Page 11 of Star-Crossed
“Oh comeon.” Lyra threw her hands up in frustration. “Translation: she probably fuckingknewthat the roots were tearing apart the plumbing and just decided to do fuck all about it so someone else would be on the hook while she was gone. This is bullshit.”
All thosefucks were having a curious effect on him. As was the sight of their high school’s ice queen in full fury.
Lyra was one of those women who were even more beautiful when she was angry. The way her reddened cheeks made her eyes blaze an ever-deeper green. The way her lips darkened to an even juicier scarlet.
“Bullshit or no,” Gemma began, “we should probably—”
“Fine.” Lyra huffed out an impatient breath. “I’m assuming you’ll need to be here to oversee that personally?”
It was impossible for Cy to tell whether she hoped this was or wasn’t true.
“Absolutely,” he said cheerfully, unable to resist the urge to needle her just a little. “You and I are going to be seeing a lot of each other.”
He hid a smile, enjoying their banter despite her irritation. Or perhaps because of it.
Lyra’s lips parted on a quick but definitely perceptible inhale.
They stood like that for a long moment, gazes locked in challenge.
“When do you want me to get started?” Cy asked.
Never,said her face. “Tomorrow,” said her mouth.
“Perfect,” Cy said. “I’ll be here at eight.”
“Eight a.m. sharp?” she asked, her chin lifted at an imperious angle.
“Sure,” he said, despite knowing full well that being anywhere at any time sharp wasn’t exactly his forte.
“Fine,” she said again.
Then, without another word, she spun on her heel and marched back toward the building
Admiring Lyra’s ass as she strode purposefully across the yard, Cy had a surprising thought.
Maybe this odd turn of events wasn’t part of the curse at all.
Maybe it was a chance at redemption.
Cy had lived long enough to know just how rare those truly were.
He didn’t intend to waste it.
THREE
Familiar
A SMALL ANIMAL OR IMP KEPT AS A WITCH’S ATTENDANT
Lyra tossedunder her floral sheets, sweat pooling between her breasts. The night had been warm, sticky even, and she was grateful to notice the ocean had kicked up some early-autumn wind to cool things down.
Still, her mind refused to quiet. The bedding in Gemma’s guest/craft room was cozy but ancient, and Lyra was pretty sure it would only take an hour to count the total number of threads in the sheets. To add insult to injury, a rhythmic thumping had startled her from her usual fitful sleep, the steady beat somehow both maddening and arousing.
She flung off her covers and rolled to her side, pressing an ear to the wall. Demanding mewls were muffled, accompanied by a few sounds she didn’t even want to identify. “Christ, they’re at it again.”
Grabbing her pillows, she wedged them against her skull in an attempt to use them as earplugs and pulled the sleep mask back over her eyes.
As the wind began to blow, the thumping grew frenzied, even through her memory-foam mufflers.
