Azalea
He’scursed.He’sactuallyfucking cursed. This whole time.
I’m still trying to wrap my mind around what Braxton told me only moments ago before we started scouring the different books I’ve found on curses. Although, it isn’t doing me any good as I have to keep rereading paragraphs due to me being distracted at finding out that Braxton isfucking cursed.
“I can practically hear the questions humming inside that head of yours,” Braxton says, not looking up from his book.
“Well, it’s not like you’ll answer any of them.”
He told me the rules of this bargain were that I’m not allowed to ask any questions about the curse. Of course, I immediately asked him my top five questions upon hearing this:
What the fuck do you mean you’re cursed?
What is your curse?
Who cursed you?
How did you get yourself cursed?
Does any of your curse have to do with my curse?
He, of course, answered none of them.
“You know your curiosity would be infinitely sexier and less annoying if you put it to good use in, oh, I don’t know, trying to find a loophole in my curse,” Braxton quips, his eyes brimming with annoyance.
I scoff. “As if it’s my dream to be thought of as sexy by you.”
“What did you highlight in the book you were reading earlier?”
I flush. “Nothing.” I shrug, wanting to keeps some kind of leverage in case this plan to break Braxton’s curse backfires.
“Wildflower,” he presses, his tone warning.
“It’s noth—” Before I can finish my lie, he’s up on his feet and marching straight for the book he watched me put away.
I leap up from the table and uselessly grab at the sleeves of his collared shirt, trying to get him to stop his pursuit. He deflects me as if I’m no more than an insect buzzing around his head. When I race in front of him and put my hands on his chest, he finally stops. He’s only two steps away from being able to grab the book.
“Azalea, move,” he demands.
