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Clearly, there’s something wrong with me. Something really fucking wrong with me. There has to be for me to respond this way to him.
His fingers tease my clit through the thin material, and I close my eyes, fighting the pleasure I want so desperately to deny. How is it possible to feel this way with someone I hate? Someone I most certainly despise.
I have to hold onto that feeling. It’s the only way I’ll survive him. But then that voice is in my head, reminding me I won’t survive him. Suddenly, I’m at war with myself, wondering why I shouldn’t enjoy it if it’s the only chance I’ll get to experience it.
Before I can come to any conclusions, Azrael stops, leaving me cold and unsatisfied as I blink open my eyes to meet his.
“Only good little witches get to come,” he tells me smugly as he releases my hair and kisses me on the lips. “Think about that before you challenge me again.”
I have about five different insults on the tip of my tongue ready to hurl his way, but he doesn’t give me the chance. Before I even realize what’s happening, he’s hauling me into his room, manhandling me into one of his sitting chairs.
“Stay there,” he commands.
I glare at his back as he retreats into the bathroom, only to reappear a few moments later with a wet cloth and some lotion. I realize what he’s doing just before he turns my head, dipping it forward so he can access the tattoo on the back of my neck.
I’m expecting more of his roughness, but his touch is gentle as he cleans me, almost reverent. But I know that can’t be right. There’s nothing but hatred between us. That’s the only thing that makes sense.
Even as I tell myself that, goosebumps erupt along my arms as he cleans me with an attentiveness that feels at odds with everything I know about him. I don’t want to think about why it matters to him if the tattoo heals properly, so I chalk it up to him not wanting his brand on me to be ruined.
He allows it to dry and applies some lotion afterward, his thumb grazing the ink before his fingers wrap around my chin and tilt my head back to meet his gaze.
“You belong to me now, Willow,” he says. “Get used to it. I want you ready for dinner with me at six o’clock. And if it wasn’t already clear, you will be in my bed tonight.”
“Oh my Goddess.” Raven groans in relief when she answers my video call. “I’ve texted you like a million times, and you haven’t answered any of them. I was getting really freaking worried. Nanna had to stop Mom from sending the calvary.”
“Willow?” My mom crowds the screen as she snatches Raven’s phone, my sisters all trying to get a peek from behind her. “Are you okay?”
“I’m okay, Mom. I’m sorry it took me so long to get back to you. I was unpacking and—”
“You’re okay?” she asks again.
I can’t help noticing the dark circles beneath her eyes, and I feel terrible that I can’t do more to settle her nerves. The only thing I have to offer is my reassurances, though I’m not sure she’ll believe them. “I’m okay, I promise.”
“He hasn’t hurt you?” she whispers.
“No,” I tell her. “Everything is fine. I swear.”
“Clara, she’s okay,” Nanna interrupts. “I told you she would be. She’s strong.”
“Hi, Nan.” I wave at her as she winks from behind Mom, her subtle way of letting me know she’s keeping a close eye on my mother.
Before I can get another word in, I’m bombarded with questions from all of my sisters and even my father. I scarcely have a chance to answer them before they start talking over each other and arguing over whose questions are the most important.
They ask me about Azrael’s estate, his family, and the wedding. I give them vague details about most of it, which is all I can manage with their eagerness to touch on every subject. It’s only after thirty minutes that they all seem to be satisfied that I am, in fact, alive and well and the world isn’t imploding. At least not today.
“Say goodbye, everybody,” Raven tells them as she snatches the phone back. “It’s my turn to talk to her.”
“Wait!” Cordelia screeches. “I have to show her the shirt I made for her.”
Raven snorts, adjusting the phone so I have a clear view of my youngest sister and her wild red curls. She holds up a black tank top that’s been embellished with rhinestones to say, ‘Hi, this is my resting witch face.’
I can’t help but laugh as she beams proudly. “I love it, Cordelia.”
“I knew you would,” she says. “I’ll give it to you next time I see you so you can wear it.”
