Page 33 of Which Witch is Willing?
It was so out of character for him, so far from the man—or whatever he was, exactly—she knew, that for a moment, Moira was quiet herself. For the briefest of moments, she wished she could dip into his thoughts the way Claire did Dru’s.
“It doesn’t have to be Nick.” Dru, who had remained largely silent during the proceedings thus far, cleared his throat and stepped forward. “Once you’ve identified the field of battle, it makes sense to pick the soldiers best suited to launch an attack against that specific terrain.”
Nick’s cold laugh sent chills crawling down Moira’s spine. “If you’re suggesting that it’s going to be anyone other than me conducting the invasion, you are seriously fucking mistaken, my friend,” Nick said in a voice that was anything but friendly.
“I can’t believe I’m about to say this,” Claire began, “but I have to agree with Conquest on this one. We ran into enough trouble when Moira and Julian were just pretending to be a couple. We start swapping partners, and the world is going to end sooner than later.”
“All I’m saying is that when troops need to be lead into battle, you always choose the best commander for the job, and I’m not sure Nick is it.” Dru’s perma-scowl deepened and he flicked a glance in Nick’s direction.
“And you are?” Nick gave Dru’s shoulder a shove.
Moira quickly slid between them, not that she’d have been able to stop them if they really got after it.
“Okay, first off, I haven’t agreed to anything and second, if y’all could stop talking about my body like the beach at Normandy, and your immortal super-spunk as troops and soldiers, I’d sure appreciate it on account of it’s squickin’ me the hell out.”
“I’m not saying I am,” Dru said, ignoring Moira’s attempt playing referee. “I’m just saying you’re not.” He planted a hand on Nick’s chest and gave him a shove twice as hard as the one he’d received, nearly knocking Nick into a bookcase.
“Hey!” Tierra shouted. “No fighting in my living room! There are too many breakables.”
But Dru and Nick didn’t seem to hear this either.
“You know what I think it is?” Nick leaned in closer, his voice dropping a register as he towered over Moira, bringing his heat to bear on the left side of her body. “I think you’re so bored with being soul-bound that now you’re looking for any excuse to dip your wick in a different sister.”
“Excuse me?” Color flared into Claire’s cheeks as she came to Dru’s side.
“Or maybe you’re just so bitter that the water witch won’t bind herself to you that you haven’t stopped to consider why,” Dru fired back.
Shee-it. Moira had sort of been hoping that wouldn’t come up.
She was too close to observe the changes in Nick’s face, but knew them all the same. The darkening of his eyes. The flaring of his nostrils. The thunderheads gathering in his countenance. Since the moment they met, she’d discovered she had a particular talent for teasing his meager irritation into a full-on, orphan-kicking rage.
Instinct made her step back as she felt every muscle in Nick’s body tensing. Coiling. Ready for a sudden, violent release.
And then, as the saying went, all hell broke loose.
Nick lunged at Dru. Bane lunged at Nick. Julian, who was too polite to lunge, slowly rose to his feet and tried to pry his three brothers apart with more dignity than the situation called for. Tierra, jacked on pregnancy hormones and possessed of a terminal case of nesting frenzy, tried to wade into the fray, while Aerin and Claire did their best to hold her back.
The sounds of all their wrangling voices morphed into a high frequency whine that filled in all the blank spaces in Moira’s head. She shut her eyes against it, preferring the darkness to the endless, painful gray of the world around her.
She heard screaming, and realized too late that it was her own. The words she’d shouted had been muffled by her hands pressed against her ears, returning to her only when the room and everyone in it had once again fallen silent.
“I’ll do it.”
17
If Nick lived another ten thousand years, he’d remember this moment.
Standing beneath the canopy of trees, leaves and ash falling all around. The dying sun bleeding into the bruised evening sky as distant fires made lava lanterns of the clouds.
Moira in his arms.
Her long legs—clad in jeans one wash away from dissolving into denim confetti—draped over his forearm. The thin, ratty t-shirt she wore failing to conceal the gentle bounce and sway of her unbound breasts. Her whole, warm, living weight pressed against him.
It was so beautiful.
She was so beautiful.
That is, until she opened her mouth.
