Page 31 of A Match Made in Coven
She kicked at a pumpkin, watching it roll away into the shadows. It wasn’t fair. She was doing her job—to uncover the truth about a gruesome murder. Why did everyone have to assume the worst just because Lorcan was a Black?
Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t realize how much time had passed until the front door creaked open.
“Shelly?” It was her cousin Willow, peering out into the darkness. “You coming back in? We’re about to start on the broomstick brownies.”
Sarah Michelle sighed. As much as she dreaded facing her family again, she couldn’t hide out here all night.
“Yeah, I’ll be there in a minute,” she said, trudging back toward the house.
Luckily, by the time she settled back into her seat, the conversation had moved on to other topics—Aunt Hazel’s latest potion mishap and cousin Rowan’s new job at the Intermixing Department. Sarah Michelle let the others do the talking, nibbling on a brownie without really tasting it.
But when she finally strode to her car to go home, her family’s warnings echoed in her mind. A pounding headache throbbed behind her eyes as a new determination hardened within her.
She’d solve this case and prove that history didn’t have to repeat itself, regardless of her family’s ancient grudges. Even if it meant working with Lorcan Black and challenging everything she’d ever been told.
And anyway, her family had nothing to worry about because she and Lorcan Black were simply not happening.
Chapter Seventeen
The Black Sheep
LORCAN
Lorcan steered his car up the serpentine drive of his parents’ manor, the crunch of gravel under the tires the only sound piercing the stillness of the evening. The Black family mansion rose before him, its gothic spires pierced the moonlit sky, a looming testament to generations of wealth and power. The manicured lawns and sculptured topiaries flanking the path mocked him with their perfection.
He brought the car to a halt and stepped out, adjusting his fitted Armani suit. The garden smelled of his mother’s prized black roses. Their cloying scent turned his stomach. He made his way up the polished marble steps where the massive oak doors swung open as he approached, welcoming him into the realm of his ancestors.
“Let’s get this over with,” he muttered under his breath.
Inside, the opulent foyer greeted him with its soaring ceilings and glittering chandeliers. The strains of Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons” drifted through the air while grim-faced portraits of his forebears lined the walls, their judgmental gazes boring into him as he strode past.
The long walk to the dining room felt like a death march. When he entered, the space reeked of old money—from the gleaming silverware to the priceless china to the massive crystal chandelier casting everyone in its cold glow. His assembled relatives were clad in haute couture black, perched on high-backed chairs like a murder of fashionable crows.
The children sat rigid and expressionless, hands folded, looking more like porcelain dolls than actual kids. Lorcan suppressed a shudder. This place suffocated the life out of everything it touched.
He plastered on his most charming smile and sauntered in to meet his fate. What he wouldn’t give to be back on a construction site right now, magic and politics be hexed. At least there he could breathe.
His mother welcomed him coldly, pointing out how he was the last one to join and they couldfinallysit to dinner.
Lorcan ignored the not-so-veiled criticism and nodded at his relatives as he slid into his seat near the end of the table. The spread before him was a veritable feast—roasted pheasant glistening with butter, truffle-infused mashed potatoes whipped to creamy perfection, and an array of delicate pastries that resembled art pieces more than food. Each dish was a masterpiece, no doubt prepared by the most skilled and expensive chefs money could buy.
But as he reached for a slice of artisanal bread, loneliness crept up on Lorcan. The food, while exquisite, lacked the warmth and comfort of a simple home-cooked meal shared with friends. He longed for greasy pizza and cheap beer. Maybe a scowling, brown-eyed witch to share them with.
The subdued conversations around him did nothing to ease the ache. Low, measured voices discussed stocks and investments, the latest charity galas, and wizarding politics. Lorcan struggled not to roll his eyes. It was all so hexing pretentious and dull. A stifling air of formality blanketed the room, snuffing out any hint of spontaneity or genuine connection. He tugged at his collar, feeling like he might suffocate.
At the head of the table, his mother presided over the affair like a queen over her court. Lorcan studied her—the severe black dress, the tightly coiled silver-streaked updo, the rigid set of her shoulders. Under the regal poise, he glimpsed the iron will that had built an empire. The same cool imperiousness he’d endured his entire life.
And of course, not a single person offered their condolences for Elijah’s death. The lack of acknowledgment stung like a slap. In this room, his best friend’s murder was a trifling inconvenience, an awkward bit of gossip to be glossed over in favor of dividends and debutante balls.
Lorcan’s chest constricted with a swell of grief and fury. These people, with their unimaginable wealth and power, couldn’t spare an ounce of compassion for a good man cut down too soon. A friend who had been like a brother to him.
He reached for his wine glass and took a long swallow, knuckles white around the delicate stem. This evening was going to be interminable. But under the suffocating weight of his coven’s callousness, a small, stubborn flame refused to be smothered.
Sarah Michelle’s face flickered in his mind, fierce and lovely, eyes sparking with challenge. She understood loyalty and fighting for those you loved. She reminded him that there were still things in this world worth believing in.
Worth raising a little hex for.
Not here, though. In a room full of people who shared his blood, Lorcan had never felt more alone.
