Page 75 of Hopelessly Teavoted
“Sounds like he was an executioner, Mr. Hart.” That title hit so differently from her than it did at work. Her smile dazzled him, and when she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth for a moment, he wondered if she was being hot on purpose to distract him from the anxiety coiling in his gut.
“Stop it. You know that’s the same.” He sighed.
“Fair. Tell me about the murderer, then.” She was twirling a few strands of her hair absentmindedly. It was actually helpful to concentrate on something other than potential impending doom.
“Well, legend has it that he lost his love. She was executed when he was a young medical student, and he exacted his revenge on the world in his red hood, chopping down those sentenced to execution with vigor and enthusiasm. He was a hangman with a tragic past.”
“Now, that is both creepy as fuck and kind of romantic.”
Az snorted. She would think that.
“Listen. Vickie. We need to be careful. This place is old. Powerful. More than my witchery and your gift combined. Stay close.”
“Az, you have to be so careful, too, if this person is hunting a witch soul. You’re my favorite witch soul. Just don’t let yourself be hunted. Promise?”
Fuck. His heart pounded, and his face felt flushed. How was everything she did always so inappropriately, effortlessly hot?
“I promise. Just stay close.”
Vickie stepped closer and slipped a hand into his back pocket, holding herself far away enough to avoid touching his skin.
“Is this what you had in mind byclose?” The question—a dare, he recognized—rolled off her tongue easily, but the moment stretched between them like a soap bubble he was unwilling to pop.
“It works,” Az said, hoping he sounded more casual than strained. “Just try not to trip and fall on my mouth.”
Casual, because that had to be the right reaction, and strained because, well, his dick was trying to escape his pants through the very unmovable wall of his jeans, and the zipper hurt. Even through boxers.
Az hoped Vickie wouldn’t notice, but maybe she did, because she squeezed his ass through the denim fabric. Hard enough that he bit back a moan.
“This is helping, right?” Her voice was barely a whisper. “This is helping you? It’s keeping me from panicking about what we’re about to do.”
“It’s helping something, all right,” he muttered.
They reached the biggest mausoleum, with columns grand enough to be someone’s actual house and not just a glorified coffin holder.
“Shall we?” Vickie removed her hand—he instantly felt the chill of her absence—and darted ahead to pull open the stone door by the iron handle.
The inside of the mausoleum stretched out into an abyss of artificial midnight.
Az snapped his fingers, and the flashlights he had tucked into the trunk of the Packard appeared in their hands.
“What, no fancy torches?”
“I’m a modern man,” he said.
“You’re a witch,” Vickie teased, smiling at him.
“Fine, I’m a modern witch.” Az angled the beam inside, unable to restrain the lopsided, besotted grin creeping across his face. Goddess, she made him wild.
He stepped inside and she followed, the stone door scraping shut behind them.
“Az. You promised you would be careful. Please be careful. Your mom said to set up wards. For safety.”
He nodded. Whispering and snapping, Az summoned herbs from the clippings he and Priscilla kept in the car emergency kit—lavender and rosemary and rue—and cast a bucketful of salt around the perimeter.
“There,” he said, snapping his fingers one last time to tuck a sprig of lavender behind Vickie’s ear. “We should be safe now.”
She fingered the bloom.
