Page 82 of Where the Roses Bloom
She was home.
That was the only thing I could focus on right now—her body tucked against mine, warm and solid and alive. Willow’s breath ghosted over my chest, steady and soft, her hand resting just above my heart.
I hadn’t realized how tight I’d been wound until I got her back in my arms. Not until I’d seen her sitting in the dark in her stalled-out car, pale as a ghost herself, shaking like a leaf. I’d wanted to wrap her up in flannel and firelight and never let her go again.
Silas was on the couch downstairs. Neither of us said much when we came in—just shared a look that saidwe’re not done with this,and left it there. I didn’t want to think about Carter. Not yet. Not when I’d just gotten Willow back.
She shifted against me, her leg sliding over mine, and I held her tighter.
“You didn’t tell me everything,” she murmured against my chest.
I let out a breath. “Didn’t want to scare you before you got home.”
“You were scared.”
“Yeah,” I admitted. “I was.”
Her witch-gold eyes met mine. “What happened?”
I exhaled again, like I couldn’t quite get enough oxygen in or out. “Phones were down all day…heard a voice in the house, saw some shit. Somethin’s wrong, Willow.”
“You should have looped me in.”
“Figured you had enough to worry about, what with delivering a baby and all that.”
She didn’t laugh. Just looked at me like she already knew—like she’dfeltit too.
“I think Carter’s still here,” I said finally. “I think he’s attached himself to the house. Or to me. Or maybe to you. And it figures…pissed the guy off enough before he had to go and die.”
Her brows pulled together, and I could see the flicker of fear she didn’t want to show. “The bouquet. The static. The engine dying…”
I nodded. “It’s not coincidence.”
Willow was quiet for a long time, her fingers tracing an absent shape against my chest. I wasn’t sure if it was entirely random or if she was casting a spell. Whatever it was, I didn’t care.
“I don’t think he’s angry,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “I think he’spossessive.Like—he came here to get me back and that turned into his unfinished business.”
“House was never haunted in a bad way before,” I muttered.
Willow sucked in a breath.
“I’m sorry,” she breathed.
I turned toward her fully, hooking a hand around the back of her neck and pressing my forehead to hers.
“Hey. No,” I said, low and firm. “You don’t get toapologize for him.”
Her eyes were shining now, and that undid me more than anything. Not the static. Not the voice. Not even the cold that had crept into the bones of this house.
But this? Her thinking this was her fault?
“He was the one who treated you like an accessory,” I said. “He was the one who came here trying to dig his claws back in. You’re not responsible for the way a man breaks himself over what he thinks he owns.”
She blinked hard, but didn’t look away. “He used to say I belonged to him, even when he was treating me like garbage. Like…in a God-ordained way.”
My grip tightened just slightly. “You don’t belong to anyone.”
She exhaled, shaky. “I do now.”
