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“Why the hell are you doing this to me?” I ask quietly, allowing the tears of frustration to spill free. “Why won’t you just let me go?”
His eyes soften, and he raises his hand to my face, softly wiping his thumb over my wet cheek. “I can feel your hate like it’s mine.” His voice is soft and oddly comforting. “I’m sorry, chérie.”
How does he do that? How does he guess my feelings correctly, even before I have them sorted out? Does he really have magic? Can he really read minds? I’ve gone from confused to angry and back to being confused all in the space of a second. Now the intense thudding of my heart has nothing to do with anger. I feel like I’m drowning in the deep, fascinating depth of his intense green eyes.What is he doing to me…this man?
Why do I always feel so powerless and helpless before him?
Pocus is the first to break the charged intensity that’s settled between us as we gaze into each other’s eyes. He suddenly moves away from me as if burned by fire. He clears his throat loudly and drops his head with a sigh. He raises his head after a few seconds, and my heart clenches with disappointment. He has his mask of indifference back on.
“I put my personal number in your phone,” he says, gesturing at the phone that lay limply on my palm. “It’s on speed dial. I also put in the clubhouse’s contact number. I’ll be away for a few hours. Call the main room if you need anything while I’m away.”
“And when am I supposed to call you?” I ask. As I look into his gorgeous green eyes, I let my lips pull up in a challenging smirk. I don’t know why, but I suddenly want to provoke him…I want to know what makes him tick.
He makes a smooth movement with his lips, reflecting the devilish intent in his sharp green eyes. “Call me when you miss me, ma petite. And I’ll be right by your side.”
I scoff loudly and roll my eyes at him. “In your dreams, Prez.”
His eyes open a fraction wider, and his smirk widens into a genuinely amused smile that softens his eyes. “You call me Prez now?”
I shrug. “In my head, I also call you asshole, dickhead, and douchebag…among others.”
To my surprise, he barks out hearty laughter, and for a second, I’m trapped in the magical effect of his mirth. I can’t help but notice the little dimple on his left cheek and how his eyes crinkle by the corners. He looks like a fantasy – a futile yet poignant dream.
He stops laughing and looks into my eyes, probably trying to figure out my thoughts again. I hold his gaze unabashed, even though I was caught staring. The air between us is suddenly charged with that inexplicable tension that seems to always catch us by surprise…it’s beyond our control. Pocus tears his gaze from mine and slaps his palms on his knees, rising to his feet.
“I’ll leave you to rest now,” he says and heads toward the door.
I watch him go, suddenly feeling bereft. I loathe him so much, yet it’s almost as if I don’t want him to go. He stirs something in me. He brings to life an intangible part of me that I never knew existed.
“Pocus?” I call softly.
His hand pauses by the door’s knob, and he slightly turns his head to look at me. “Oui?”
My heartbeat seems to falter as his ardent green eyes fall on mine. Those eyes seem to see into my soul, knocking off my defenses and probing at my vulnerabilities. I clear my throat awkwardly, struggling to hold on to my rapidly slipping train of thought.
Why did I call his name again? Perhaps, it was a feeble attempt to make him stay for a little longer.
That’s not possible…I can barely stand him. Right?
“I…what’s the deal with Hex?” I ask stupidly.
Pocus seems momentarily confused. I would have been too. I couldn’t have asked a more random question.
“Hex?” he repeats, his brows dipping slightly. “What about him?”
“Yeah, he…,” I pause to clear my throat awkwardly. “You know what? Never mind. You can…umm…go attend to your business.”
He studies my face with the same intense curiosity I’ve associated with him. I keep my face impassive and raise my hand in a mock salute. Pocus nods curtly and leaves the room without another word. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, placing a hand lightly on my rapidly thudding chest.
What the hell is going on with me?
CHAPTERELEVEN
Pocus
Mama’s shack hasn’t changed a bit since the last time I was here over a year ago. It doesn’t matter that she resides in the swamp just a few hour’s ride from the clubhouse. One doesn’t visit Mama’s shack without a tangible reason. I look around Mama’s consultation room. The ironic combination of the animal skulls and delicate feathers of several colorful birds hanging off the walls never ceases to amaze me. It’s like the decorator was trying to strike a balance between beauty and grotesque. But I know better…Mama isn’t one to bother with aesthetics. Each placement is symbolic, and every damn object within these walls is steeped in magic. Mama’s shack is known to house the most dangerous relics in the state, and they are proudly displayed in a fascinating arrangement that’s aimed to ensnare the curious minds of visitors. There’s magic in every nook and cranny, even the most innocent-looking ornament. No one knows the true depths of the old relics and the consequences of mishandling them.
Everyone who comes in here knows better than to touch anything without Mama’s guidance and instructions. There is an infamous story about a man coming to Mama for divination. While waiting to be attended to, he stood to admire himself in front of the oval mirror, standing a mere three inches to my left. It was said that he was swallowed by the mirror to be seen no more. While Mama has neither denied nor confirmed the rumor, no one has been willing to play around with her home decor since then, myself included.
