“What are you?—”
Before I can finish, she sinks the tip into the heel of her palm without a flicker of hesitation. “I need blood for the spell.”
“Don’t hurt yourself on my account,” I ground out.
“I’m a witch. A bad one, maybe, but I don’t fret at the sight of blood. Believe me.”
Red drops fall into the shallow bowl of water at her feet. She adds dark ink to the mixture, and the liquid blooms into a deep crimson. With a paintbrush, she divides the circle into four neat quarters, her hand steady as she paints symbols with careful strokes, copying patterns from the spellbook. The grace in her movements steals my breath.
“What are those?”
“Runes,” she says. “They should help you focus your energy.”
The red ink shimmers. I drift closer to the circle, my gaze tracing the slope of her neck and the elegant curve of her back. I imagine what it would feel like for our knees to brush. To taste the warmth of her pulse.
Her bite of power coats my skin, teasing, like the echo of a touch I’ll never have. I hover there, caught between fantasy and desire, knowing every second I linger pulls me deeper into a longing I cannot satisfy, a fire that can never burn me.
When she serves two cups of tea and sets them in front of her, I cross the line of salt and settle myself in front of her in the circle.
“Are you ready?” Her eyes shine with excitement—forest green, deep and endless, like staring into an enchanted woodland.
“Always.”
A soft, playful laugh pops out of her mouth and shivers down my spine.
“Dark One, heed my prayers,” she declares, her voice smooth and commanding.
“Grant sight to those lost in the dark.
Grant strength to the weary and worn.
Grant blood to the desperate and thirsty.
Let your mercy answer their call.”
Her pupils dilate, and she curls a hand around the bronze handle of my lantern—my cage, my home, my prison—the only tangible part of me. The sight is erotic as fuck.
Warmth tickles the length of my spine, as though she’s actually touchingme. The sensation of human touch spears through me, as sharp and intense as a lightning bolt. She’s radiant, magnetic, utterly intoxicating.
“The void hungers.
The grave awaits.
But not tonight.
I offer blood in death’s stead.”
The star-shaped freckle at the corner of her mouth beckons. I want to reach out, press my lips to hers, and feel her pulse. I want to curl my fingers into her fiery hair and press her closer,feel the brush of her lips against mine. This is impossible, and yet, I crave it beyond reason. I can’t stop picturing my hands on her body.
I’m hard. Dizzy. Desperate.
I feel more alive than ever.
That little dent I made in her mattress wasn’t nearly enough. I want to spread her out over the bloody runes and feel her tremble beneath me, mark every inch of her skin with my mouth, my tongue, myteeth.
I can imagine a life where she’d strip for me, begging for my hands to learn the shape of her flesh and draw a moan from her lips. I’d be good at it, too. I’d know exactly where to graze and where to pinch, how to adjust the pressure to quicken her breath until her body softened with sweetness and longing.
Max sets the lantern carefully next to the teacups, oblivious to the turn my thoughts have taken. In a single heartbeat, I shift from a jaded, incorporeal ghost to something that hungers for more—craving the joys stolen from me in death, willing to kill for a moment in this woman’s arms. I might not remember my own name, but I’d know how to make her scream in pleasure and beg for more.
