I slowly stand, but I sit back down when I hear voices beyond the door.
“What were you thinking, bringing her here?” a voice says.
“She doesn’t see…” I can’t make out the rest of Wolfe’s reply.
After several more sentences that are too quiet for me to hear, the door opens and Wolfe steps inside. He gently closes it behind him.
“How long was I out?”
Wolfe pauses when he hears my voice. “Long enough for me to get you settled in my room.”
My cheeks heat as I wonder how he got me here, how much of this evening I’ll spend enveloped in his arms. Wolfe looks at the fire and the flames get stronger, and for half a second I’m stunned. Then I remember where I am.
“I always forget you can use magic at night.”
“So can you,” he says plainly.
I sigh. “Do we have to argue right now?”
“No,” he says. “We can do it later.”
He moves closer to me, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him indoors. Candlelight flickers against his dark hair and pale skin, and he seems softer here in the refuge of his home. His gray eyes don’t hold the same anger they usually do, and the muscle in his jaw isn’t tensing every few seconds.
He’s still him, but he’s comfortable here. Comfortable and perfect.
“You’re staring at me,” he says.
“You don’t look as disagreeable here.”
There’s a slight tug at the corner of his mouth that worsens the ache in my chest. “I’m flattered.”
“I meant it as a compliment.” I whisper the words, worried that all seventy-three of the witches living here will hear me otherwise.
Wolfe shakes his head and looks away. “I know you did.”
I feel as if I’ve said the wrong thing, so I don’t say anything else.
“How are you feeling?” he asks me.
“Embarrassed.” There’s something about him that makes me want to tell the truth, and I realize I’ve felt that way around him from the moment we met. I’ve shown him my anger and insecurities and wonder and fear, and never once has he said I’m too much.
It feels as if I’ve been living in the shadows and he’s invited me into the light. His dark expressions and dark magic and dark home have lit me up inside, illuminating the things I’ve been taught to keep hidden.
His eyes find mine. “Trust me when I say you have nothing to be embarrassed about.” He pauses. “Not now. Not ever.”
We watch each other, and I’m overwhelmed with the urge to reach out to him, to take his hand and pull him close to me. In the current, I wrapped myself around him because I had to. Because I’d drown if I didn’t.
But what if I drown right here in the quiet of his room, suffocated by how desperately I want him?
“Do you feel well enough to meet my dad?”
The question catches me off guard, sparing me from my thoughts. It must have been his dad he was speaking with outside the door. “Yes.”
He nods, and I slowly scoot off the bed and make sure I feel steady on my feet. Wolfe keeps his hand on my lower back until I’m sure I’m stable, then we walk into the hallway. The same mahogany wood as in Wolfe’s room lines the walls and floors, and a long red-and-gold rug runs the length of the hall. Candlesticks in glass sconces adorn the walls.
“Why do you burn so many candles?” I ask.
“How else are we to see?”
I look at him, confused. “You don’t have electricity here?”
“It would have been difficult to convince the mainland to extend power to this side of the island, given that we don’t exist. Don’t you agree?”
My cheeks flush, and I shake my head. “I’m sorry,” I say.
“You have nothing to apologize for. Besides, I’m partial to candlelight.” He looks at me for another breath before walking again.
His hand is hanging loosely at his side, and I can almost convince myself that it’s angled back at me, an invitation, and I fight the urge to reach out and take it. Hushed voices float from behind closed doors, and I startle when a little girl jumps out from behind a potted tree. Her dark hair is braided, and there’s a gap in her smile where her front tooth used to be. She slaps Wolfe on the leg and screams, “Tag, you’re it!”
Wolfe scoops her into his arms as she shrieks. “Those aren’t the rules we agreed upon, now, are they, Lily?”
She giggles and peeks at me from over Wolfe’s shoulder. “Who’s your friend?” she asks.
“This is Mortana,” Wolfe says. “Mortana, this is Lily.”
“His best friend,” Lily says, eyeing me warily.
“Yes, my best friend,” Wolfe agrees. He sets Lily back down, and she watches me from behind his leg.
“It’s nice to meet you, Lily. I have a best friend, too. Her name is Ivy.”
“Do you like to color?” she asks me.
“I love to color.”
“Can she come color with me?” Lily asks, seemingly satisfied that I’m not a threat.
“Not right now, Bug. It’s late—you should be in bed.”
Lily groans. “But I’m not even tired!” she says on top of a yawn.
“I know, I know. But you need to rest up for our game of tag tomorrow,” Wolfe says. “Unless you want to lose.”
Lily’s mouth falls open. “I’m not going to lose!” she says, and then she runs down the hall and slams a door behind her.
“I like your best friend,” I say, following Wolfe down the grand staircase, steadying myself with the iron railing.
“She’ll be pleased to hear that tomorrow.”
When we get to the bottom of the stairs, it’s louder. Voices carry from the right side of the manor, which I’m assuming houses the kitchen, and there are several witches in a formal room to the left, practicing spells. There are lit candles all over the room, and the flames get higher and lower with the words the witches speak.
“Hey, Wolfe,” someone says from the room, sending a ball of fire into the foyer that circles around us before dying out.
“Show-off,” he says in return.
Laughter follows us as we come to a study near the front of the manor. The door is open, but Wolfe knocks anyway.
“Come on in,” the voice says.
My heart beats wildly, and my palms are sweaty. I’m not sure why I’m nervous, but my hands tremble as I enter the room.
A man stands behind a large wooden desk. A fire crackles in the stone fireplace, and lanterns flicker along the walls. There are hundreds of leather-bound books sitting on black iron shelves with a ladder that stretches all the way to the top. I can’t help it when my fingers drift to the wall and gently touch the old books.
“Are these grimoires?” I ask, amazed. We have new texts that document the new order of magic, but the old books where our ancestors kept all their spells were removed from our coven. When we stopped using dark magic, there was no longer a need for them, but I’m completely in awe, standing in a room with so much magic. So much history.
“They are,” Wolfe says.
There’s a large old book open on a stand in the middle of the room. The corners are curled and yellowed, but the pages are still legible. It’s a spell for transferring life, and my fingers trace the words that explain how to take one life to save another.
I remember Wolfe telling me that magic is all about balance. It makes sense that we can’t simply save a life—there are consequences.
Magic stirs inside my belly as I read the words, and it scares me, the undeniable connection I have to this magic.
You’re practicing the wrong magic.
“You must be Mortana,” the man says, breaking my concentration. I pull my hand from the grimoire, and heat settles in my cheeks.
“I am.”
The man looks so much like Wolfe with his sharp jaw and wild dark hair, his eyes that look like the sea during a storm. But he’s softer in a way. His pale skin sags just slightly, and he wears wire-rimmed glasses that have slid down his nose. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles at me.