Page 23 of Lovely Wicked Things

I read the torn uncertainty in her, and a wisp of anger threads my insides. I rarely suffer regret, it’s wasted energy, but I absolutely regret not eliminating the priestess also when I had the chance.

Halen thinks she’s protecting me, but if she keeps on this course, she’ll undo everything I’ve done to protect her.

“You need to implement some impulse control,” she says. “I can help you with some exercises.”

“Oh, I have all kinds in mind.” I sway her and grip the back of her skirt in my fist. “But while I’m looking forward to those sessions with you, Dr. St. James, right this second, this skirt demands my undivided attention.”

A tinkling pixie laugh escapes past her lips to ensnare me. She glances around. “God, I’m going to hell.”

I lower close to her ear. “Luckily the devil has the hots for you.”

She releases another light laugh. The moment she yields in my arms, that constant ache in the center of my chest eases. The sky has darkened, transforming the marsh into a scenic backdrop as stars begin to appear.

Too soon, the burden of the past dims her features, and I mourn the loss of her laugh.

While the guests turn their attention to the sky in anticipation to view the Perseids, my only view is Halen. “The myth of wishing on shooting stars supposedly originated from Ptolemy,” I say to distract her.

Her gaze hung on mine, she says, “It really is a sign of antisocial personality to divert topics in such a way.”

A smile tips my mouth. “It connects, I promise,” I say with a wink. At her placating sigh, I continue, “Ptolemy claimed when the gods became bored, they’d look down on their creation. The stars were scattered when they did so, and we were closer to them as a result. So if your heart desired a thing, that was the moment to wish for it, while the stars were falling from the heavens.”

She stares up at me, her fingers caressing my neck. “Three thousand years later, and we’re still in awe of the stars.”

I pull her searing scent into my lungs with a deep inhale. “Science may have killed the romance in them, but it can’t kill our desire to be distracted with ethereal beauty and wonder.”

“I understand wanting to use a distraction to avoid reality.” A hard swallow dips along her throat. “But when the enchantment is over, there are still gruesome crime scenes and harsh realities to face.”

I can feel her slipping away, and I tether my arms stronger around her. “The enchantment never has to be over,” I say as I dip her, holding her angled beneath me until a beautiful smile touches her lips. Soon as I draw her upright, it vanishes.

She drops her gaze, and I hook a finger beneath her chin to lift her face. “I’m not going to let you punish yourself.”

Her mouth parts, as if she’s going to debate, but the rise of the cello dissuades her efforts. “We’ll discuss this later.”

“Perfect, because I have far more evocative tales to distract your thoughts. I won’t stop until you’re a puddle in my arms, little Halen.”

A smile fights to break across her face. “You’re relentless.”

She has no idea.I clasp her neck, a devilish smile slanting my mouth. “After a life of study, I’m prepared to offer you the single most poetically beautiful piece of philosophy I’ve uncovered.”

She laughs, this one more powerful, and I’m spellbound.

Halen’s laugh holds power.

It holds power over me.

Peter Carroll asserted that laughter is the highest emotion. As it encompasses all others, from ecstasy to grief, it’s the passion that fuels the soul. And the musical cadence of Halen’s laugh does so many fucking things to me.

“All right,” she says on a breathy exhale. “Enchant me, Professor Locke.”

It’s a dare I vigorously accept. “Aristotle?—”

“But of course,” she says with a deliberate eye roll.

I refrain from nipping her bottom lip and say, “According to that ancient dead guy, unexplained phenomena like lightning and shooting stars was the result of two events. The first hot like fire, the second vaporous and wet. This was the Aristotelian vapor theory, and it was the dominating theory for, oh, two thousand years while natural philosophers pondered how the earth emanated flammable vapors that could ignite the atmosphere.”

She shakes her head lightly. “And yet, my panties are nowhere near wet or vaporous,” she teases, but I feel the truth in her body. We’re barely swaying, rocking only slightly to the melody, and yet there’s a heated current lashing between us to be sealed together.

I lick my lips and move in closer, chasing her breath. “The theory was, when the sun’s heat broke water into steam, it was the earth exhaling. In essence, the core of our planet heated until the violent force of it built and built into an eruption, a climax. Which Aristotle called an earthly exhalation.”

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