Page 4 of Once Charmed, Twice Cursed
I’ll do everything—everything—in my power to keep Weston’s luck from hurting him.
Chapter Two
When I arrive, the cotton mill is packed.
The machinery has been shut down for the day and hauled to the floor’s edges, clearing a ring in the center of the room, though I can’t get a proper look with so many people here. Dozens of men jostle against one another, their foreheads glinting, their shirtsleeves rolled to their elbows. Here and there, jewel-toned skirts flash in the crowd, but for the most part, the place reeks of excitement and male bodies.
I wade into the chaos. Or try to, but those who notice me inevitably edge closer instead of further away. Eyes drop to my Mark as if pulled there.
Heat stains my cheeks. These men are probably only looking at my triquetra, but I never really know, considering its proximity to my neckline.
“Excuse me, please,” I say, but laughter and shouted bets swallow up my words.
A nearby man takes pity on me. He cups his mouth with work-roughened hands. “Move! Let the lady through!”
At that, the crowd parts—barely—and Isqueeze forward. Someone trails calloused fingers along my forearms. Another someone grazes my neck with the back of a hand.
The touches are innocent, I know. Just a few bold souls trying to glean some luck, and none of them would actually grope me. They wouldn’t dare. Not after Weston broke four of Theodore Cavanaugh’s fingers last year—not to mention two of his ribsandhis nose—after Theodore told half of Pine’s End he’d taken my virginity.
I’d never seen Weston as furious as when he made Theodore take it all back. In public.
Even though it wasn’t actually a lie.
The sea of bodies closes in again. The temperature ratchets upward until my blood simmers. Am I too late? Judging by the wet-sounding cracks echoing off the rafters, the fight is already underway.
Ragged cheers erupt. My less-than-impressive stature prevents me from seeing much, but luckily, the crowd shifts, granting me a sightline. And there he is. Weston Wildes.
My heart goes into freefall.
The moment imprints itself on my mind. He’s bare from the waist up, save for the linen strips wrapped around his hands. I’ve caught him mid-punch, one fist stretched while the other guards his chin, and it’s...breathtaking. He’s all long, clean lines and tanned skin, golden hair and angry eyes. His triquetra glints between his collarbones. The inverted point leads my eyes downward, over his sculpted chest and serrated abdomen, then to the twin lines that slant into his breeches.
Fortuna’s blessings, Theodore didn’t even begin to compare.
Which probably explains why I chose him. Because hedidn’t matter. Because no one will ever matter like this man does.
Weston’s fist connects, and the world leaps into motion again. The other fighter’s head snaps back. Crimson droplets spray, but whoever the man is, he keeps his feet.
Impressive.
Weston tucks his fists and retreats a few feet, circling with the focus of a tiger preparing to pounce. If not for his Mark, he’d probably win most every fight, because he’s lethal. Poised. He’s fury cloaked in strength.
In other words, entirely different in the ring than he is with me.
The crowd in front of me shifts, blocking my view again. Something happens that makes everyone shout at once.
Panic flickers along my nerves. Weston looked fine a second ago, but that Mark of his invites misfortune. He courts disaster just by existing.
Someone lands a punch. The cheering intensifies. I push and shove, but I might as well hurl myself against a stone wall for all that the crowd yields.
Damnit. Ten more feet, and the radius of my magic would touch Weston’s. Our opposing forces would momentarily cancel out, but I can’t get close enough.
I wedge myself between two bodies and glimpse Weston knocking his opponent to the floor. He raises a fist. Muscle and sinew strain.
The din reaches a fever pitch, and for a second, I dare to hope he’ll win. That his abundance of skill will trump the odds forever stacked against him.
But something flashes overhead, yanking my gaze up to the rafters. There’s a...housecatup there, stalking along thebeam over the ring. The animal looks innocent enough, but I know better.
When it comes to Weston Wildes, nothing is innocent. Or random.
