The child had returned—if she’d ever left at all—and now stood beside the fire place, bright blood soaking her dress, hands held mischievously behind her back.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the movie of his nightmares, Jacinda’s torture and death playing out in vulgar, agonizing detail.
Every time he opened them, he saw the child. Silently watching. Accusing. Warning. Of what, he could only imagine. So many things threatened his life now, the lives of his brothers, of Jacinda. The succubus was close, clawing at some invisible barrier around his mind, desperate to find a way back in.
And what if she did? Would he even know it? Would anyone know it? Or would he be made to slaughter the ones he loved, never questioning it?
“Here,” Jacinda said, fracturing his dark thoughts. “Drink this.”
He took the offered mug. “One of your strongest potions, I hope.”
“Ha! Irish coffee, actually. I had to make do with what I found in the kitchen. But I did add a bit of cinnamon to the mix—always good for a magical boost.”
Gabriel took a sip of the piping hot beverage. It was too sweet, too thick. Through a scowl, he said, “Congratulations. You’ve officially convinced me you’re not a dream.”
“You sure about that, Prince?” She took a seat on the couch next to him, stretching her bare legs over his thighs and bringing her own mug to her lips.
She wore nothing but his hoodie, and Gabriel couldn’t resist running his hand along her smooth calves, her thighs. Right now, her presence—the silky feel of her skin, the steady beat of her heart, the scent of her—was the only thing that made any damn sense.
“The witch of my dreams wouldnevertry to pass off Bailey’s and Folger’s decaf as real Irish coffee,” he said.
“Hey!” She smacked his shoulder. “Dream witch or not, agoodwitch always knows how to improvise.”
He grumbled, then took another sip, more grateful for the heat than the flavor.
They sat for several long moments in silence, the fire popping, the muted tick of an old-fashioned clock in the kitchen counting off the time. The wind had died down outside, and now the snow fell soft and heavy, blanketing the grounds in a diamond-white sea.
If not for those damn demons and ghosts, it would’ve been a picture-perfect night.
“I saw the succubus, Jace,” he finally admitted, still unwilling to say her name. “It wasn’t a dream—not exactly.” He told her about the visions at the bar, the ocean, hell. “I felt her trying to get inside my head. Like she wanted to pin me down, but couldn’t. Not like before. All she could do was feed me bits and pieces of my worst fears.”
“For whatever reason, you’re able to resist her in ways no man ever could. That, coupled with the protection ritual…” Jacinda snuggled closer. “It makes sense that she can’t completely infiltrate your mind.”
“But she’s trying.”
Jacinda sighed. “She never stopped. She neverwillstop—not until she gets what she’s after.”
“Have you had visions?”
“No. That’s the crazy thing. She wanted me to help her with the hell gates, but I haven’t heard a peep since that night at Obsidian. It’s way more terrifying that way.”
“Seems like her M.O.” He took another sip of the too-sweet coffee. The fire crackled. The child looked on.
The harder Gabriel tried to wish her away, the more firmly she seemed to embed herself.
Gabriel closed his eyes and let out a long, slow breath. He had to tell Jacinda about the girl. The change in her routine—the fresh blood, the warning about the wolf at the door—it was all too ominous to ignore, especially since it’d coincided with the succubus’ attempted mental attack.
“There’s… more,” he finally said, meeting her gaze. “Not just your sister. Something from my past. I’ve never spoken of it—not to my brothers, not to anyone. It’s… it’s never left me. I fear it never will.”
Jacinda’s eyes widened, her body stiffening, as if she could feel the dark shift of his thoughts. The fear running beneath his words.
“Gabriel, what’s wrong?”
The child stared at him. Flickered, then solidified once more.
Blood spilled like tears from her eyes.
Gabriel closed his hand around Jacinda’s knee, anchoring himself, willing his heartbeat to steady, willing the vicious burn of guilt to subside.
