Page 32 of Who Owns You?

I bite my lip, shame flushing my cheeks as I shake my head. “Nope, I’m sorta shallow, I guess. I came to see the castle and qualify to get my inheritance.”

“Qualify? Are there hidden stipulations or something?” he asks, and that sentence makes the Irish brogue in his voice thicker.

Something about it soothes me as it makes me think. “Not really hidden. They were right on the will in black and white. I never met the aunt I inherited this all from, so I was really surprised.” I laugh softly, forcing the sound out because that’s just what I do when things are painfully awkward inside my head.

“Your parents never told you? No trips with them when you were little? If you inherited the castle, then you must have ties to Ireland.”

I wince sharply, nearly falling off my seat if not for Julius. With his tail, he catches the chair before it tips, and he wraps his hands around my waist to keep me from moving an inch. I want to claw into him and make him release me so I can run and never look back at this beautiful kitchen and the handsome gargoyle.

It feels like he’s lit a match to start one of his simmer pots, but he doesn’t know I’ve actually filled the whole pot with flammable gas.

“My parents are dead.” The words are matter of fact, flat, even, to the ears of anyone who might expect heartbreak or deep sorrow.

He digs his fingers into my sides, grip tightening as I wiggle slightly. Some of my urges are harder to suppress than others, and the one to flee is nearly nuclear at the moment. Julius’ expression softens, and he tips his chin down a little. His glasses scratch gently down his nose before he makes a softshhhsound.

“I’m so sorry, Charlotte. Just breathe, you’re alright. I won’t hurt you,” he whispers, hands not budging, though his tail drifts up and pushes my hair back from my face.

The thought of biting him quickly passes through my mind, and it rips a laugh from me that borders on hysterical. Then, the tears that I didn’t know had been building roll down my cheeks.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” he repeats, pulling me easily from my stool and into his lap, crushing me in a hug that constricts my breaths but imparts a heavy feeling of security.

“I was in high school, but it”—hiccup—“still sucks so much”—hiccup—“I never got to ask them so many questions, and then Marcus said something,”

“And what was that, sweetling?” Julius asks, moving one hand from around me to the middle of my back to rub soothing circles.

“He said I was a witch!” Even to my ears, the words sound more hysterical than my accompanying sob.

Julius stiffens but says nothing.

Tears and snot flood down my face, and surely, any illusion of possible attractiveness he might have felt toward me must fizzle and die a hard death.

“And why the fuck are you all so hot? It’s like some kind of cosmic fuck you,” I croak, the wave of emotion finally ebbing.

My hands must have been moving of their own volition because when I finally realize they’re resting against his chest, I can feel steady warmth and pulsing beneath my fingertips. I hesitate to keep them there. But the heavy presence of Julius’ hand on my back never lets up. As he continues to rub steady circles, it helps my breaths come more evenly.

When I can breathe without hiccupping, he speaks. “I see. I’m so sorry about your parents, Charlotte. You’re here now, and if I can, I’ll help you find all the answers you want.”

I clench my hands into fists, the lack of straight answers winding my whole being tight.

“And the witch thing?” I murmur.

“I don’t think I’m the best person to talk to you about that. Have you thought about talking to Eloise? She and her wife practice, and they would be much better help than any of my nest. We have some magic, but it’s entirely different stuff,” heexplains gently. He cups my cheek with the hand not stroking my back and guides my face so we make eye contact. “But I do believe you’re a witch and a special one at that.”

I sniffle, leaning into his touch. “Great.”

I think about contacting Eloise. I really, really, really think about it, but I talk myself out of it in the end. It feels like a lot to put on a kindly stranger, even if she is a witch too. Instead, I do the only thing I can think of and turn to the internet. With supernaturals revealing themselves, therehasto be a wealth of knowledge somewhere. If anything, there have to at least be a few books that will hold more water than the stuff that populates some Reddit forums. I scroll through a forum on witchcraft for an hour before I realize thatno actual witches are probably in established covensor whatever.

I shut my laptop with a groan.

I don’t want to call Eloise, but I need to. She’s the only one with any sort of information on this aunt of mine. I try to think of how I’m going to broach the subject.

Should I just come out with it and ask? Should I try to get her to bring up the big W word? Should I just try another day and do it in person?

“Fuck that idea,” I breathe.

In-person questioning quickly gets pushed to the last resort section of my mental checklist.

Suddenly, my boobs begin to vibrate. My phone is stashed in there so I don’t lose it when I’m wandering the castle. Slipping a hand into my overalls, under my shirt, and then into my bra,I peel my phone away from the flesh of my breast and wipe off some of the sweat with a wince.

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