He catches me around the waist with a gloved hand and hauls us free of the doorway just as a writhing vine launches for my calf. Then he raises his free hand toward the vines and snaps. Just once.
The door crashes shut, sealing the rotting vines inside.
After the chaos, the hall is starkly soundless.
As I finally take a few non-strangled gasps of air, the Warlock studies me with, let’s say, extreme dissatisfaction. “Ms. Frost. You could not underestimate my surprise.”
Too much in shock, I still haven’t untangled myself from him. Did he justmaimhis own plants to help me?
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he answers, seeing the question on my face. Curiosity wins out over his anger, and he looks to the door like it’s a puzzle. Not a fun one. “Thatrotwas not me.”
Withering, Ms. Frost. Withering.
I force myself to take a few deep breaths. “What—”
“Senecio rowleyanus.”
“What did you call me?”
“That’s the name of the plant. String of pearls.”
I must be imagining things, because then the Warlock says a very odd thing in a very odd, soft way that makes my toes go all tingly. “Anything bruised beyond your pride?”
He’s asking… if I’m okay?
No! I’m a blushing disaster!
“I’m stellar.” And definitely hallucinating, because I swear his arms tighten around me a fraction.
But in the next moment, he unthreads his tall frame from mine, his gloved fingers lingering half a second too long. Goose bumps skitter up my bare legs, and I almost miss his warmth. He’s still in gardening clothes, but barely: gloves, but no shoes, untucked shirt like he was getting ready for a shower to clean off the soil.
“Why have the plants taken over like that?”
A scowl is visible on his face in the dim hall. He brushes imaginary dirt from his sleeves, likehewas the one about to be a succulent’s secondi. Rude. “Why shouldn’t they? I don’t need the space.”
“The room is a death trap, that’s why!” I sputter. “This isn’t just some rebellious rutabaga,sir. I was almost a midnight snack.”
“If only someone had warned you not to roam at night.”
I see tonight’s forecast is grouchy with a heavy chance of sarcasm.
“Unlike the danger of the house’s illusions, the plants here are very real. I warned you not to upset them.”
“Meupsetthem?” I’m about to unleash a helluva rant on this man.
Then his gaze falls quickly down my body and immediately back up, such an unconscious flick I might have missed it.
Oh. Right. Embarrassment tingles up my spine. Caught. Half naked. Again. And not just in an old oversized shirt, no, that wouldbe too easy on me. It happens to be the one with an illustration of fried chicken pieces forming the shape of Kentucky on the front, with the proclamationGettin’ Lucky in Kentucky!
He smirks. “You’reluckythey weren’t very hungry.”
I guess this is a lesson about not purchasing clothing at a random gas station in a small town like Hell for Certain, Kentucky. The ferocious scolding I had for him dies in my throat.
“Not that I don’t trust you, Ms. Frost”—heavy,heavychance of sarcasm—“but I think it’s best I escort you to bed.”
I’m flustered, but my brush with death makes me feel bold. “Is it, now?”
“Back to bed. Back to yourroom.” He blows out an agitated breath. “You know what I mean. Follow me.”
