“Oh, screw you.”
“Tempting.”
I throw my hands up. “You’re impossible to pin down, you know that? It’s…it’s…obnoxious.”
“That’s rich, coming from the woman who improv-ed a story-witch persona in front of two queens with a fondness for public executions.”
“It worked, didn’t it?” I snap, then inhale through my nose. “Okay, no. No more bickering. That’s clearly not helping, and wanting to strangle you isn’t going to get us back home any faster.”
He doesn’t reply. He just stands there, arms folded, taking up too much space without even moving, which only makes me more annoyed.
My heels stab divots into the rug, and I kick them off with a frustrated grunt. The plush weave beneath my bare feet is surprisingly soft as I shrug off my purse and toss it onto the bed. Shoulders tight, I fumble through its contents for my ritual pouch. I pull out a chunk of rose quartz and balance it in my palm as I whisper a soft chant. “You’re safe. You’re resourceful. Everything’s going to be okay.”
I can feel him watching me, and I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to sink into the words.Be one with the present. Centered. Peaceful.
Even with my eyes closed, his gaze burns hotter than the sun, needling me and undoing every breath I try to steady.
“What?” I snap, lids flying open.
Declan’s gaze flicks to the crystal in my palm. “That’s your plan? Whisper to a rock until someone rescues you?”
“It’s a crystal, and many people believe they reduce stress. Excuse me for needing a little help bringing down my blood pressure.” I wrap my fingers around the quartz and squeeze. “And I am by no means waiting for someone to rescue me. I can do that myself,” I say, although I’m not sure which lie is greater.
His mouth curves faintly. “I’ll give you this—you’re committed to the bit.”
I close my eyes and exhale slowly, reminding myself that chucking this crystal at his head is the opposite of the love and light I’m desperately trying to channel.
“Say whatever you want. I refuse to stoop to your level.” I flash a saccharine smile and flutter my lashes. “Which, I just have to add, is that of an annoying twelve-year-old boy.”
“Noted.” He slips his hands into his pockets and tilts his head. “Next time I’ll try a strategy that doesn’t work quite so well on you.”
With a stifled grunt, I turn my attention back to my items and start to line up the contents of my pouch across the silk sheets: crystals marred with scorch marks, a partially melted bottle of rosemary and lavender air-cleansing spray, the mini affirmation deck—
I run my thumb along the scorched edges of the cards. “Everything is burnt.”
Declan moves closer, squinting down at the bed. “Right. Your purse was practically on fire. What exactly do you keep in there?”
Ignoring him, I dump the rest of the pouch on the deep persimmon bedsheets. My breath catches when I spot the one thing undamaged.
The Wheel of Fortune.
Its edges are smooth, gold-dusted, untouched by flame or smoke. Not a single singe mark.
I hold it up. “You don’t think the card has anything to do with this?”
He scoffs. “Honestly, I’ve been wondering if my bartender slipped something into our drinks.”
“And now we’re trapped in a shared trip?” I shake my head. “We’ve already established that hallucinationsdon’t work that way. Plus, I don’t know about you, but I’m not having a very groovy time.”
Declan arches a brow and brushes a streak of grit from his sleeve. “You know drugs exist outside of Woodstock and that wholegroovydecade?”
“I wouldn’t know.” I lift my chin, clutching the rose quartz tighter. “I don’t do drugs. I’m high on life.”
Shaking his head, he blows out a breath and plucks the card from my hand. His fingers brush mine, and I hate that I notice how warm his skin is. For a second, he just stares at the card, his expression shifting, curiosity sharpening into wariness.
“Is this design solar powered?” he asks.
My stomach drops. “Why?”
