Page 40 of Vengefully Matched

A shallow cut on one arm was hardly an inconvenience, especially for a witch. And Hart had been here for all of the near-death incidents, really.

What if this was a clever plot to scare her off? Or worse, what if Hart was trying to kill her? She was certainly getting close enough to do a good job of it.

A runoff election in the event of her untimely death would be easy enough to win. Was she making it even easier by proposing the fake relationship? Setting her beloathed beloved up to have the perfect reason why she couldn’t possibly have been the one who’d done it?

No. These doubts made sense, but even if Hart was the perp, it was better to keep her close. And if she wasn’t? Well, then the plan might as well work to fix her problems in Hallowcross. Dating the resident golden goth girl had to have some payoff, even if there was a slight possibility that she was a murderous, hot goth girlfriend.

“Kevin,” she barked, her voice more commanding than ever. “Make sure my girlfriend goes home early. I’d like to call an emergency Council session to investigate the malfeasance in this office. Set it up for tomorrow morning?”

“Girlfriend?” Kevin echoed faintly, scribbling things down on a notepad. “Malfeasance?”

“We won’t have malfeasance for malfeasance’s sake around here. Not in my Council, Kevin.” She frowned, crossing her arms and resisting the urge to giggle, hoping her face was as stony as she intended.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, scurrying away. Kevin had absolutely never called her ma’am before. But then again, she’d never before been in a serious (albeit fake, in this instance) committed relationship in the duration of his time working for her.

Fuck. Maybe it had been flirting, and here she was thinking that he was just friendly, and she was a cool boss.

Hart grinned widely now.

“I insist,” Agatha said, channeling her mother as much as possible in a firm-but-loving tone. “Go home and rest. I’ll meet you later.”

Priscilla leaned forward, sliding her fingers against the red heel of her shoe, and pulling off one, then the other, before snapping, her tennis shoes crisp and black with little gold detailing on the eyelets.

“Whatever you say,” she said, snapping her fingers again so that her tote bag was in her hand, and delicately putting the fancy shoes inside of it, though she very well could snap them right in too. It was like she had to have the feel of them against her skin, had to know, and goddess, something about that set Agatha’s blood burning. Her craving for Priscilla Hart knew no boundaries; apparently, not even when she thought that the other woman might be the source of all her problems.

“Don’t even think about walking.” Agatha could feel the office plants threating along with her.

“I’ll walk if I want to.” Hart’s voice was sulky.

“You’re injured,” Agatha hissed.

“Yes, well, good thing I don’t walk with my forearm. As far as I can tell, most of us use our feet, with the exception of my odd cousin Christopher, who does, in fact, walk on his fingers, owing to a most unfortunate bit of necromancy gone wrong.”

Agatha made a mental note to ask about that later. Now was not the time. Now she needed to convince this beautiful, obstinate woman to go along with her ruse and to follow directions on the off chance that she was actually hurt.

“I’m perfectly fine,” Hart said, the words laced with an edge that wasn’t there before.

“Oh, really?” The monstera in the corner rustled, punctuating Agatha’s concern.

In the hallway to the break room, Nancy was tapping magic around the offending kettle nervously, performing the spell work to sequester it safely and store it for observation to see if it exhibited any additional homicidal urges.

“Really.” Hart stood up, crossing her arms, and Agatha saw red. It was all very well and good to compete, but she had won the presidency, not Priscilla, and she had orchestrated this fake relationship, and she was doing Prissy a fucking favor, and it wouldn’t kill her to cooperate in the interest of protecting her own health.

She didn’t think about it, she just rubbed that thumb along all four fingers, and suddenly Hart jumped, the sensation of buttons and a collar where they ought not to be startling her visibly.

“You turned my clothes inside out?” Priscilla’s voice notched up an octave. “What are we, twelve? I’m supposed to be the younger one, and you’re stuck in grade school pranks.” She snapped her fingers and, when nothing happened, snapped again.

Agatha smirked.

“A permanent inside out? You know I would never be caught this way.”

“Exactly. You refused to agree to find another way home, like a normal injured person, and I was forced to take matters into my own hands. Literally.”

Hart glowered, nostrils flaring, and Agatha couldn’t help herself. It was incredibly hot to actually bother unflappable Priscilla Hart. To get under her skin.

“Let’s talk about this in your office,” Priscilla gritted out.

“Of course.” Agatha could have gestured for her to go first, but she didn’t want to, so she strode off, not even turning to see if the other woman followed, relishing the smug notion of winning. She opened the door, hearing the tapping of Hart’s tennis shoes behind her, knowing that if she were to cave and turn around—which she most certainly would not—she’d find Prissy a satisfying four inches shorter than she normally was in those heels.