She fists my shirt, her tiny fingers grasping, searching, as her tongue meets mine. She murmurs my name over and over, and I am so enraptured by the sound of it and the feel of her that it takes me some moments to realise she might be begging me to stop.
My undead heart stutters. I pull back. “Did I hurt you? I shouldn’t have—” My sudden movement knocks the bat, and her pot slides off and topples over in a misshapen lump.
She turns to me, eyes raw. “No! Alaric, wait, please?—”
“I cannot,” I manage to choke out, snapping my lips closed over my fangs as I flee the room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
WINNIE
Claire: Patrick and I are going to the country for a few days for a romantic weekend. I was hoping that when I get back, we could maybe catch up? There’s something I want to ask you. It’s important, and it would mean the world to me if we could meet. You’re not going to hate me forever, are you?
This time, when I arrive for the weekly Nevermore Murder Club and Smutty Book Coven meeting, I push open the door to Nevermore Bookshop and head straight through to the events room, a thermos of Reginald’s hot chocolate tucked under one arm.
I need distraction. I need Isis to wave her hands and chant something nonsensical to trick me into believing that I have my shit together. I need Beth to make an elixir that turns back time so I don’t kiss Alaric again. I need Komal’s easy authority and Arabella’s snooty sarcasm and Dora’s quiet kindness. I am a mess, and I just kissed my boss, and he ran away like he was Nosferatu and I was a garlic salesperson.
I needfriends.
Alaric has been curt with me ever since the kiss. Instead of our usual banter while we sort his things, he gives me one-word answers while he works fastidiously on a painting he won’t allow me to see. He refuses to eat with me by the fire, remaining in his studio after I go to bed. Yesterday, when I started moving the bags of clay out of the drawing room, I noticed several more had been opened, the clay half gone.
I don’t know what to do.
Since he pulled me from the water, there’s been a change in him, inus. I catch him watching me, his pupils blown out with unrestrained desire, and instead of being terrified or pushing back against the idea of initiating something with a client, I’m falling headfirst into him. For a long time, I’ve held on so tight to the life I thought I wanted that I squeezed everyone out of it, but here at Black Crag, beneath his hungry, possessive gaze, I want to surrender all control.
We’ve both been pretending the kiss didn’t happen, but how can I ignore his possessive touch, or the fire that burns behind his anthracite eyes?
But also, how can I ignore the fact that he rejected me?
“Croak,” the raven greets me from his perch above the door.
“Hi there.” I hold up a small packet of freeze-dried strawberries. “I brought you a treat,andI promise that I won’t quote any Poe at you. Although, how do you feel about Byron? Mary Oliver? Is this bard-vendetta you have Poe-specific, or do you detest all poets?”
“Croak.”
“Excellent. I’m glad we’ve cleared that up.”
“Winnie, it’s so good to see you again!” Beth enters the shop behind me and practically bowls me over with her hug. “I keep worrying we’ll scare you away. I made goji and kelp slice. Want to try some?”
Beth holds out a platter filled with what can only be described as mouldy anthills.
“Er … maybe later.” I follow Beth into the events room.
“Everyone has been berating me about all the vampire talk in our group chat,” Isis admits sheepishly asshe leans in for her sandalwood-scented hug. “Which we shouldn’t have given you access to until after your initiation, but Dora convinced me to make an exception.”
“My initiation?”
“Oh, it’s just a little ritual to welcome you officially to the Nevermore Coven. But we have to wait for a full moon early next month?—”
“I can’t make the initiation,” Celeste says as she hands around a stack of books. “I have to visit my mother. And no, I can’t get out of it.”
“That’s cool. We don’t all need to be there for the initiation.” Isis grins at me. “Well, Winnie needs to be there.”
“But I’m not going to be in Argleton next month,” I point out. “I’ve only got a couple of weeks left until Alaric’s ball, and then I’ll go back to London.”
As I say this aloud, a wave of sadness washes over me. Going back to London will mean I can no longer exist in this liminal space. I’ll have to face the fact that I have no place to live and Faye is taking advantage of me and I’m alone and my mother needs meagain. I want to stay in Argleton and go to book club meetings and initiations and fight with Alaric about ceramics?—
—and make out over a potter’s wheel.
