Page 51 of A Match Made in Coven
“We can’t be together, Lorcan,” she finally croaked out. “It’s my fault that Nana ended up in the hospital. I’m so sorry, but I have to do what’s right for my coven.” The words tore at her throat, each syllable a shard of glass slicing her windpipe.
Lorcan fought against the barrier to get to her—but he wasn’t the only one good at shields. Once he understood the wall was staying between them, his eyes flashed with confusion and frustration. “Sarah Michelle, this feud between our covens is absurd. It’s been going on for centuries, and for what? I don’t give a damn about anything that happened so long ago. I care about you.”
“I can’t turn my back on my family.”
“But I love you!” The declaration burst from Lorcan’s lips, his voice raw with emotion. “Doesn’t that mean anything?”
His words sent a bolt of regret through her chest. Joy and sorrow battled within her. How that declaration would’ve made her ecstatic only an hour ago, but now they crushed her. She’d fallen for him too, but the reality of their situation was as inescapable as the iron shackles used to bind witches and stifle their magic. Only now, it was the magic of their love being extinguished.
“I… I can’t, Lorcan. We can’t be together, no matter how much we might want it.” The words tasted like ash on her tongue.
Lorcan became desperate. “I’ll renounce my coven. I don’t care about wizarding politics, about any of it. All I want is you.”
But it wasn’t that simple. The bonds of family and tradition ran deep. She couldn’t bear the thought of causing more pain to those she loved. But she also couldn’t bear to stare into those depthless blue eyes for a minute longer, knowing she’d caused the pain swirling within them.
She met his gaze one last time, her heart shattering as she memorized every detail of his face. “I’m sorry.”
She spread her wings and took flight, certain Lorcan wouldn’t follow her this time. The silence that stretched behind her was a stark reminder of the choice she had made, the love she had left behind.
She flew onward. The moonlight guiding her path as she tried to outrun her heartache. But no matter how fast she batted her wings, she couldn’t escape the echo of Lorcan’s words or the cracks splintering her chest open.
Chapter Thirty
Spirits and Secrets
LORCAN
Lorcan slumped into his armchair, the wooden frame creaking under him as he reached for the bourbon decanter. The amber liquid sloshed into the glass. He took a swig—a futile attempt to numb the throbbing in his chest—and relished the burn down his throat.
The crackling fire cast a haunting glow across the study, elongating the shadows into distorted silhouettes on the walls. They mocked him, these dancing monsters reveling in his misery. It was fitting, in a twisted way. His chest felt as empty and cold as the silence that hung heavy in the room.
Lorcan’s thoughts drifted to Sarah Michelle, to the devastation in her eyes when she had ended things between them.
He took another sip to drown those memories. This was their second and final argument, it seemed. This time she wouldn’t come back, asking for his help on the case. There was no more case.
He should be relieved that Elijah’s killer had been caught, that justice had prevailed. But the victory rang hollow without her by his side. Without Sarah’s quick wit, her sarcastic quips, her fiery determination that both infuriated and captivated him. Nothing mattered if he couldn’t share it with the witch he loved.
As Lorcan stared into the flames, the temperature in the room plummeted. The fire sputtered, fighting against the sudden chill.
“What the hex?” he muttered, his breath misting in the air.
Mary Callidora drifted out of the shadows, her form shimmering with its usual opalescent glow as she hovered near the bookshelves—her blood-soaked wedding gown as gruesome as ever. The dark, matted hair framing her gaunt face wasn’t any better either. No hair salons in the afterlife?
Her lifeless eyes fixed on Lorcan, hollow and unwavering. She raised a skeletal hand, pointing an accusing finger at him as a haunting wail tore from her lips, reverberating through the study.
Lorcan gripped his glass tighter, his knuckles turning white. “What do you want from me?” he barked at the ghost, his words slurred by the bourbon coursing through his veins. “She’s gone. Isn’t that what you wished?”
The ghost’s wailing intensified, her translucent form flickering like a candle flame in the wind. Despair and turmoil emanated from her in palpable waves.
What did she have to be so sad about?
Lorcan’s patience snapped, his temper flaring. In a fit of frustration, he hurled his empty glass at her. The glass sailed straight through her spectral form, shattering against the library shelves behind her and knocking down a few dusty tomes. Shards flew in all directions.
The throw hadn’t harmed her, but the ghost vanished anyway, leaving Lorcan alone with the wreckage of his tantrum. He staggered to the alcohol cabinet, his vision blurring as he poured himself another generous helping of bourbon. He drank until the room spun and his thoughts grew hazy, until finally, he passed out, slumped in his armchair.
Hours later, Lorcan awoke with a start, shivering violently. The fire had long since died, plunging the study into a cold, eerie silence. Darkness pressed against the windows, and Lorcan realized he must have slept through the entire day.
Groaning, he hauled himself out of the chair and stumbled to the fireplace. With a flick of his wrist, he ignited the logs, and the room warmed. Lorcan glimpsed his reflection in the glass shards he hadn’t bothered to clean up the night before. His tuxedo was rumpled, his shirt creased and stained. Stubble shadowed his jaw, and his eyes were bloodshot and hollow.
