Page 49 of Magic and Matrimony

Another crash of thunder has me stumbling away. “I’m going to get changed.”

“Piper,” Ambrose calls out when I’m halfway up the steps. I turn and look down at him. He’s still in the same spot.

“I’m sorry about your uncle. I wish I’d done more to get him to shut up.”

I grip the railing, willing myself not to run back down the steps toward him. “You’ve done more than anyone else has. Between tonight and the woods, you’re definitely my hero.” I cringe at my words, spit out another good night, and then sprint up the stairs to my room.

The house is too solid for me to hear if Ambrose makes his way upstairs. I brush my teeth, change into a pair of warm pajama pants and an oversized sweatshirt. I crawl into the bed to the sounds of the storm battering the sides of the house and the windows rattling.

I check the radar on my phone. The storm must be almost done. Nope. It’s circling over Mystic Hollows in a vortex of bad memories. We haven’t even hit the worst of it yet. The wind howls and I tug my covers up to my chin, unable to relax or fall asleep.

Lightning splits the sky every few seconds. It’s like a strobe going off outside. The rain tings against the windows so hard I wonder if it’s hailing, but then the wind changes and all I hear is howling and the creaking of trees fighting the assault.

There’s another boom of thunder that rips through the sky, so loud the room shakes.

“Fuck.” Tossing back my covers, I dash for the door. I stand there with my hand shaking above the doorknob. Am I really going to do this? Like I’m a helpless child who can’t ride out a storm?

Another earth-shaking thunder propels me through the door, and straight into Ambrose’s room without knocking.

The TV is on, but the volume is so low I can’t hear what anyone is saying. It’s some black-and-white movie, where a couple is dancing across a stage. I thought Ambrose might be passed out in bed. Instead, he’s sitting up, scrolling on his phone, his chest bare, and the sheet draped around his waist.

“Piper?”

My fingers are wrapped in the cuffs of my sweatshirt. I swallow thickly and try to hide my shaking limbs.

“Piper?” Ambrose says again, getting out of bed. “Are you sick? Is it your curse again already?” His hands cup my shoulders, and I feel their warmth through the cloth.

“I shouldn’t be in here. I should go back to my room.”

“What’s going on?”

“It’s stupid.” I squeeze my eyes shut.

The lightning is still lighting up the sky outside through my closed eyes. I imagine it’s the television flickering until the thunder strikes again. I shudder.

“Is it the storm?” Ambrose sounds confused.

“It’s…” I hang my head. How do I even explain?

“I was just finding something to watch. Why don’t you come in here and we’ll put on some trashy TV that I know you love so much.” Ambrose pulls me over to the bed. He flips back the covers and pats the bed before launching himself onto the other side, like a little kid.

I’m stiff when I get in. I don’t know what I imagined would happen in my head. Actually, I didn’t think about any of this. I just didn’t want to be alone in my huge cold bed with a storm raging outside.

“How will you warm me up if you’re all the way over there?” Ambrose wraps his hands around my waist and drags me across the bed until I’m practically in his lap.

He arranges us so that he’s lying down, and I’m tucked into his side with my head on his chest. He doesn’t change the old black-and-white movie on the TV.

“You don’t like storms?” Ambrose asks as he drags his fingers down my scalp and begins to massage my neck. I tense and his fingers stop kneading. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“It’s embarrassing,” I murmur into his side. My hand is pressed to his ribs. I’m sure it’s freezing, but he doesn’t squirm or throw it off.

Ambrose’s fingers start working again. “Once, when I was seven, my nanny took me to a petting zoo. I thought the goats were so cute that I decided to climb over the fence and give one a hug. He was white with brown spots, and I named him Gary.”

“Gary?” I chuckle, already relaxing.

“He looked like a Gary. This probably would’ve been fine, but one of them didn’t like the look of me and charged. I got so scared, I ran backwards until I hit the fence. When I tried to climb over, my shirt got caught on the post. There was a rusty nail that sliced into my chest, and I had to get seventeen stitches and a tetanus shot, because my nanny was human and had no idea about healing potions. To this day, I am terrified of goats.”

I lift my head and look at the scar. It’s just above his left peck and practically hidden under his lightly furred chest.

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