Page 19 of Wolf, Willow, Witch
Lincoln licked his maw. “I doubt that, witchling.”
Witchling. Tehlor set her teeth and dug her fingernails into his skull. If her blush worsened, the water on her skin would turn to steam. She shoved his face away and climbed out of his lap, leaving him damp and alone.
“Goodnight,” he called after her.
Tehlor hurried up the stairs and slammed her bedroom door. She twirled a piece of his fur between her fingers and smiled, tucking the strand under her tongue. She focused on Lincoln—two-toned eyes, wide hands, broad chest, wicked smile—and called to Nótt, goddess of night.
Dream of me, she silently chanted, swaying on her feet,dream of me, dream of me, dream of me.
“Drive him to madness,” she whispered, sighing, and chewed his fur. “Fill his dreamscape with nothing but me. Let my body be a heatwave. I am a ritual. I am a ritual. I amhisritual.” She imagined what would’ve happened if she’d stayed downstairs. Riding him on the couch, his hand fisted in her hair, her mouth on his cock. Then she swallowed the piece of him she’d collected, sending all those thoughts, every delirious fantasy, through the magic tethering their spirits.
The spell was like a spider, delivering a dream from one web to another.
Chapter seven
TehlorNilsensleptlikea baby.
She woke a half-hour after sunrise, body free of aches and stiffness, and stretched beneath her comforter. Incense smoke and leftover cannabis still tainted the air, but her mind was clear and her muscles loose. She turned to look at Gunnhild who stood on the empty left-side pillow, twitching her pink nose.
“Bet he slept like shit,” Tehlor whispered.
Gunnhild crept closer and set her tiny paws on Tehlor’s jaw.
“You’re hungry, huh? All right, I’m up.”
Tehlor scooped Gunnhild into her palm and kissed her. She slid out of bed and tiptoed across the room to Gunnhild’s space on her waist-high dresser. She refilled the free-standing water bottle and opened the top drawer, digging out a bag of dried edamame, carrots, and seeds. After the rat’s bowl was full, she topped the medley with two yogurt chips.
While Gunnhild ate, Tehlor found a half-clean bralette and a pair of yoga shorts. She secured her long, unruly locks with a wide-mouthed clip and tiptoed down the hall, slipping soundlessly into her studio. She hadn’t bought Lincoln a bed-set yet, mostly because she couldn’t fathom giving it up. She’d attached a balance bar to the far wall and studied her movements in the sliding closet doors—mirrored from top to bottom—like she had when she was a girl. In there, she was her rawest self. Uncaged and unrefined, deliberately messy despite the assumption of grace most people attached to ballet.
She rested her hand on the balance bar, rose to her tiptoes, and stretched her leg backward, aiming her foot toward the ceiling. She turned her hips out and lowered her torso, bracing her free hand on her shin. The penché pulled nicely, stretching deep in her hamstrings and hip flexors. She closed her eyes. Shifted forward and bounced across the floor, hopping into a split leap.
“You’re a dancer,” Lincoln said, like someone would sayohafter solving a riddle. He stood in the doorway, gripping the top of the frame, wearing his human face.
“I was,” she said. She eyed him over her shoulder and lifted her right leg, stretching it high. “How’d you sleep?”
He leveled her with a patient but knowing glare. Dark circles purpled his eyes. “You need to recharge.”
“I feel great, honestly.”
“What’re you afraid of?” Lincoln challenged. He dropped his arms and crossed them, leaning casually against the door.
Tehlor dropped into the splits, biting back a wince when her bad knee flexed too far. She pushed the soles of her feet toward the floor. One ankle popped. Pain flared hot in her shin. She watched Lincoln shift his weight from one foot to the other and wondered if he felt her discomfort the same way she caught the frayed edge of his curiosity. The more they picked at each other, the further they stepped into each other’s spiritual planes. What a nasty, sticky thing Tehlor probably was, all bone-shard and shoddy magic.
“I’m not afraid,” she said, lowering her chest. “I sleep with who I want when I want.”
“So, it’s a me problem,” he said, laughing.
She came out of the stretch and got to her feet, rolling her eyes. “It’s anusproblem.”
“Explain.”
“I don’t do anything without being sure of it.”
“That’s a lie, Tehlor.”
“Fine, I don’t do anything unless it serves me.”
Lincoln fidgeted with his labradorite necklace. His smile waned. “And what makes you think I wouldn’t serve you?”
