Just once before the mask returned.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
I walked closer. “You watched my grandmother make them.”
That made her pause.
“She used to twist cloth and bone together at the kitchen table,” I continued. “You stood there watching every time.”
Madam Laveau slowly stood. “That was superstition.”
“You still learned.”
She moved toward me slowly.
“You remember too much,” she murmured.
Her hand lifted and touched my chest. The same way she used to when I was younger.
Slow.
Possessive.
“You used to like when I touched you like this.”
I frowned. “I never did. You forced me to like it.”
Her fingers slid up toward my belt. “You did.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You were curious.”
My stomach twisted. “You made me grow up too fast.”
The words came out colder than I meant them to.
Her smile deepened slightly. “You were special to me.”
That was the moment the anger snapped.
I grabbed her wrist.
Hard.
Her glass fell to the floor.
Wine spilled across the marble.
I grabbed her chin and slammed her back against the wall.
Her breath left her body in a sharp gasp.
“You lying to me.”
“I didn’t send anything.”
“You did.”
Her breathing quickened but the smile didn’t fully disappear.
“You think I’d hurt you?”
