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Babe.
Dopamine floods my system, the warmth of it washing over the nasty feelings trying to take control. Bellamy doesn’t break promises, ever. Proof of that is sitting against his chest, the necklace he promised me all those years ago he would treasure forever.
“You said you weren’t an exorcist,” I mumble, picking up my toast and biting into it. Tastes like ash in my mouth, but I persevere, chewing slowly.
“Well, no. But I’m resourceful and I…” he trails off, looking back at me. “I care about you.”
The four-letter word is on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it down along with my food because I know in my heart that he’s not ready to hear it yet. I’m not a patient person, but I’ll learn to be, for him.
“I care about you too.” I nudge my knuckle on the edge of his plate, shifting it toward him another inch. “Eat your breakfast.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Bellamy
There’s a small, wounded part of me that believes Sunday’s interest in me could be due to his uninvited guest.
I spend our day off buried in my grimoire and scouring the internet for help. Not easy, considering the internet is full of illicit claims, godawful AI-generated videos, and forum warriors trying to die on hills they know nothing about.
I briefly entertain the idea that it could be an incubus, but Sunday’s always had a high sex drive so I don’t think it’s that. I figure if it was, he’d probably be dry humping my leg at every available opportunity. (Or walking around with a comically large boner, like in that episode of True Blood.)
It certainly couldn’t be a greater demon, because his body wouldn’t be able to withstand the sheer power of a prince of Hell. It could be a particularly bitchy spirit, but that doesn’t explain how it’s been able to disguise itself against my intrusions.
Helping the dead to pass over is my MO, and I’ve banished a couple of prickly spirits before. Exorcisms aren’t in my wheelhouse, but I’ll do it. I could outsource it, I suppose, but I feel this innate, sick sense of protectiveness over Sunday. There are so many crooks out there who will take your money, throw sparkling water at you, and call it a day, and I won’t chance some overinflated idiot making the situation worse.
A light whimper pulls my attention from my laptop to where Sunday is lying flat on his stomach on the couch. He’s been dozing for the last hour, stubbornly fighting sleep even though he really needs it.
He pushes up to his hands and knees, making a groaning sound as blood drips out of his nose and onto the fabric of the couch.
“Shit,” he mutters, coughing as he rocks onto his heels and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’ve ruined your couch.”
“Don’t worry, it was here when I moved in,” I say, grabbing some paper towels and handing them to him. While he mops himself up in the bathroom, I scrub the couch to try to prevent a stain.
I need to do something, at least while I do some more research. Meditation is too hit or miss, and is maybe tempting fate. Sunday struggles with it, and I don’t want to push his body through more stress than it can handle.
I need to get the entity out of him, but it’s like pulling a knife out of a stab wound—if I do it too quickly, I could do more damage, and I don’t want that to happen.
With Delphine uncontactable, I’m feeling a little lost. It’s times like these I wish I were part of a coven, but witches are secretive and hard to come by, even in Salem.
My brand of power…it’s kind of rare and misunderstood among my kind. The witch I met on my honeymoon muttered something about me being a necromancer, which is wildly incorrect. There was also a kitchen witch back home in Pennsylvania who seemed wary of me, too.
An idea forms in my head, simple, but worth trying. Kitchen witchery isn’t exactly my forte, but there’s a recipe for a protection brew tucked in my grimoire that might help him feel a little more settled, at the very least.
“You look like you’re plotting,” Sunday says as he comes out of the bathroom, sans shirt. His shorts are slung low on his sinful hips, but I manage to ignore the sudden urge of want that courses through me. Priorities.
“Only a little.” I smile at him sweetly, which makes him squint at me as I rifle through the cabinets for a mug. I choose a pastel pink one embellished with hearts that says love potion on it, then realize what I’ve done and quickly shove it back. I settle on a blue one with little fluffy hand-painted clouds instead.
“What are you doing?” Sunday asks as I pull out canisters and glass containers of herbs, lining them up on the counter.
“That’s for me to know and you to find out,” I tease, setting the kettle to boil on the stove.
Surprisingly, he falls silent, watching me work with an awestruck look on his face.
It’s a little difficult to get used to being able to show him this side of myself. Having him react like this, instead of his blasé attitude when we were younger. I’m still terrified he’ll run, but what will be, will be.
My skin heats under his soft, unwavering gaze as I throw ingredients into a tea steeper. Basil, rosemary, thyme, lemon balm, passionflower. All herbs that help with grounding, protection. A dash of courage, something to soothe the soul.
While it’s steeping, I tap the counter in a silent command. Sunday comes like a well-trained dog, leaning over the counter until his face is level with mine.
