayed? What if this reprieve is a form of torture, and the pleasure of touching another is going to be ripped away before I store up enough of the feeling to get me through all the aching, lonely nights in my future?

Roman’s fingers find mine. He clasps my hand tightly, and I squeeze him back, reveling in the fact that I can touch him.

“Privacy.” The one word is a demand I don’t dare disobey. Not that I want to.

“This way.” I don’t question him. I don’t stop and think. Normally, I overanalyze everything. I look at a situation from every angle and dissect all the ways it could go wrong. What the hell has that ever gotten me? I don’t allow myself to sink into the why. For once, I shut off my brain and let my body take over.

I lead Roman to the back of the house. There’s a grand staircase up front, but there are too many eyes there. The back of the house has an old staff stairway that’s much narrower withplain wood treads. It’s nothing like the Aubusson carpeted steps at the front of the house.

I consider dragging him into my old bedroom, but it’s not really my room. My mother stripped anything that made it personal to me the moment I moved out. Whatever is happening between me and Roman already has me off-kilter and vulnerable. Actually, that’s my constant state. One of vulnerability and powerlessness. Right now, something different is happening. I feel bold and reckless and alive. I don’t want to douse those feelings with reminders of how insignificant I am.

I kick off my shoes at the bottom of the steps, an urgency driving me to move faster. My bare feet hardly make a sound on the wood of the steps. Roman’s hand is clutched tightly in mine, but he frees his fingers. I nearly sob at the loss of contact.

I stop in my tracks, peering at him through the darkness of the enclosed stairway. My heart skips a beat as something occurs to me. What if this is a trick? Some elaborate prank that the Tenebris coven is pulling on me.

What could I have done that would gain their attention? Is this because I was in Tenebris territory earlier today?

Roman drags in a breath as his palm skims over my hip and lands on the curve of my back. My stomach swoops dramatically, the heat of his hand sinking through the fabric of my dress. The sensation burns, an aching fire growing from that one point of contact and spreading out through my body in a rush of heat.

Roman is on the step behind me, and we’re nearly the same height this way. “Is this where we’re stopping?” His breath whispers against my cheek. I want to lean back into him, to turn my head so our lips brush together, but I’ve never been bold. Hauling Roman up these stairs is probably the wildest thing I’ve ever done.

I slowly resume my ascent, my fingers trailing over the smooth walls that have been painted countless times. It’s a fightnot to gouge my fingernails into the layers of acrylic, to peel back all the superficial coats until we get to the chipped and imperfect surface beneath. Irrationally, I want something else to feel as exposed as I am.

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