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The spinning gets faster. Wolfe’s arm catches me around my waist as I collapse. Then, total darkness.
When my eyes open, I’m in a cozy room on a soft bed. Dark mahogany beams stretch across the ceiling, and the same wood makes up the four-poster bed. A large fireplace rises from floor to ceiling on the opposite wall, the logs popping and crackling as they burn. A glass bottle on the bedside table reflects the firelight, and I recognize it as the memory keeper I gave Wolfe. And sitting beside it is a jar of oil with the flowers and herbs we gathered together: his peace perfume.
An ache starts in my chest.
A pile of leather-bound books covers the table on the other side of the bed, and a canvas with a half-finished portrait rests on an easel between two large windows. Wooden brushes sit in jars, and tubes of paint are scattered around them. I don’t recognize the person in the portrait, but that makes sense. Theirs is a hidden life, just like Wolfe’s. I’m mesmerized by the painting, by the incredible detail it holds, by the hours he must be spending on it to get it exactly right.
I wonder what my portrait would look like if he were to paint me, but a sadness moves through me as soon as I think it. I have no need for one because I will be remembered.
I slowly stand, but I sit back down when I hear voices beyond the door.
“What were you thinking, bringing her here?” a voice says.
“She doesn’t see…” I can’t make out the rest of Wolfe’s reply.
After several more sentences that are too quiet for me to hear, the door opens and Wolfe steps inside. He gently closes it behind him.
“How long was I out?”
Wolfe pauses when he hears my voice. “Long enough for me to get you settled in my room.”
My cheeks heat as I wonder how he got me here, how much of this evening I’ll spend enveloped in his arms. Wolfe looks at the fire and the flames get stronger, and for half a second I’m stunned. Then I remember where I am.
“I always forget you can use magic at night.”
“So can you,” he says plainly.
I sigh. “Do we have to argue right now?”
“No,” he says. “We can do it later.”
He moves closer to me, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him indoors. Candlelight flickers against his dark hair and pale skin, and he seems softer here in the refuge of his home. His gray eyes don’t hold the same anger they usually do, and the muscle in his jaw isn’t tensing every few seconds.
He’s still him, but he’s comfortable here. Comfortable and perfect.
“You’re staring at me,” he says.
“You don’t look as disagreeable here.”
There’s a slight tug at the corner of his mouth that worsens the ache in my chest. “I’m flattered.”
“I meant it as a compliment.” I whisper the words, worried that all seventy-three of the witches living here will hear me otherwise.
Wolfe shakes his head and looks away. “I know you did.”
I feel as if I’ve said the wrong thing, so I don’t say anything else.
“How are you feeling?” he asks me.
“Embarrassed.” There’s something about him that makes me want to tell the truth, and I realize I’ve felt that way around him from the moment we met. I’ve shown him my anger and insecurities and wonder and fear, and never once has he said I’m too much.
It feels as if I’ve been living in the shadows and he’s invited me into the light. His dark expressions and dark magic and darkhome have lit me up inside, illuminating the things I’ve been taught to keep hidden.
His eyes find mine. “Trust me when I say you have nothing to be embarrassed about.” He pauses. “Not now. Not ever.”
We watch each other, and I’m overwhelmed with the urge to reach out to him, to take his hand and pull him close to me. In the current, I wrapped myself around him because I had to. Because I’d drown if I didn’t.
But what if I drown right here in the quiet of his room, suffocated by how desperately I want him?
