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“It’s not what you think.”
“No? Then what is it?”
I glance up at the branch he’d used, and I can almost see the image of him hanging there.
“You’re a family of murderers.” She slaps both hands against my chest.
I look down at her, half-hearing what she’s saying, half-reliving that moment, the morning I found him.
“You motherfucker! You barbarian!” She pounds her fists against my chest, pulls at my hair and nearly scratches her nails down my face until I catch her wrists.
“Why did you come here? You don’t belong here,” I tell her.
“Did she? Did my ancestor belong here? Hanging from your fucking tree?” She rages, struggling against me.
I grip her arms and give her a good shake. “You don’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about.”
“No? Tell me then. Explain it to me. Because from what I know, once The Tithing takes place, every one of the Wildblood Sacrifices is dead within a year. That’s just history. They all die! Explain that, Azrael! Is that what you’re going to do to me? Hang me from a tree? This tree?” she asks more quietly, her voice breaking, her skin pink and stained with tears. She quits fighting, and I release her.
“Shut up, Willow. You don’t understand,” I say, more quietly too.
“I understand just fine. I understand that you’re a goddamn sadist and a murderer.” She shoves me, but when I don’t budge, she takes a step away to put distance between us. “May you rot in hell, all of you, for what you’ve done to us. Although you know what? You’re already living it, aren’t you? That’s what I feel in that house. Hell. Maybe that’s what’s killing Rébecca!”
We’re both struck silent, Willow wincing at her own words, and looking as shocked to have said them as I am to have heard them from her lips.
But I get over my shock faster. Every muscle in my body coils, and heat surges through my veins. I back her toward the tree, the very tree Abacus died on.
She puts her hands on my chest. “Azrael. I didn’t mean…” She shakes her head. “I care about Rébecca. I’m sorry, I wouldn’t—”
“You are right. Someone did die here, but it was no Wildblood witch.” I spit the words.
At that revelation, her eyes grow wide. She searches my face, the fury gone, replaced by something else. Morbid curiosity? No. Concern? No, surely not that.
It takes her a minute to put it together. We’ve kept Abacus’s suicide a secret, but she’s not stupid. I’m sure the Wildblood family has done at least some research.
“Bec said…” She looks up at the tree. “Oh, Azrael. You had a twin.”
“Shut up, Willow.” My throat closes up again, and my head throbs. “Just this once, do as you’re told and shut the fuck up.”
Her hands move to curve around my shoulders, then creep up my neck to cup my face. Her fingers come to rest on my temples, then she does something unexpected: she rises up on tiptoe and, eyes open, kisses me.
I’m taken aback, and when she does it, the throbbing in my head softens, then stops altogether.
She draws away but keeps her hands where they are, and I find myself searching her face.
“What are you doing to me?” I ask quietly, no anger, no fight in my tone. Just sadness. That sense of loss.
“Shh.” She bites her lip, then kisses me again.
This time, I wrap my arms around her, taking a handful of hair in one hand and tugging her head backward to kiss her hard on the mouth.
She doesn’t resist, wrapping her arms around my neck as I take her mouth, wanting—no, needing—to devour her whole. I push my jacket off her, then rip what’s left of her dress away until she’s naked and we’re kneeling on the ground. She draws back to pull my shirt over my head and reaches for my belt.
“What are you doing to me?” I ask her again between frantic kisses, laying my body over hers until she’s lying back on her elbows. I push her legs open to look at her. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re doing to me,” I mutter before bending my head to devour her wet pussy. Greedy, as if starved, I don’t take my time to tease or taunt. I scrape my teeth over her clit and hear her moan, her fingers weaving into my hair to pull me closer, thighs on either side of my head. Her breaths are my name as I lick the length of her, tasting all of her, tasting myself on her.
“Azrael!” she cries out. Her hands turn to fists in my hair, thighs squeezing as she arches up, throws her head back, every muscle tensing as orgasm tears through her.
When her body dips and her legs fall open, limp, and her hands drop away, I settle on my knees and watch her. Her eyes are closed, one cheek to the grass, sated, my little bride. My Little Witch.
