Page 121 of Which Witch Is Wicked?
“Last meal?” Nick asked. “What the fuck are you talking about, woman? You haven’t surrendered. And until you surrender—”
“I surrender,” Moira said, lifting her head to look Nick square in the eye. His volcanic amber and hers roiling ocean. “I need you to kill me.
Tonight.”
7
Many had begged Nicholas Kingswood for death—a state he had gloried in delivering to them at the time of his choosing and by methods varied and cherished. The many weapons in his cabinets of curiosities bore silent witness to this.
Why then, did Moira’s request fill him with sudden, unbearable rage?
‘Why?’was a question he had asked himself more in Moira de Moray’s presence than in any other circumstance he could resurrect in all his long years.
Whyhad he gone and purchased grits, microgreens, andlardfor fuck’s sake, when he could have simply made a minion of some simpleton in range and had it done for him?
Whyhad he commandeered the kitchen and spent the better part of an hour in front of a cast iron skillet whisking and sautéing? Cutting biscuits and gentling eggs into perfect custard creaminess for an omelet when he could have just picked up cheese grits at least five different places in town?
Whydid it matter that he did these things with his own hands? That no one else be allowed to acquire and prepare these things for her?Whydid he…
Care?A foreign voice in his head suggested.
He rejected the notion outright. No, notcare.
Control.
He wanted to own every ounce of pleasure she derived from eating the food upon her lap. To arrange the plate the wayhewanted it arranged. To deliver it to her whenhefelt it should be delivered.
And Moira would die whenhedecided she should die. She was, after all,histo conquer. He alone had been entrusted with the task, and he would not be commanded by anyone on this earth, above, or below it, to execute her before he was ready.
Not even Moira herself.
“You got locusts in your ears or something?” Moira asked. “I said, I surrender.”
“No,” Nick said. “You don’t.”
“Yes, I do. Honest to Goddess, cross my heart and hope to die.”
The last part was true. Nick knew that much. “Surrender not accepted. This isn’t the way it’s supposed to happen.”
“Yeah? Well I was supposed to work the Thursday night shift down at the HooDoo shack before I was summoned by some magic spell and learned that I’m one of four identical sisters prophesied to end the world. Life don’t always work out the way it’s supposed to, does it, Sugar?”
Nick boiled beneath his shirt collar, feeling his jugular vein throb in time with a heady mixture of anger and arousal.
“What happened to the woman who was too proud to allow me to buy her a drink on an airplane? The woman who spilled water in my lap to make it look like I pissed myself just for her own amusement? The woman who conjured a wave to drive me halfway to Canada after I’d just given her the first orgasm of her life? The woman who had the balls to put up a fucking fight?”
“She’s fucking exhausted, all right?” Moira surged up to the extent of her chains and the coffee and juice sloshed over their edges, threatening to spill. “She’s tired of hateful looks from every female on the planet. She’s tired of people always wanting, always taking. She’s tired of being a problem and never a solution. She’s tired of being afraid.” Her body sagged back against the bed, burdened by the weight of her words. “I said I surrender and I mean it. I. surr-en-der,” she said, drawing out each syllable of the word as if speaking to a small child.
“You surrender?” Nick repeated, his voice dangerously low and quiet. He set the spoon back in the bowl of grits, noting the whiteness of his knuckles on the handle.
“You want me to get a note pad and spell it out for you? I give up. I give in. I’m done.”
“Fuckyour surrender!” Nick abruptly upended the tray, sending it toppling off Moira’s outstretched legs, the orange juice and coffee painting brief arcs across the air before the glassware shattered on the floor. The silverware clanged among the shards.
Her smart mouth hung open in a perfect “O” of disbelief and shock as he leaned over her, gripping the headboard but not touching her as he brought his face close enough to catch the scent of rain and wild muscadines in her cascading hair.
“You don’t know the meaning of the word, Moira de Moray”.
“Trust me, Mr. Kingswood. I’m from the South. If there’s one thing we know how to do, it’s surrender.”
