Page 20 of Wicked Chains
I push away from the desk, creating distance between us. Rose remains where she is, watching me warily, her familiar hopping back to her shoulder as if sensing the change in my mood.
"Get out," I say, my voice rough.
She doesn't move. "What?"
"Get out," I repeat, louder this time. "Before I change my mind."
Rose straightens, confused by my sudden shift. "But?—"
"Now, Rose!" I slam my fist on the desk.
She gathers herself, scooping her familiar carefully into her hands. She moves toward the door, keeping her distance from me as she passes.
At the door, she pauses. "I don't understand you," she says quietly.
I wave my hand and undo the locking spell.
She slips out without another word, closing the door behind her. I listen to her steps disappear down the hallway.
What the hell was that?
I run a hand through my hair, disgusted with myself. She's a Smith witch. Abigail's descendant. The blood oath made flesh. She's a tool, nothing more.
No. This ends now.
Rose Smith will learn her place. She will learn to kneel, to obey, to serve the Blood Moon Coven as her ancestor should have done centuries ago. She will channel her magic for our purposes, strengthen our coven, restore what was stolen from us.
And if part of me wants her in ways that have nothing to do with her magic or ancient contracts?
That part of me will simply have to be silenced.
Eight
Rose
I slam my door shut and lean against it, trying to slow my breathing. Hank is perched on my shoulder. My hands are shaking, and I curl them into fists then cross my arms. I can’t get the sight of Ash's face out of my head, so close to mine, the look in his eyes.
"What the hell was that about?" I ask, pushing off from the door and pacing the small confines of my room. "He did all that just to show me that he could? Punishment for not doing what he said, sure, but why’d I get off so easy?"
“Ribbit?”
"I know, right? Makes no sense." I drop onto my bed, and Hank hops down to sit beside me, his little froggie body settling into the dip in the mattress. "One minute he's all 'I own you, blah blah blah,' and the next he's telling me to leave, likeI’mthe one cornering him. What game is he playing?"
I run my finger absently down Hank’s back.
I continue, finding it surprisingly easy to talk to this slimy little thing. "For a second there—just a split second—I thought he was going to kiss me." I shudder at the memory.
Hank makes a sound that could almost be interpreted as judgmental.
"I know! It's disgusting. He's literally the worst person I've ever met. He killed Abigail. He's keeping me prisoner. He can control me like I’m a toy." I flop back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.
Hank hops onto my stomach, but he’s so little that his weight is barely noticeable, and stares at me.
"Thanks for being there," I tell him, feeling only a little ridiculous for having a heart-to-heart with a frog. "I know we didn't exactly get off to a great start, but I'm glad you're here."
I might be talking to a frog, but it’s better than talking to myself. God, I wish Drake was here.
Drake. The thought of him sends a fresh wave of worry through me.
