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While I’m mulling over all of this, my dad pushes up from his chair and kneels in front of me, slowly, like he’s approaching a frightened animal and he doesn’t want to make me run. He reaches for my hand, still resting on the open pages of our grimoire.
My first instinct is to not let him touch me, to pull away until I know he’s got my best interests at heart. But I force myself to stay still. Fuck, I’ve missed my dad. I’ve needed him more times than I can count in the last ten years. I’ve needed one of his signature hugs since all of this bullshit started. Sitting here in front of him, I might not be ready for a hug yet. I feel I can allow some physical contact.
His big hand curls over mine, engulfing my fingers with his. A shock of energy flows from him to me and back. It’s pleasant and tears prick my eyes. This is the first time we’ve touched in ten years.
He carefully lifts my hand and flips it over, running a finger over my palm and the lines there. I think he’s going to talk about palmistry, something that I have never put any stock in, but maybe I’m wrong and my whole life is laid out in the lines of my hands.
But then metal flashes out of the corner of my eye and I try to jerk back.Not again. Not again. Not again.He holds me steady, my hand in the air between us as he moves with startling speed to slice a line right across my palm.
I hiss at the sting of pain. Tears flow down my cheeks as I wait for him to do more damage, to keep stabbing me like he’d done all those years ago. But the knife is already gone, tucked into some unknown pocket, and he’s staring at my palm intensely.
“What the hell was that?” I ask, trying and failing to keep my voice from shaking.
“That, ladybug, was necessary,” he says, his voice hard.
“Why?” The question is choked and I’m about a second away from activating the communication rune and begging six powerful males to come find me, when he flips my hand over and presses my bloody palm into the open page of the grimoire.
There’s a bright flash of light, a shockwave of power that blows my braids up and back while drying the tears on my cheeks. A thrumming fills my whole body and I can feel the magic of our family. It’s everywhere.
The breath stalls in my lungs as I take in the scope of what it means. The breadth and depth of the amount of power in our family.
My dad stays kneeling in front of me, his hand pressed over the top of mine. “Magic works differently in our family,” he says. “In other magical families, witches are born with magic. They have their limited amount of power. Sure, some are born with more than others, but they will always be limited to what they were born with. For us, we have access to the power of our ancestors, every witch that came before us, every single one going back generations. We have access to their power, Rosalind. They thought they were weakening us by slaughtering our family, but what they really did was make us stronger, you and me. When I die, you will be the most powerful witch in the entire world. Your children will be even more powerful.”
I stare at him, at his hazel eyes so like mine, and I know he’s telling me the truth. I’m not sure how I know, but I know. He nods slowly, pride in his eyes. “What about Desi?” I ask. “Is she… does she have magic too?”
He nods emphatically. “She does. Absolutely. No one can be born to our line without magic, but hers is quieter, softer. A calming sort of magic.” I believe that. Desi can always help soothe me. Even when we’re on opposite ends of the world, she can make me feel calmer with just a few words. “Your magic, Rosalind, is a seething, writhing tempest that needs a firm hand and guidance.” His fingers presses against mine with more intensity.
Then I feel it. The tickling against my palm. I look down and gasp. The ink of the text on the page my hand is pressed to is lifting from the paper, winding around my wrist and up my arm, holding me in place as my dad’s hand finally draws back.
I look up at him with wide eyes, panicking as I try to withdraw my hand and it doesn’t go anywhere.
“Shh, ladybug, it’s going to be okay. Don’t fight it. It’s just going to give you what you need.”
I frown at him as I try again to lift my hand from the book. “What the fuck, dad! Why wouldn’t you warn me about this?” He’s unmoved by my struggle, by my fear, but then he’d also been unmoved by those things ten years ago.
The inky black is at my elbow and climbing higher and higher, winding around my shoulder and neck. I tip my head back, like I think that’s going to help keep it away from what I now realize is its destination. I snap my mouth shut as the cool ink travels up my chin and activate the communication rune, dropping my walls with Kohaku at the same time.
I can’t focus, though. I can’t focus on telling them what the hell is happening, that I need help because the inky black is at my nostrils, prodding its way inside, pouring into my body and mind, taking over my soul. My mouth opens in a scream and, of course, the magic takes advantage, leaping between my lips and down my throat.
My dad stands and bends over me, smoothing the hair face from my suddenly sweaty face as he murmurs words of encouragement, trying to sooth the panic that is running rampant through my entire body.
There’s roaring in my head, the cacophony of six voices demanding to know what’s happening, what I need, where I am, and all the while I’mscreaming, screaming, screaming.Tears pool in my wide-open eyes, and spill unchecked down my temples to wet my hair. My head remains tipped back and my body jerks and fights against the unwelcome intrusion.
Until suddenly it doesn’t. I relax against my will. The inky black of the grimoire moves through me like a gently river rather than a forceful flood and my chin drops to my chest as I pant.
I feel like I just ran a marathon, followed by an iron man, and then went ahead and let some asshole beat the shit out of me. My eyes slip closed and I take deep breaths to slow my heart. It takes a moment for me to realize that my hand is rubbing against the scar between my breasts, that I’m no longer stuck to the leather-bound book.
My dad is hovering over me, but I don’t look at him. I shouldn’t feel betrayed by his actions. The man carved a spell into my chest after all, but this stings. I can’t believe I let him do something like this to me again.
Wildcard.
My head jerks up. Because Cohen sounded like he was right in the room with me. That can’t be true. He’s in the parking lot of the mental health facility. But then I blink and heisthere, along with the other five males who hold my heart. But they look… insubstantial, see through like they’re here butnot.
Tell us you’re okay,he urges, his mouth moving, but his voice sounding in my head.
I nod and drop my hand from my chest. “I-I think I’m okay,” I say out loud.
Six sets of eyes run over me, and I wonder if wherever they are they see me as a vaguely glowing see-through being like I see them. Fielder’s moss green eyes move to my father standing next to me. His jaw is tight and his hands clenched as he asks,what did he do to you?
