Page 19 of Wicked Chains
I'm taken aback by the accusation. "I'm not—" I start, then catch myself. Why am I defending myself to her? "I don't need to harm your familiar to control you, Rose. I already own you." I allow my gaze to travel the length of her body, “Every lovely inch of you.”
The frog—Hank—croaks indignantly and hops from her shoulder to the desk beside her, puffing up as if to make himself appear larger.
"See?" Rose says. "Even Hank knows what you are."
"And what am I?" I lean closer, my face inches from hers.
"A bully," she says. "A power-hungry, controlling asshole who's still butthurt about your coven not getting their own way three hundred years ago."
I feel a flash of anger, hot in my chest.
"My coven was all but destroyed. Innocent lives lost. Your ancestor, Abigail, saw to that when she betrayed us. When shebroke her oath to the Blood Moon and aligned herself with our enemies."
"That wasn't me," Rose says. "I didn't even know any of this existed a few weeks ago."
I reach out, my fingers hovering just above the skin of her arm where the mark is hidden. I don't need to touch her to feel its pull beneath her skin. "Do you know what she did, your ancestor? Do you know how many of my coven died because of her choice?"
“Of course not.” Rose's eyes narrow. "But I saw her die," she says. "I was there when you murdered her."
"Abigail was suspended in time for centuries, Rose. I freed her," I correct. "And reclaimed what was rightfully ours."
The frog hops closer to Rose's hand, and she strokes its bumpy skin with one finger, seemingly drawing comfort from the creature's presence. It's a strangely intimate gesture.
"Don't touch me," Rose says, though I haven't laid a hand on her.
"I don't need to touch you to control you," I remind her, demonstrating by sending a small surge of magic through the blood mark.
She gasps, her back arching involuntarily as the sensation moves through her. I watch, fascinated by the way her body responds to my magic. The power I hold over her should be satisfying enough. It should be all I want from this Smith witch.
So why do I find myself wanting more?
"Let me go," she says again. “Stop this.”
"Stop what?" I ask, curious. "I haven't hurt you, Rose. I haven't even touched you."
"This," she gestures between us with her free hand. "This sick game you're playing. Acting like you own me."
"I do own you," I say simply. "The blood mark ensures that."
"My bloodline’s power, maybe," she concedes. "But not my body. Not me. Not who I am."
And who is she? She's a Smith witch. The legacy of the woman who betrayed my ancestor, who betrayed our coven. I should despise everything about her. I do despise her.
And yet.
The way she protects that ridiculous frog as if it's the most precious thing in the world. It all pulls at me in ways I didn't anticipate.
"You think your spirit is free?" I lean closer still. "Your defiance is just another form of reaction to me. Everything you do is in response to my actions. Even your rudeness serves me."
"Bullshit," she says, her breath warm against my face. We're close now, too close. "I was mouthy long before I met you. Ask anyone."
A strand of her dark hair has fallen across her face. I reach up to brush it away, my fingers barely grazing her cheek. She flinches at the contact, but doesn't pull away.
"Sebastian wanted to trust Abigail," I say softly. "Did you know that? He considered her a friend, perhaps at one time more. And she betrayed him. Three hundred years we've waited for thismoment," I continue. "To restore what was stolen from us. And here you are."
Her familiar lets out a low croak, almost a warning. The sound pulls me back to the present, reminding me of where we are, who we are.
I watch her lips, slightly parted, the lower one caught between her teeth. I'm close enough to taste her, if I wanted to.
