Back in a Spell (The Witches of Thistle Grove, #3)(77)
“It’s true,” I said, with the same equanimity. “I know my family—or, at least, the two of them who lead us. But we’re not . . . we aren’t all like that. Gareth isn’t, or at the very least, he’s trying his best not to be. Though I’ll be the first to admit, he still fails with unfortunate frequency.”
“Unsurprising,” Emmy said, with a crisp half shrug. “But I’m glad to hear some efforts are being made. That’s a new development.”
“And I’m not like that,” I went on. “Or I wouldn’t be sitting here, telling you all of this.”
“No, you wouldn’t, would you,” she said wryly, a faint smile curling her plum-glossed lips. “You’d be challenging me to a duel. The Great British Sorcery-Off. One that you’d probably win, by the sound of it.”
“But I don’t want to win,” I said with a little twitch of a shrug, and the truth of it melted warmly through my veins. Nothing near as headily sweet as that scorching goddess fire, but real and sustaining all the same. “Not at everyone else’s expense. Not if it means I have to fight you for Thistle Grove. I can’t live with that; I don’t want that for this town. Or for either of us.”
Emmy’s piercing gaze shifted between my eyes as she assessed my sincerity, the blue in it dimming noticeably, her hands knitting more loosely in her lap.
“And I’m . . . Emmy, I am so sorry about Delilah and the wards,” I continued, my voice fracturing, my lips trembling with the effort of holding back tears.
A different me would have hated that, such an admission of weakness in front of a member of a rival family. But I didn’t feel any self-castigation, not a hint of regret. If anything, I was glad Emmy could hear my remorse, see that I truly meant what I said.
“That was a terrible mistake, the worst choice I’ve ever made,” I continued, wresting myself back under control. “I can’t undo it, or make any excuses for myself. And I know, I understand, that there’ll have to be consequences for me. I accept that, whatever they end up being—along with whatever kind of restitution I can offer.”
“I’m really glad to hear that, Nina,” Emmy said, that little smile widening into something more genuine. “So. What shall we do, the two of us, instead of dueling?”
24
Fire in the Sky
I stood in front of Morty’s door for almost five minutes before I summoned the courage to knock. I knew he could feel me out here on the threshold; even through the shielded bond, being this close to him felt like standing at the outermost periphery of a bonfire, its warmth enticingly close but just out of reach. And if I could feel him inside, that meant he could feel me, too—and he wasn’t opening the door for me.
What if he couldn’t forgive me, even though I’d done the right thing? What if he decided that I’d taken too long with my decision, that someone who struggled so hard with what they wanted, who couldn’t immediately choose honor and nobility, wasn’t a person he wanted in his life?
Only one way to find out, I guessed.
My stomach lurching with preemptive, aching nausea, I rapped my fist against the peeling wood.
He opened on the second knock—so he had been waiting for me to make the move. His hair was wet from a recent shower, and he stood barefoot, in a black tank that bared his collarbones and those corded, watercolored arms, ripped jeans that clung low to his hips. We stared at each other for a moment, long enough for him to prop a forearm against the doorjamb, shift his weight into it in a feline way that made my insides flutter despite everything.
“Well?” he said, carefully neutral, jeweled eyes shifting between mine. “Did you have something to say to me?”
“Yes,” I replied, swallowing. “I do. Could I—do you think I could come in, to talk?”
He licked his lips, considering. I couldn’t quite feel his uncertainty through the shielded bond, but I could speculate what he felt; a deep ambivalence about letting me in, in case what I had to tell him meant that we’d never be seeing each other again. The kind of emotions you wouldn’t want seeping into your apartment walls, tainting them with the memory.
“Sure,” he said finally, shifting sideways to let me move past him. He smelled even more strongly than normal of almond skin and floral hair product, and I had a dual lurch of sensation as the pit of my stomach tightened with both instant desire and fear of rejection.
Morty’s living room was cozily dim, soft lamplight falling across the plush scarlet beanbags and blue velvet couch, the Turkish rug draped over the floorboards somehow managing not to clash with the rest of the eclectic decor. Old-school framed movie posters hung all over the walls, from Indiana Jones and Star Wars to Blade Runner, alongside Vampire Weekend and Ratatat concert flyers. I didn’t remember having seen the collapsible silks rig in the corner by the window, its tip taller than the dormer windows; maybe he’d been practicing before his shower.
I followed him to the couch, sitting down primly with legs crossed, unsure how close to him I was allowed to be. He took the other end of the couch, establishing a firm buffer zone between us, though even at that distance his proximity made my head swim a little, heat rising to my cheeks.
Triple goddess, it was so fucking awkward to be this turned on by someone who might be chucking you out of their place in a matter of minutes.