Lyra sat cross-legged on my living room floor, her eyes glinting gold from the firelight as she obsessively read over every little detail of the spell.
The way Lyra spoke and used magic was different than I’d expected. Veda saw her magic as a gift that made her a god. Lyra viewed hers as a burden but still used it to help others.
“Alrighty, let’s get this over with,” she said, pushing herself up from the floor.
“It could be dangerous,” I warned.For a young, inexperienced witch like yourself.I didn’t dare voice that part out loud.
“Noted,” she said, assessing the available space. “Are you painting?” Lyra moved toward the open paint cans in the corner and removed the lid, stirring the paint.
“I was tired of looking at the walls,” I said, as she examined the color more closely. “The white reminded me too much of the basement. Of being trapped.”
She stilled at my words before continuing to stir the paint. “I can help you if you’d like. I mean, I would make a mess, and it wouldn’t look very good,” she rambled on as she typically did when she was nervous. “But if you need my help, I’m here.”
“Thanks.”
An unfamiliar feeling fluttered in my chest cavity. Was this the first sign of a heart attack? Maybe my powers had been trapped for too long and they’d worn out my body. But then Lyra smiled, and the same stupid flutter happened again.Shit. It wasn’t a fucking heart attack, but something far more serious.
“It’s a standing offer,” she said, carrying a can to the coffee table. She nudged the table with her leg but it refused to budge. “Help me clear some space.”
The table screeched as I slid it across the room, careful not to scratch the hardwood floor. When I turned back around, I found Lyra kneeling with a paint covered finger hovering above the floor.
“Don’t you dare.”
“I’ll mop it up, and if that doesn’t work, I’ll use some rubbing alcohol,” she said, ignoring my threat.
Never in my life would I’ve thought I’d let a witch paint a hell’s trap in the center of my living room. But I stood rooted in place, hungrily staring at Lyra on her knees, the short skirt she wore exposing her ass and thighs as she stretched to finish one of the markings.
My dick hardened at the sight.
“Nope. Don’t even think about it,” she held up a hand. “We have more important things to take care of.”
“I can’t think of anything more important than getting you off,” I said, stepping toward her but halting just inches from the trap. My mind screamed at me—this could be a setup,and begged me to back the fuck up. But Lyra beckoned me forward.
Blood pounded in my ears. Drowning out everything. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t be trapped again.
I didn’t know how long I stood there, staring at the hell’s trap. But Lyra didn’t rush me, just waited for me to be ready.
I stepped forward, entering the trap and ignoring every instinct that had kept me alive for centuries. Regret and panic churned in my gut. I felt too out of control, unable to breathe because of the all too familiar suffocating weight of the magic pressing down on me. Sweat beaded my forehead as I forced myself to the floor, settling onto my back and stretching my arms and legs onto the sigils Lyra had painted. Magic wrapped around them, pinning me to the ground. I closed my eyes, reminding myself I wasn’t in the Whitethorn’s basement or church.
I was home.
“I’m right here.” Lyra’s voice anchored me in place.
“Lyra.” Her name fell from my lips like a prayer. Maybe if I worshipped her hard enough, she’d save my eternal soul.
“Are you okay?” she asked, kneeling next to me.
“Let’s just get this over with.” I hated the tremor in my voice as I spoke.
“Maybe we should use a safe word,” she joked, trying to break the tension. “If you want me to stop, just say pineapple.”
I honed in on Lyra. I knew she wasn’t a threat, but my brain tried to convince me otherwise. A sound more creature than human tore from my throat. The predator inside became feral,desperate to escape the cage. Ready to kill anyone who stopped me.
She took a steadying breath and sliced her palm. She must have gotten a knife from the kitchen at some point while waiting for me.
Warm, sticky liquid coated my neck and chest as her bloody hand wrapped around the collar. A metallic tang filled the air. Latin words I hadn’t heard in centuries spilled from Lyra’s pink lips, a steady chant. I only understood a handful of words, catching a few here and there over the roaring in my ears.
A burning sensation started at the collar and quickly spread to the rest of my body. I gritted my teeth, trying to ignore the pain.
