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Wyn sweeps past me, pulling her body in on itself like I might gobble her up. I won’t, but fuck if I don’t think about it at the sight of her tight skirt stretching over her delectable ass.
Boggarts feed off emotions. Everyone thinks we’re gluttons for fear and terror, but like humans, we enjoy many different flavors.
Mine is happiness. It’s sweeter than sugar and a thousand times more addictive. For some reason, Wyn’s true contentment draws me in more than anyone else’s.
It’s like a drug that I’ll never get enough of.
I twist so that I block the doorway and her exit. Wyn’s irritation fills the space between us, and while I’m desperate for her happiness, even the tart taste of her exasperation is divine.
“So how does tallying up our data, say at the end of the month, sound?”
Wyn glares, lifting her chin. “Fine. I’ve already decided on the color scheme for the gender neutral bathrooms.”
“Oh?”
I can’t resist keeping her here in the conference room with me for just a bit longer, to both goad Wyn as well as soak up the fleeting moments we have alone.
Does she acknowledge the magnetism between us—or does she bury it deep, along with her smiles?
Wyn taps her finger against her lower lip, and I can’t look away. “Mmm, something that blends masculine and feminine. Something more than just ‘neutral’. I’ll send you the paint swatches.”
“Good. I can’t wait to see them as well as all your brilliant marketing ideas.”
“Flattery won’t get you anywhere, Mr. Ettin.”
“Call me Bash—everyone else does.”
The look she gives me would make a lesser man wither, but I flash her a grin instead.
“Is that all, Mr. Ettin? I’ve got a lot to work on today and a bet to win.”
I bow my head slightly, finally letting her pass. I have no intention of letting Wyn be the victor of our little wager—I need to feel her lips on mine like I need air to breathe.
“May the best advertising campaign win,” I whisper as Wyn departs.
She practically speed walks away, and I force myself not to chase after the woman. Instead, I drink in her alluring scent—jasmine and citrus—and imagine her smiling for me.
With a sigh, I shake my head and turn off the light to the conference room, wondering if it’s me.
For centuries, Boggarts were shadows that fed off human suffering. My kind induced nightmares, soaking up the terror and dread from their victims until we become corporeal.
Thank Nudd that’s no longer required to remain somatic.
A shudder of revulsion consumes me with the thought, and I march to my office, pushing aside the distaste that fills my mouth.
Only once have I partaken in the encouraged acts of my kind, but the memory—and taste—still linger in the depths of my being, forever tainting me.
When I was younger, I sipped upon the terror from a young woman’s bad dream. The guilt that wracked me afterward was nothing compared to the bitter realization of how awful her fear tasted.
It was something that I never wanted to be part of ever again.
All Boggarts are supposed to crave nightmares, and I sometimes wonder what happened to me.
Eons ago, people feared us. Boggarts were only shadows—omens of misfortune—bringers of disaster and misery.
I’ve never wanted this. The world has enough pain already. Unfortunately, my parents do not understand me—my desire for happiness as well as refusing to drain others of their emotions.
They don’t understand my drive to prove to the world—to myself—that I’m something more.
