Page 21 of Wolf, Willow, Witch
Lincoln breathed heavily. His wide chest rose and fell, and he lowered his ears. His attentive, gentle expression betrayed how tightly he held himself.
“Where’d you get all that,” she sputtered. Giddy laughter jumped up and out of her.
“Hell,” he purred.
She sank back on her heels. Her hands slipped from his face and dropped into her lap. He let her go, but his fingertips scraped the place where the top of her pencil pants met her sweater, brushing a strip of exposed skin. The air was charged with what they’d done. Energy crackled and popped. Gunnhild must’ve skittered off Lincoln’s shoulder, because she stood on her haunches outside the circle, watching from underneath the coffee table.
Tehlor grinned, catching her breath. “See, being my Vorðr isn’t so bad, huh?”
He hummed and tilted his head, assessing her with a slow, mindful pass. “You carry a lot, you know. It’s why your power doesn’t stick. Your bones are slippery with guilt.” His tongue clicked on the last word, striking her like a rubber band. “You’re ashamed of useless—”
“Watch your mouth,” she snapped.
“Lions don’t apologize to gazelle. Bears don’t cry over dead deer.”
“Okay, wise man, well—”
“You’re a Viking witch who held council with the goddess of death,” he said, bewildered. His thumb clipped her chin, squeezing gently. When he leaned closer, she thought for a brief, bright moment that he might kiss her, but he just smiled, sending laughter coasting across her mouth. “And you feel bad because you refuse to entertain mediocrity?”
“Refusing toentertain mediocrityand hurting people on purpose isn’t the same,” she said.
“If you don’t stop punishing yourself for being ambitious, you won’t get shit when it comes to magic, or power,orcontrol.”
“So, you don’t feel bad for what you did to Bishop?” She leaned away from him, dislodging his hand from her chin. “Not even a little bit?”
Lincoln’s throat flexed. He tightened his jaw. His two-toned eyes went cold, his unrelenting gaze set on her.Mistake, instinct said, blaring inside her like a siren,oops, uh oh, bad call, abort. He chewed the inside of his cheek and brought his hands to his lap, letting her go. The set of his shoulders made him appear bigger, somehow. She expected him to snap at her, at least. Seize her by the throat again, maybe. But he simply shook his head.
“Mourning the life you built with someone and feeling bad for how it ended are two different things, Tehlor. I don’t have any regrets if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Neither do I,” she said.Fucking insulting.
“Yeah, you do.” He placed two fingers on her sternum and gave a gentle push.
She lost her balance and plopped on her rear. “I don’t!”
“Then what’s holding you back, huh? Because I was just inside your head. I know you’re ashamed of—”
“I’m allowed to grieve the woman I could’ve been while honoring who I am, Lincoln,” she snapped. She braced herself on the floor with her palms and screwed her mouth into a snarl. She thought of dancing. Pictured the wedding she’d never have, the children she’d never rear, the notoriety she’d pissed away. “Just like you’re allowed to mourn your cozy little life with Bishop while you chase the promise of power with me. Grief and ambition can coexist.”
“Yeah, and what’re you grieving? Fake friends from high school? A pink leotard? Some guy whocalled the cornerswith you one time? C’mon, be for real.”
Tehlor scraped her teeth over her bottom lip. Gunnhild crept closer, standing on her haunches to press her front paws to Tehlor’s forearm.Asshole. His power smoldered in her core, emboldening the familiar runic magic buzzing in the ink on her knuckles and the tattoo on her throat.Freya, grant me grace, she silently chanted, staring hard at the man across from her.
Lincoln didn’t know her past, and he certainly couldn’t tell the future.
Keep underestimating me, she thought, sighing through her nose.Keep testing me, sorcerer.
“I work today. Can you do some research on Haven and the Breath of Judas while I’m gone? We need to know what we’re up against,” she said.
Lincoln blinked. He parted his lips to speak, then pulled his mouth shut and cinched his brow confusedly.
Tehlor stood and picked up Gunnhild, placing the rat on her shoulder.
“That’s it, then?” he asked, snorting defiantly.
“Cool, thanks,” she said, ignoring his question, and strode toward the staircase.
With their power mingling—thrashing and chewing inside her—Tehlor Nilsen was on the verge of transcendence, explosiveness, or susceptibility, and she didn’t have the space necessary to deal with any of it. Not when she was transcending into someone whowantedLincoln, in every dangerous and disastrous way, and not when she was in the finite place before exploding, creating wreckage where there was the possibility for safety, and not when she was unmoored, susceptible to his prying, vulnerable and torn open, and dying to be held.
