Page 43 of The Royal Street Witch
I jog to my front door and open it to Bastian, breaths labored.
He seethes as he walks past me with blood on his lip and messy hair. “He said no. He said never.”
There’s a stab to my chest, fear seizing my heart. “Will he tell?” I chase him up the stairs into the parlor.
He looks at me incredulously, as if I shouldn’t have the audacity to worry about us getting caught at a time like this. “No. God, no. He would never.”
“What did he say?”
He’s pacing, disbelief quaking him, and heat rises to my cheeks, my heart racing in a frantic rhythm. Bastian went in blinded by his hope, his desperation, but I’m not surprised. This feeling of my heart sinking is disappointment.
“He said what we’ve done is irreversible and…” He finally looks at me, really looks at me, catching himself from saying too much.
“And?”
“All stupid shit.” His voice lowers and he sinks into the chair, leaning back, his legs long and wide. “He’s livid.” His gaze meets mine as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Come here,” a hopeless whisper begs, and I can’t resist.
I walk to him as he reaches up, grabbing my waist and sliding me on his lap.
Slowly, he drags the back of his hand across his mouth, blood leaving a streak. I push his hair from his face, eyeing the gash.
“He hit you?” My finger taps the cut on his lip.
“It’s fine. It’ll heal soon.” But that’s not why I’m worried. I press my mouth to his head and just let it stay there as we take in the reality of what’s happened. “He’s going to need a new dining room table. It was quite a scuffle.”
My lips pull back, envisioning how bad a vampire fight can get. Two strong creatures are no match for some wood.
His eyes squeeze shut and I want to speak, but something tells me to stay quiet. Something is building inside of him.
“He’s just going to die, and he’s okay with that…but I’m not.”
“Did he say he’s going to do it soon?”
His breathing grows labored again; his fingers tighten around my waist.
“Bastian, what did he say?”
“Not yet! But he will! He always follows through. He carefully thinks everything out, meticulous to a fault. He will do it. And I can’t take it.” His head drops to my chest, his brown hair grazing my skin, and I suddenly want to explode.
“We did it for nothing.” The words are quiet and clipped and my jaw locks. “Risked everything, for nothing.” I think of my mother, my grandmother, the disappointment over what I’ve done washing over me. The stake in the middle of the bayou, where witches have been burning their own kind for years, my face in flames if the coven ever found out.
My legs try to stand but he grabs me harder, not letting me go. Our eyes meet, his rimmed red, mine, smoking with anger.
“This is nothing?” He gestures between our bodies with his finger, an anguished look upon his face.
I stare at the ceiling. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Your paid-for home is nothing?”
“Don’t be an asshole.” And this time I cast his arms off me, and stand. “You said you wouldn’t make me feel like that.”
“I wasn’t trying to,” he says and moves forward, elbows on knees, his head in his hands. “Fuck!”
Reckless, that’s what we are—and I keep trying to pretend that we aren’t because it feels good, being reckless with him. But that’s not how real life can be.
“Fucking Cassius,” I whisper, pressing my index fingers into my forehead. “Maybe you just need to let him go.”
And the look I get in return actually casts a ribbon of fear right into my soul.
