Page 31 of Casting Butterflies

His expression? Priceless. His incredulity? Expected, but annoying nonetheless.

“Stop it how?” he drawled. “Going to make it into a butterfly?”

I tapped my lower lip in thought. “You know, Twinkle Toes, that’s not a bad idea.”

That led to a stream of Russian, cursing if I was any judge. Misha also encroached into my personal space, leaning close to chastise.

“This is not a joke. The power inside you is not to be taken lightly.”

“Obviously, but at the same time, it chose me for a reason. Not the auctioneer or his granddaughter, nor Papillon. Me. So maybe you need to put a little trust⁠—”

“No. You will refrain from using it,” he barked, inching so close his nose almost touched mine. His irate gaze bore a hole into my eyeballs. His moving lips hovered close enough I could feel the warmth of his breath.

“You can’t tell me what to do,” I taunted, and then before he could utter another command I’d refuse, I kissed him.

12

Locking lips with Misha had to be one of the boldest things I’d ever done. I mean, who smooches a man with an obvious dislike who would likely throttle me for my temerity?

I didn’t care, and of all things I expected next—a shove, a slap, a stomping of his feet as he rejected me—it never occurred to me he’d actually kiss me back.

It shocked, in more ways than one. First and foremost because, holy shit, it ignited my girly parts. I wet my panties. I quivered down low. Every part of me turned to boneless molten jelly, a term that didn’t make any sense until that moment.

And who knows where that most epic kiss might have led if Cedric didn’t clear his throat and murmur, “Kids, is this really the time to be doing that?”

Misha recoiled, and I blinked in astonishment before shooting a killing glare at Cedric.

“The dryad is correct. We should be making plans to depart.” Misha strode off, not stomping for once. I, on the other hand, wanted to stamp my feet—and skin a cat.

“What the hell, Cedric?”

“Just trying to prevent a calamity.”

“How is getting Misha to like me bad?”

“Sexual attraction doesn’t always mean like.”

“It would have been a good start,” I retorted.

“You should shower and change before he returns, as I doubt it will take him long to arrange a ride out of here.”

“Where’s my bag?” I asked, knowing Misha must have rescued it, seeing as how I wore a T-shirt I’d packed and panties. Hold on, did this mean he’d dressed me? Seen me naked? Liked what he saw? Judging by the kiss, I’d say most definitely yes.

The shower felt amazing and was especially long seeing as how Misha banged on the door less than a minute into it and told me to hurry up. I took my time. Who knew when I’d next get a chance—and maybe, just maybe, I kind of hoped he’d come in, see my naked slick body, and finish what we started.

Misha did not ravish me in the shower, and when I emerged all nice and dewy, wrapped in a towel, he barely ogled before exiting the room, barking, “Be ready to go in five minutes.”

I made him wait fifteen. Petty? Bet your ass it was. I’d already gotten tired of the way he ordered me around. Besides, rushing wouldn’t change anything. The moment I emerged from his supposed safe area, the pernicae would home in on me, and I’d yet to figure out how I’d handle it.

Easiest solution? Let Misha keep shooting and dissolving it. But that meant it would keep regenerating and trying again. I really needed to unravel the magic holding it together; I just didn’t know how. Could I simply wish for it to not exist? What if I did but didn’t keep the scope of that desire tight enough and other shit disappeared with it? I’d seen some kind of horror movie where that happened. Wishes needed to be very focused to avoid inadvertent side effects. Butterfly wings on a plane might be harmless, but vaporizing Misha or Cedric by accident while taking care of a monster would be bad.

We emerged from the country cottage, covered in vines and cutely picturesque, to find a tiny red Ford Fiesta parked out front. I stared at it, then Misha, before snickering.

“What’s so funny?”

“The image of you cramming into that teeny-tiny car.”

“You Americans and your obsession with big vehicles,” he grumbled.