Page 51 of Once Charmed, Twice Cursed
“Right here. You’re looking at him.”
I swing widened eyes back to the intruder. “You...talk about yourself in the third person?”
He laughs, but there’s something wrong with it. It comes out too high, too fast, and my hope fractures with a sad, snapping sound.
I do my best to cling to the broken pieces. Weston will come. Any moment now, my luck will rear its head and put a stop to what’s unfolding.
“Don’t bother waiting for it,” Ramses says. “It won’t save you.”
“What won’t?”
“Your Mark.”
The air in my lungs thins to a whisper. “What? Why not?”
His smile widens. “Because. Ramses is lucky, too.” He reaches up and tugs his cravat away from his throat. And there, in stark relief, is a familiar three-pointed knot. A triquetra, black as jet.
He’s...Marked. Oh, goddess.
“You’re a Charm,” I rasp.
“Mmm-hmm. And when the Charm wants to find you, find you he does. Ramses walked straight to you.”
My pulse skips and stutters. This can’t be happening. “Stay away from me.”
To my horror, he steps closer. “Don’t make this too hard on yourself, now. Ramses doesn’t like being forceful with women.”
I scramble backwards, flowers tumbling from my frozen fingers, the basket thudding into the grass. I open my mouth to scream, but he lunges forward and seizes my wrist.
At the touch, a shock of sensation lances into my arm, like the buzz of a thousand bees trapped beneath my skin. A high-pitched whine builds in my ears.
Fortuna, I’ve never touched another Charm before, and I don’t like it. At all.
Pain engulfs me. The last thing I see before darkness claims me is a pair of quicksilver eyes, glinting with exultation.
Chapter Seventeen
Awareness trickles in, layer by layer.
My head pounds. Every inch of me feels raw and scalded, like I’ve been dipped in acid and hung out on the line to dry.
I peel my eyes open for the second time today.
Except this awakening feels nothing like the first. The hope that buoyed me this morning has vanished, leaving me bereft. Because wherever I am right now, it’s somewhere Weston’s not.
Shadows crowd the room. A single candle glows on a table, but I can’t tell whether it’s noon or midnight, because there are no windows. At least whatever bed I’ve been dumped into is plush, the bedding luxurious.
I struggle into a sit. My stomach dips and sways, but I manage to hold it still after a few resolute swallows.
Then I shriek and flinch back. A man sits at the foot of the bed, regarding me with mild eyes.
“Alverton,” I manage.
“Miss Bria.” The duke is immaculately dressed, his hairbrushed back with precision. He’s every bit as handsome as I remember. “I trust you enjoyed your journey?”
I blink. Is he serious? My eyes dart, taking measure of my surroundings. We must be on his estate, because the furnishings are lavish. A gilt-trimmed wardrobe stands against one wall. A wedding dress hangs from its door, even more extravagant than the one I wore into the woods.
I hate it on sight.
