I’m staring out the open double doors, but see them looking at each other from the corner of my eye. I can guess what they’re all thinking.
A life for a life.
Chapter 20
Renata
Despite the familiar tall grass and warm sun rays, I know I’m dreaming just from the absence of the migraine I’ve had for days. It’s most likely a mix of the late nights, work around the inn, and being around a ghost all the time.
Even without summoning Nestor, his presence calls to my magic on a visceral level I can’t control. It’s always prickling under my skin, brought to life by the lurking spirit. It’s not exhausting itself because it isn’t being used, but it’s always on, ready to be let loose. It never rests, making it harder for me to get any either.
Contrary to popular belief, Gray Witches don’t inhabit haunted places very often because of the toll it takes on us.
The possibility of it sending someone straight into madness is a Blackthorn bonus.
When I finally open my eyes, I’m heartbroken to see Nestor and Petra standing on the small crop of trees, staring. One night with Archer would have been nice, even if he can’t see me, before fate inevitably brings us together—only to tear us apart.
Hesitantly, I turn, looking for him.
Archer.
His name has been rattling around my head since Rowyn said it three days ago. I’ve avoided the library since—not leaving the property at all in fear of running into him.
He’s sitting right next to me, attempting to run his knuckles along my cheek like he always does.
Except this time, I can see him.
It really is the man from the library.
He’s in Briarhollow—and I can see him.
Up close, he’s even more handsome. His short, dark brown hair is tousled like he ran his fingers through it, and his bright blue eyes are piercing. Not in an unsettling way, but one that somehow holds protectiveness and affection.
Which is weird, because the desperate frustration painted across his features makes me think he still can’t see me.
He never got a look at Rowyn or me in the library, but he could tell someone was watching him.
There’s a layer of scruff that covers his strong jaw and cheeks—bringing my attention to the small hoops and studs decorating his ears. There are a couple on each side, and it fits the casual edginess I picked up from his general demeanor earlier.
His hand settles flat against my cheek, and I hate that I still can’t touch him. I watch as his brows furrow and he mutters something to himself. I slowly reach up and touch my own cheek, right where his hand should be.
The frustration grows when my hand passes through his, and he spits out, “Fuck.”
At least, I think that’s what he says. His mouth looks slightly warped every time he talks. Maybe if I had heard him earlier, I could have unlocked more of him in this state. I’d take this tease over having none of him.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper and lower my hand to my lap. My eyes snag on the couple behind him. “I hate that I brought them here again.”
He follows the movement of my hand before looking over his shoulder. His eyes flit around the space, never focusing on a specific spot. Concern creeps into his furrowed brows as he frowns deeply.
When he turns back around, he shifts his body to the side like he’s trying to cover me from something. He moves in the opposite direction of them, and I wonder if he can see them.
Or if it’s only me haunted by them.
The couple stands a few meters away, looking somber and attentive. It’s more than that from Petra though—there’s so much yearning for what we have.
How ridiculous, I think to myself.
Archer and I have nothing. I can’t imagine a world in which our fate isn’t so directly linked by this curse.
