The second floor is quiet. My parents and sister have taken off for the other founders parties. My youngest sister is hidden away in her room on the third floor and won’t come out for anything. The wooly carpet pricks at the bottom of my feet as I try to keep from running toward the library. My heart is beating impossibly fast. I should stop, take a breath, and calm down, but I don’t want to. I don’t want to be sensible. I don’t want to question why I am doing this or what I’m feeling. For once, I just want to react.
The hallway is dim, with only a lamp halfway down the corridor giving off a soft, golden glow. This floor is decorated with family portraits. The kind you see in royal properties and the homes of people who consider themselves better than everyone else. As if anyone wants to look at a mediocre reproduction of my family’s faces in oils. The largest of the paintings depicts my mother sitting on what can only be described as a throne. My father has his hand draped over her shoulder while Camille stands to my mother’s right. My sister Penelope and I are noticeably not in the painting. According to my mother, it was only for the future of the magical family. She meant it to be a punishment, but I was relieved not to have to sit for the painter. Francesca would have touched me in some way throughout the entire process just to bring pain.
Keeping Penelope out of the painting was another way to manipulate and belittle my sister. While Penelope doesn’t have my curse, our mother is excellent at using her words to inflict a different kind of hurt. She picks at my youngest sister for everything from her posture, height, personality. She commentsif she smiles too much or not enough. There’s no pleasing her because her criticisms change like the weather.
I ignore the cold stare that even a master couldn’t paint out of Francesca’s expression and rush toward the library, Roman’s large body so close I can feel the heat from him. The door to the library sticks, the frame warped from age. I lean my hip against the wood and knock it open with an angry screech.
The door gives way, and I stumble inside the room, barely taking in the floor-to-ceiling mahogany shelves stacked with books. Two club chairs sit in front of a fireplace that lies dormant tonight. A Chesterfield is nestled in another corner. I spin around, glancing up at Roman with a nervous knot stuck in my throat. Some instinct had me dragging him up here, but now the reality of being alone with him crashes over me.
Roman watches me carefully step backward, a look of absolute hunger in his eyes. He stalks after me, his eyes dark, an animal with his prey in sight. He pulls at his tie and unbuttons his collar with a carnal sound that makes my skin hum and a flame burn deep in my belly.
My fingertips brush over the neckline of my dress and Roman’s eyes follow the movement. Beneath his gaze, my skin heats, and for one moment, I feel like someone else. Someone bolder and brave. A character that I’m playing and not truly me.
“That is an incredible dress.” A hint of a smile tips the corner of his mouth, and I get lightheaded. Roman Blackthorn’s smile is a weapon. A lethal one.
“It was an impulse buy.” I inwardly cringe. Why don’t I just tell him how much I paid for it, too?
“Are you impulsive, Josephine?”
“No. Hardly ever.” Except dragging him up here is pretty damn spontaneous.
“Maybe I bring it out of you.” The back of his fingers graze my cheek, and my eyelashes flutter shut. My breath hitches.
I don’t understand how any of this is happening. “How are you doing this?”
7
ROMAN
I’ve known Josephine Delvaux for a long time. Not personally, just in the sphere of Mystic Hollows’ magical families. She’s never been anything special. In fact, she’s always been slightly mousy. I don’t like shy women. I don’t want to cajole or convince someone to let me fuck them. Women throw themselves at me. Why would I search out someone who’s scared of their own shadow? I don’t have time for that. And in the last few years, when I’ve felt next to nothing when another has touched me, there hasn’t been a point.
My curse has worsened over the years. It was a slow loss of feeling like sand draining out of an hourglass. Sometimes, I think it would have been better to lose all feeling at once instead of this sluggish march into nothingness.
I cock my head and examine the woman in front of me. This is not the wallflower I assumed her to be. Not some plain witch who’s interchangeable with the next. It’s as though blinders have been lifted from my eyes, and I’m seeing her for the first time.
Josephine’s head is tipped back. Her plush lips are painted in a glorious red that makes her skin look flawless. Earlier today,she appeared washed out and tired, but there’s no sign of that now. Her skin glows with vitality. The deep red dress she’s wearing is an absolute sin. It clings to her body, giving me a glimpse of the perfect curve of her hips and the dip in her waist. Climbing the stairs, her ass was directly in front of me, the dress hugging her deliciously. I should get a fucking medal for not grabbing it with both hands.
I haven’t stopped thinking about Josephine since our encounter earlier today. Even that’s unusual, but nothing was more surprising than what happened downstairs.
I touched her skin and could feel everything.
The heat from her body, the softness of her skin. She looked just as shocked as if she also hadn’t felt the touch of another human in years. I don’t know what her curse is, but I doubt the two of us, one light witch and one dark, would be stuck in the same hellish nightmare.
For the first time in years, I savor the feeling of touching someone. My fingers brush over her cheek, and my eyes slide close at how good this simple gesture feels.
“How are you doing this?” I open my eyes and stare down at Josephine’s parted lips. She watches me through lowered lids. A slice of apprehension cuts through the fog of pleasure. It slinks under my skin like an oily serpent.
“Me? Is this a trick?” I grab her hips and tug her body close to mine. I mean for it to be a show of control. To demonstrate that I’m not some weak-willed boy to succumb to whatever ruse she’s trying to pull. Instead, I lose all ability to think the second her body’s flush with mine.
I don’t know which one of us groans louder. If she's wielding a spell over me, then she’s a shitty witch who’s forgotten to protect herself from her own magic.
“What kind of trick? I don’t even know what’s happening?” Josephine’s eyes widen, but she doesn’t pull away.
The library is dark. The shelves, the furniture, everything about it exudes stateliness, except for the woman sinking into my arms. Her body is soft and liquid. Her green eyes shine in the dim room, their emerald color rimmed in black and utterly hypnotizing. If this is a spell, I’m not going to let it go to waste. I’m going to seize any moment of feeling and take advantage while I can.
“Fuck it. I don’t care what this is.” I splay my hand over her lower back, pressing her willing body tight to mine. I drag my other hand up her back, luxuriating at the silken perfection of her skin. The warmth pulsing from her. The subtle hum of her magic thrumming and tangling with my own. It’s as though there are two threads twining together in an elegant dance. They aren’t clashing like I assumed light and dark magic would. It feels nearly as good as touching her does.
My fingers tangle in the long strands of her black hair. I’ve never felt anything so soft. Josephine’s hands tremble as they slide up my arms. She doesn’t stop there. Her hands search until she finds the bare skin of my neck.
