Page 53 of The Witch's Heart
The guys don't speak French, so they rely on subtitles as we settle in to watch as the Count exacts his revenge through meticulous planning after being betrayed and falsely imprisoned. I mentally take notes. Who knows, maybe the Count can offer us a few pointers for surviving our own hell.
When we’ve all finished our food, I set the plates aside and lean into Declan's arms, my head against his chest, and lay my feet on Dean's lap, who takes the opportunity to massage them while Declan drops kisses on my head at random intervals. A warmth fills me, a connection to these two I can't explain, even to myself, but I feel so deeply I know we are inextricably linked.
A pack. They’re my pack now. My family. The knowledge settles something deep inside of me.
“What would it be called?” I ask suddenly.
The brothers turn to me.
“The bakery,” I add. “If you had it, what would you name it?”
They share a look and Dean grins but Declan looks sheepishly away.
“You can tell me,” I assure them.
“We’re undecided,” Dean says, eyes sparkling like he wants to laugh but won’t. “I want to call it Sweet On You but Declan has a better idea.”
I wait but Dean only continues to eye his brother with a teasing grin while Declan stares down at a loose thread in the blanket like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen.
“Dec,” I prompt, curiosity eating at me now.
Declan glances over at me and there’s a challenge in his dark eyes. “Seriously Dough,” he says in a flat voice.
Like he’s daring me to laugh at him.
The moment he says the words, Dean lets out a snicker.
Declan glares at him. “Your idea isn’t any better, asshole.”
“I know but hearing you make a joke--a pun at that--with that murderous look on your face is just the funniest thing. People will come from all over just to hear you say the name.”
“Fuck off,” Declan says and I press my fingers to my lips as a smile forms.
Dean’s right. Declan’s non-humor with that punny name would be hysterical and now that I’ve pictured it, it’s hard not to laugh.
Declan catches my eye and grumbles, “Not you too.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell him quickly, grabbing for his hand. I squeeze it, still trying not to laugh. “But Dean’s right. It’s like one of those restaurants where the staff is mean to you on purpose--for entertainment. You’d be so perfect.”
Declan’s eyes lose some of their heat. “Is that a thing?”
“It’s a thing,” I assure him.
His expression lightens and there’s a new gleam in his eye now. He punches Dean in the shoulder. “That settles it. My idea should win.”
“Uh-huh, we’ll see about that,” Dean says but he’s laughing.
And then Declan is laughing too and then we all are.
It feels good to laugh. Lighter somehow.
Finally, we settle back into the show.
We are halfway through the third episode when someone at the door interrupts us again, and Sir barges in.
Unlike his first visit, he looks ready to snap. I think I've just bargained away bad for worse.
Declan and Dean both tense, Declan's arms tightening around me.
