And—most enticing of all—the desperate, wet sounds her greedy little cunt makes as she fucks herself for me, faster and more frenetic with every stroke, drawing back to circle her clit before diving inside once more…
Fucking hell.
A sheen of sweat glazes her upper lip. Suddenly, I want to lick her, and my mouth fills with the imagined taste of it—a mix of sweet and salty that has my balls tightening, heat racing through my veins, heart slamming in my chest as I fight to keep breathing, and then…
“Fuck!”
When I come for her, it’s hard and fast and messy, and her answering gasp of pleasure echoes right through me, connecting us on a fuckingsoullevel as she trembles behind the window and rides out the waves of her pleasure.
Then, just as quickly as it all began, it’s over.
With a deep sigh, she presses her forehead to the glass and closes her eyes, sliding her hand out of the panties.
Again, I imagine the taste of her. The way she’ll moan my name as I wrap a clawed hand around her throat and suck those fingers clean, one by delectable one.
Such a good girl…
Still gazing up at her beautifully flushed face, I grin.
For now, I’ll let her rest. But tomorrow night?
Tomorrow night, I’ll bring her a ring. Hand-carved, of course. Lovingly crafted from the bone of a man who once tormented a young girl in the park and was never heard from again.
My grin stretches wider. She won’t be able to resist.
I’ll make sure of it.
“Until tomorrow,” I whisper. “Sleep well, scarecrow.”
Overhead, the old crows finally take flight, and I stretch out my wings, leap into the air, and chase them all the way back to Manhattan.
Chapter Two
WESTLYN
The wedding hasn’t even started yet—not for another hour—but I already hate everything about it.
My hair is twisted into braids so tight they’re making my eyes water. The damn corset is crushing my will to live. And this dress? A black lace tragedy vomited straight out of a gothic romance novel about a damsel trapped in a castle on a very high cliff, desperately awaiting her avenging white knight.
He never shows, of course.
Typical, right?
There’s no avenging knight in my story, either. Only a groom I’ve met a grand total of twice and a family eager to cast off the freaky, impotent witch-girl born without any actual powers.
Yeah. Did I mention the wedding I’m dreading is mine? Granted, the word “mine” feels like a stretch in this scenario considering the only thing they let me choose was my lipstick color—Blackberry Dream, naturally—but the fact remains.
In twenty minutes, the limo will arrive at the hotel to whisk me away to Thornwood Cathedral in lower Manhattan. Beneath its renowned gargoyle-topped spires and candlelight chandeliers, I’ll take my final steps asMissWestlyn Avery, twenty-two-year-old wandless witch and corvid-loving bachelorette, and magically becomeMrs. Hunter Forsythe, wife of the heir to the shadow magic society, daughter-in-law of the two most powerful mortals this century has ever seen.
Then—perhaps just as magically—my father’s gambling debt will evaporate.
Poof!
A familiar rage simmers, but I refuse to let it boil over. It’s not Dad’s fault my mother died giving birth to me and he got stuck with a lemon for a kid. A lemon who cost him buckets of cash wasted on private magical schools that couldn’t teach me and pointless consultations with every so-called supernatural “healer” on the east coast, only to be told time and again I’d never cast a spell, break a hex, or amount to anything extraordinary in my life.
My only hope, they all agreed, was to marry well.
Quite a death sentence to hand a ten-year-old and her single dad. No wonder he started gambling.
