I couldn’t even focus on what she was wearing because everything about her on a deeper level sang to my dark and tormented soul. The scent of her was musky with hints of black tea and jasmine layered beneath it. If an aura could sing to you, it would radiate mystery and sharp instincts.
Crows mate for life, and goddammit, she was it. I’d stop the Earth on its axis for her. I’d freeze Hell to prevent her demons from haunting her dreams. If she wanted to pluck each of my feathers clean off? I’d let her.
Mine. You’re mine. No one else will do. Mine. Mine. Mine…
If I had been in my human form, I likely would have shamelessly busted a nut on the spot. Instead, I just had the fucking gland that was my asshole twitching in excitement. Fucking birds and their cloacas–the one-stop shop for shit, piss, and sperm.
Catching the tail end of the younger girl’s statement, my future and destiny tilted her head with curiosity.
“What good stuff?” she asked as she approached the coffee pot.
“Harlow! No! Our coffeedate,remember?!” The girl shrieked, eyes wide, and made aggressive slicing motions of her hand beneath her chin to send the clear message to abort.
So,thiswas Harlow? Somehow, the name was perfectly fitting. It was as though there was never a possibility for it to be anything else.
Forgetting my bird form, I tried to taste the way her name rolled off my tongue. I opened my mouth and out came a croak as rough as sandpaper. It was a sound harsh enough to startle me back to the realization that I remained a mere crow perched in the kitchen window.
Caught mid-pour of the sludge moonlighting as coffee, Harlow locked eyes with me. For once in my damn life, I felt like the prey staring into the eyes of a predator. It was a dizzying effect; one I wasn’t accustomed to.
The mug in her hand overflowed, scalding her skin and making a mess of the counter.
“Shit!” Her eyes tore away from me as she snapped into cleanup mode.
Reluctantly, I flew away from the open window. I needed to get out of there before I lost all my senses and shifted into my human form. I couldn’t risk an interaction with her too soon. Whatever I felt between us was electrified with volatile heat and a twist of fate.
If I had my way, the annual hunt in the corn maze during this year’s fall festival was going to get even more interesting.
Chapter
Two
“Ihate pumpkin spice. It’s the devil’s dandruff,” my little sister griped as we exited the town’s sole coffee shop, Bill’s Paper Cup.
Based on that blasphemous statement, I was pretty sure she was adopted. If she wasn’t? I’d have to disown her for that comment alone. Everybody knew that nothing could dethrone the superior flavor of the autumn season.
Suck it, apple cider drinkers.
After taking a sip from my steamy pumpkin spice latte, I made a point to moan loudly in appreciation of the flavors dancing across my taste buds.
“All the more for me, Beth.” I flashed her a blissfully contented smile as we strolled along the sidewalk side-by-side. My camel-colored boots quietly tapped against the ground as I walked. “Besides, you have to admit, it’s way better than what Mom brewed at home.”
It had only been a couple of days since we started calling this quiet little town of Falston home. Our parents moved out here on a whim, driven by a midlife crisis and a pipe dream of owning farmland when they retired.
Until then, Mom was able to continue her work as a luxury brand consultant, always focused on trends that emerged fresh from the runway. Dad, on the other hand, was a coach. In what? I had no fucking clue. Anytime I tried to figure it out, he bored me with talk about helping people find their inner grit and embracing their unique sense of self using his seven-step S.P.A.R.K.L.E. program.
Fortunately, they had waited until Beth graduated from high school last June before uprooting themselves from the big city life.
I didn’t have to follow them all the way out here to bumblefuck, but some extenuating circumstances made it the wiser choice to tag along.
Besides, my job was either feast or famine. Being a book conservator was financially hit or miss, but it was something I could do from anywhere. Working with my hands to bring life back to books that had undergone hell or neglect was a passion I had discovered while spending summers with my aunt.
Slowly, but surely, I was growing a decent clientele that shipped books to me. Some jobs required as little as rebinding, while others were in need of more extensive rehabilitation, such as water, smoke, or mold damage.
The older the book, the bigger the challenge. And I loved a good challenge.
It hadn’t been an easy move, leaving the big city I had known all my life. Coming out to the middle of fucking no-man’s land at least wasn’t the stupidest thing I’d ever done in my life. So, there was that.
One of the perks of coming out to a place with nothing but open space? The homestead my parents purchased had a smaller house on the property. Back in the day, the structure had been the caretaker’s cottage. But now? It was a space to call my own with just enough distance from the main house to have privacy and a designated area for my book projects.
