Page 11 of Hunted By the Headless Horseman
Heat sizzles my blood as he drapes the cloak around my shoulders and fastens the silver clasp at my throat. At some time, I’ll need to ask him how he knows literary references he shouldn’t.
“It’s beautiful.” I roam my fingers across the lining.
More than fitting for my summoner.
I smile, wishing he could see it. “Careful, Jack. You run the risk of my believing you to be a romantic hero and not a rogue in the night.”
Trust me, Belle…He tucks my curls behind my ear.I still have many ungentlemanly plans for you.
I bite my lower lip, needing, but also fearing to know. “How ungentlemanly?” My heart leaps in my throat.
He closes in, grips the base of my ass, and tugs me to him faster than I can blink. I let out a little yelp with his mammoth cock pressed against my lower belly.
Unsavory, my sweet summoner.Quite unsavory indeed.
When I get backto the bookshop, I go around the back entrance, unlock the door, turn off the alarm with my security code, and drag my worn-out self upstairs.
Jackson was insistent upon escorting me home to the border of the woods within eyesight of the shop. It’s a perfect little tourist spot right on the edge of the town’s “welcome” sign. Considered a local haunt, thanks to Mimi, I have more than enough business during the fall and winter months. Spring gets a little slow, but it always picks back up for summer reading. And crystals, tea, and incense are regular purchases.
Poetry readings and local indie author signings also bring in some revenue. I prefer to promote them on the main displays instead of the viral sensations, which are often only viral due to prior marketing money. With the over-saturated market and too many filling the pockets of the 1% of popular authors, I love to give any emerging, underrated ones the best chance. Mimi was adamant about this, too.
An upstairs guest room became my bedroom when I moved in with Mimi. She had a house on the opposite edge of town, but she spent more time at the shop. Once she passed on and left the deed to me, I sold the house and used the funds to pay off much of the shop. A few more minor mortgage payments, and it’s mine.
I am truly living a dream. I just had to escape a lifetime of a nightmare first. Now, I’ve landed in the middle of another dream, one so lovely, dark, and deep.
After removing the cloak and putting it on my door hook, I sigh, appreciating my bedroom with its vaulted ceiling, antique bed with a canopy of sheer, gauzy curtains, and twinkle lights all around the frame and bedposts. Herbs dangle from the ceiling. Multiple incense holders and essential oil diffusers rest on thenarrow ledge lining one side of the room, along with dried rose petals and crystals.
Mini pumpkins are my latest decor. Real and ones I’ve knitted.
Knitted…hmm, I thread my brows, wondering if my burst of inspiration idea would work, but I’m too tired to consider it now.
Instead, I pull back my floral comforter, slip into bed without changing out of the nightgown, and I fall into a sleep full of dark and lovely dreams of haunted houses, galloping ghostly horses, and a silhouetted phantom wielding a riding crop chasing me through the woods.
6
Belladonna Holloway will be mine to hunt in every sense of the word
JACKSON
The nature of my state affords me the ability to enter more visceral places without requiring a break-in. Not that I couldn’t pick a lock or scale to an upper window, considering all my years as a highwayman. Or bushwhacker in this country’s terminology. Or a woodsman robber.
After our earlier encounter, I need to be near her. Her sweet disposition, her romantic sensibilities, and her unique individuality of respecting the darker and supernatural realms of the world are truly rare. She captivates me.
I wander about her room, brushing my fingers across the objects and furniture, longing to learn more about this pretty and peculiar girl.
Books riddle her bedroom. Some piled in helter-skelter stacks along her end tables to a random book propped on the ledge next to a candle. Most are antique and possess dried autumn leaves pressed beneath their covers.
I find a dark romance novel beside her pillow, which has borne the touch of eager hands and dog-eared pages, its spine creased and cover faded from countless reads. Smirking internally, I snatch up the book, confirming my suspicions. Thanks to the blood bond we now share, my senses are no longer invisible. I find the subtle scent of her dried release marking the pages.
She will not require such arousing novels when she’s with me.
In her closet, I find various pieces of clothing with autumnal ones prioritized. I may only perceive dim colors, but the fabrics are more identifiable.
My wife smelled of sensual Victorian perfume and absinthe.
Belle is the wanderlust of autumn, a rich amber musk with sweet vanilla and hints of cinnamon and clove incense. I find random little tea bags in some pockets, amused by this whimsical woman. Random sprigs and thin twigs scatter the shelves like an October potpourri.
I trace my fingers along the bed, soft and cherishing, she will not feel my touch. It pleases me to learn she kept the nightgown on.
