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But then I do think about it. Can I do that? Can I put my own issues with her family aside? Can I make small talk with Tyberius , and have Christmas with her sadistic parents, and bury everything from the last ten years if it means I get Etta as a reward?
“Roman?” she asks. “Are you still with me?”
Yes. Yes, I’m with you. Yes, I want this.
She’s dancing back and forth between her feet, nervous and painfully uncomfortable. Like she wants to bolt and pretend this conversation never happened. Suddenly, I’m getting to my feet and taking a step toward her.
“Have you thought about this,” I ask, my words coming out low and a little rough.
“Yes,” she says firmly. “Of course I have. Were you listening just now? I—”
“No,” I interrupt her and she jumps at the harsh command of my tone. I almost laugh at that. If she is shocked by that, then she really isn’t prepared for what it would mean to be bound to each other. “Have you thought about the ceremony?”
“Oh.” A flush rises to her cheeks and she looks down and away. “I mean. I figured we could just…”
She trails off and now I’m harder than I’ve ever been in my entire life, because I get the feeling she has thought about it. A lot. Was that possibly what she was thinking about the other night when I heard her whisper my name? Does she want this?
“Just what?” I ask her.
She looks up at me with wide eyes, her pupils dilated, her breathing uneven, and seems unable to find the words. But I need her to. I need to hear it, though I already know what she’s thinking, because there’s really only one option.
There are all sorts of orders of witchcraft. Some are based on old-world traditions like the Irish traditionalists and the Strega, and some are based more on distinctive practices within the same basic rules like the Alexandrians, the Gardinarians, and the Cabots. Still further, there are 0rders based around particular gods or goddesses.
No two traditions are the same, but one thing that remains similar across most sects is a less patriarchal view of religion and a rejection of puritanical ideals of sex and the body. It might be possible to fake a sexless marriage in a secular community, but not in the Order.
This wouldn’t be a sham relationship or a marriage of convenience, like in some Austen novel. What she’s asking for would be real. Till Death Do Us Part.
ChapterTwelve
ETTA
Roman takes a slow, careful, step forward. His eyes dart over me and I can’t think. I can hardly breathe when he’s watching me like this, when he’s standing so close that it would be only too easy to close the distance between us.
My breathing is ragged, my eyes wide, and I truly feel like I must look like prey to him, with the way he’s stalking me. Yet, I’m not scared. Not exactly. A little embarrassed, certainly. Overwhelmed. But mostly, excited.
“I thought we would just…figure it out,” I say, somewhat lamely, taking a step back until I nearly hit the wall.
“Figure it out?”
“Yes, why? Do you have a better idea?”
He chuckles, and I would give any amount of money in the world to know what he’s thinking.
My inner teenager, the part of me that was relentlessly teased and tormented by this man from the age of twelve onward, wonders if he’s just making fun of me. That part of me wars with my adult brain. The part of me that knows what his expression means, and who can tell the difference between a laugh of contempt and a sexy laugh, meant to make my thighs clench and send shivers up my spine.
He may not like me, but I’m almost positive that Roman Montague wants me, and that should be enough to get what I want.
I suddenly realize he hasn’t actually agreed to my plan. He went from saying he didn’t understand to asking if I’ve thought about the marriage ritual. That isn’t an agreement—it’s a very single minded clarification.
The honest answer to his question is yes, I’ve thought about the ritual. Perhaps not today—not explicitly—but I certainly spent enough time considering it over the years to say I’ve thought it through. I’ve never attended a marriage within the Order. The first anyone attends is their own, but I still know the ritual. Everyone does. It’s been whispered about in locker rooms and in summer camp cabins since as long as I can remember. But none of that really matters if we’re not going through with this.
“Are you saying you agree?” I ask, rolling my shoulders back. “Or am I wasting my time here?”
He takes another step closer. “Oh, I’m in, good girl.”
I relax slightly, even as a tiny part of me wonderswhy. I’m not sure I’ve made my case strongly enough, and the debater in me wants to hammer home my win. “Good,” I say instead. “Fantastic. That’s just great.” I’m babbling and I want to die.
“On two conditions.”
