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Hard enough that a surprised whimper comes from his throat as his body bows to me, landing with his hand braced in between my thighs. Desire coils tight and hot in my gut when he looks up at me through his brows, and for once I sit with it and let myself feel it. Let myself get a little turned on by lording power over someone that broke me.
“I wouldn’t be insulting a witch now, Gravedigger.” I grasp his jaw gently, lulling him into a false sense of security before shoving him away from me.
And would you look at that? Sunday Mourning can blush after all.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sunday
Sunday.exe has encountered a problem.
Between Bellamy telling me he’s a fucking witch and unlocking a new kink in one fell swoop, my brain has gone completely offline while simultaneously spinning like a Beyblade. In a washing machine. During a hurricane.
A witch.
All I can picture are pointy hats and broomsticks and a cauldron with fizzy green goop spilling over the sides. Cackling laughter and warts and grotesque, long fingernails. Shit, we live in Salem. There’s an entire month dedicated to witches and folklore. Costume balls, magic shows, ghost tours. You name it, we got it. It brings in a ridiculous number of people each year, and I make a pretty penny off my insect dioramas during the fall.
But that’s just it—they’re just people in costumes. And it’s not hard for these so-called psychics to figure stuff out about you, especially if you pre-booked it, right? The internet is a smorgasbord of information, ripe for the taking.
A flare of pressure ripples through my body, dragging my attention back to Bellamy, who has his hand raised and fingers curled slightly. He…touched me—without touching me. That shouldn’t be possible.
“You…you’re really a witch?” I choke on the words, forcing them out of my mouth.
“Abra-fucking-cadabra. He finally gets it.”
My entire brain structure collapses as little memories start knitting themselves together. Every time Bellamy refused to go downstairs on his own when he stayed at my folks’ place. Every time he would shudder or wince like he was in pain if we went near a graveyard. The crystals, the cards, the obsession with collecting feathers from the floor. His distaste for my hearse. That fucking awful screaming sound he made in the woods when I couldn’t find him, the psychobabble that came out of his mouth afterward when he begged me to take him home.
“I’m going to need you to explain this to me like I’m five,” I say, slumping into the couch and slipping my fingers through my hair. No matter how much I try to relax my face, my brows seem stuck. Am I blinking? I don’t think I’m blinking.
Bellamy sighs deeply, tucking one leg under himself and resting his chin on his knee. It’s completely adorable and not at all the distraction I want it to be. My face relaxes a little, though.
“I’m a spirit witch. I think that’s what it’s called, anyway.” A flicker of sadness crosses his face, but he moves on quickly. “I can see and talk to spirits. Help them cross over.”
I blink. Several times.
My mouth? Open. Dry as fuck.
Brain? Yeah, no. Not in attendance.
“Okay…so…how does that work, exactly?” I ask, clearing my throat. My curiosity is piqued, even though I’m struggling with this conversation. None of it makes any sense.
“My body is…” He tilts his head, searching the ceiling for the right words. “…it’s like a conduit for spirits, I guess? I don’t really know. I couldn’t control it at first; it was horrible. But now I can close my connection at will.”
Conduit. Got it.
Do I got it?
“…And the other thing?” I tug my bottom lip through my teeth.
He looks at me for a second, confused, before it clicks. Just like before, he moves his hands and the chain around my neck lifts. My pulse thrums with excitement, but he drops it without tugging it, and it slaps back against my throat.
“Energy manipulation. I guess it’s like telekinesis, but I can’t do it all the time. I have to have a good amount of energy. Magic isn’t an infinite supply; I get tired if I do it too much.”
Well, this is all completely fucking insane.
“What else can you do? Please tell me you can turn Séverin into a frog.”
His warm laughter feels like sunlight on my face. I adore the sound of it—his real one that makes him glow impossibly brighter, not the fake one he does at work.
