Page 26 of Potions and Proposals
Glancing over her shoulder, his eyes lingered on her back like he knew something. “I never knew you got a tattoo.”
Lucy flushed. He must have seen the crescent moon between her shoulder blades last night. Well, he’d seen pretty much all of her.
“Looks good.” He winked, standing at the end of the staircase.
“Hope you enjoyed the view,” Lucy said, trying not to let him see that he’d caught her off guard, “because you’ll never see it again.”
As embarrassed as she was about his discovery, she was relieved he didn’t say anything else about last night’s events. They had enough to worry about, and their night beneath the stars wasn’t one of them.
“Except in my dreams!” Benedict called, and Lucinda flipped him off across the lobby. He hadn’t planned to tell her about the tattoo, but he couldn’t resist an opportunity to see her flustered.
Droplets fell from his hair down the back of his shirt, reminding him of his current state. He didn’t want his guests to see him, as she had put it, looking like a drowned rat.
The private elevator took him to the fifth floor – his private quarters. Shrouded in the darkness of his wing, far from any guests, he waved his hand to light the torches… only to be greeted by darkness.
“Damn spell.” Benedict dropped his head. The torches helped keep away the draughts the stone walls attracted, no matter how frequently he had the gaps filled. “I should’ve knownbetter than to agree to the binding. The Hawthornes are meant to be Good,” he muttered to himself.
His wet shoes squelched against the carpet as he took the silver key from his pocket and unlocked the tall double doors. No one else had a key; his quarters were strictly off-limits. Shivering, he tossed his damp shirt onto the black velvet couch in the sitting area, regretting his decision not to install lighting instead of keeping the old candelabras on the walls. There was only one large window by his desk to let in some light. It looked out on the whole town; these rooms used to be a watch tower, dating back to when there had been a threat of invasion during the war on witches.
“They wouldn’t have pulled such a stunt if Mum hadn’t put forward my name. Without that, we wouldn’t have had to agree to the binding ritual.” He wasn’t used to the cold – usually his fire kept him warm, no matter the weather. At least Lucinda’s coat had protected her from the worst of the storm he’d created. He’d had no idea how much power she held in that small, curvy frame. She was a force to be reckoned with.
I could go to the coven and tell them I changed my mind about the binding…but since the town knew of their engagement, he feared damaging the Matherson name.People need to see us as steady and reliable. Once the spell runs its course, we can figure out what to do.
He considered stopping by the Hawthornes. In two days they’d have dinner together, so he could be sure to see and talk to Lucinda. Maybe even clear the air between him and her family; given the spell they’d cast, he got the impression he wasn’t in their good books. It wasn’t like the visit would be unusual. Ever since his father passed, he’d been dragged along to Hawthorne House on a regular basis. Not that he minded all that much: Grams Hawthorne was a sweet old lady, and Wilhelmina was one hell of a cook.
Benedict’s mum had always left the cooking to Dad, and when he’d died, the kitchen, filled of his untouched pots and pans, had sent her into a deep depression. They didn’t have to worry about such memories now, since their old kitchen was full of chefs and built to feed their guests. He’d made sure she never had to stand over a stove again, unless she desired it.
He was dripping everywhere –he needed to get changed. He moved around his desk, but in the dim light he caught his shin on a side table. “Son of a—” he exclaimed, rubbing his shin. “Pumpkin is going to pay for this.”
He glanced at the desk drawers, but he wouldn’t have any matches to light the candelabras; he’d never needed them before. He sighed, exhausted by the day that had barely begun.
In his bedroom, he quickly pulled on a white T-shirt and grey sweats. He loved his neutral shades just as much as he loved order and structure. Unlike Lucinda in her many colours– the definition of chaos. Usually, he’d never leave his quarters dressed like this, but all he cared about right now was finding some matches and lighting the fireplace.
He thought of the spell again as he stormed out of his room. There was no way he and Lucinda were soulmates. The spell had made a mistake, either because of the ingredient she had mentioned or their agreement. But he couldn’t help but shake the feeling there was more to it.
Maybe the solution is for one of us to leave town– but as he marched down the stairs to the third floor (the fourth four was strictly for vampires and nocturnal guests; it would be a waste of time to search there), did he get struck by a sinking feeling at the thought? The rush of unease stopped him in his tracks. He wasn’t sure what disturbed him more – being bound to Lucinda forever, or never seeing her again.
Thankfully, he didn’t have time to linger on the revelation. A cleaner’s cart sat outside the first guest room he passed.Benedict’s sudden appearance startled the cleaner coming out of the room.
“Sir? Can I help you with something?” Marty asked, his arms bundled with dirty towels. Glancing at Benedict’s sweats, bare feet and dripping hair, Marty added, “Were you looking for a towel?”
Benedict groaned internally. He prided himself on professionalism, and he certainly didn’t want the coven to hear he’d walked around his hotel barefoot.
“I’m fine, but there was a problem with my shower. I was on my way to look for someone to help when a guest asked me for some matches,” he lied, trying to stop the gossip before it started.
Marty nodded. “I’m sorry a guest disturbed you, sir. If you give me the room number, I can bring them over,” he offered, dropping the dirty towels into his cart.
“No need to trouble yourself – their room is on my way back.” Benedict grabbed a packet of matches from the cart. “Let’s keep this between us.”
Marty nodded, closing the door to the room he’d finished cleaning. Benedict knew he could be trusted; he’d worked for their family since before the manor had become a hotel.
“Can I assist with anything else? Perhaps some slippers?”
“No, no, you carry on.” Benedict hurried away. It was hard to sound like the boss while barefoot.
Back in the safety of his quarters, he lit the torches and hoped the rest of his day would be less eventful.
He’d spoken too soon. His younger brother was sitting cross-legged on his desk. Benedict jumped.
