The only thing I could think to do was hold her in a tight hug, roaming hands trapped between us. When she realized I wasn’t planning to give her what she wanted, Georgiana turned from sloppy seductive to scathing. She cursed me, insulted me, and struggled to get loose.
I let her go and did my best to convince myself it was the alcohol talking. Not her.
She flew off before I could stop her.
Another handful of months, and I was sure she was done with the cliff. Done with me.
But then, on the first day of spring, there she was, in a pretty pink sundress, sitting on a picnic blanket, waiting for me.
“Hi, Bo,”she said, smiling up at me.
And I instantly forgot every hurtful word she’d thrown my way. That wasn’t the real Georgiana. This poised woman was, and I was just happy that she was back.
She kissed me again, and her mouth tasted like sweet tea.
We did more that night. Georgiana said she wanted me to be her first.
I wanted to be her everything, but I’d take whatever she was willing to give.
Riding that pleasure, I thought I was the happiest I could ever be. That there was no higher point in my life than to be what my siren needed.
“I know you want to go,” she said as we lay beside each other, staring up at the stars, the sweat drying on our bare skin. I’d told her how I was saving up money to leave Folk Haven. “But I want you to stay. Stay for me.”
“I’ll stay.” Besides, when I had told her I wanted to leave Folk Haven, live somewhere else where no one knew I was a monster, that had been before. Before she claimed me. “I’ll do anything for you, Georgie.”
I turned my head then, hoping to see her gazing back at me. But her eyes stayed pointed up at the sky as a smile overtook her mouth.
“Good.”
It wasn’t long after that I went to the cliff and found her frantic.
“Oh gods, Bo. I’m in trouble. I need you to help me.” Her eyes were glassy with tears, pupils blown wide with fear.
And just like before, I said, “Anything.”
This is my own fault.
I offered her anything, and she took me at my word.
Now I’m still paying for it.
“I’m going to need another one of these.” I wave my now-empty margarita glass in the air.
“Sure thing.” Griffith chuckles.
And he keeps them coming.
13
Mor
“Hey, Mor. Are you busy?”Griffith—a bartender at Local Brew and the one I go to for high-quality spirits when a spell calls for a touch of booze—sounds like he’s in the middle of a party wherever he’s calling from.
I glance down at the almost-finished charcuterie board I fashioned for myself and the large glass of wine I filled past the point that a sommelier would find acceptable. The drink sits un-sipped, seconds away from my first big satisfying gulp.
Am I going to need wine to get through this conversation?
I can’t fathom why the werewolf would be calling me.
