Page 17 of A Match Made in Coven (Paranormal Romance #2)

Chapter Seventeen

The Black Sheep

LORCAN

Lorcan steered his car up the serpentine drive of his parents’ manor, the crunch of gravel under the tires the only sound piercing the stillness of the evening.

The Black family mansion rose before him, its gothic spires pierced the moonlit sky, a looming testament to generations of wealth and power.

The manicured lawns and sculptured topiaries flanking the path mocked him with their perfection.

He brought the car to a halt and stepped out, adjusting his fitted Armani suit.

The garden smelled of his mother’s prized black roses.

Their cloying scent turned his stomach. He made his way up the polished marble steps where the massive oak doors swung open as he approached, welcoming him into the realm of his ancestors.

“Let’s get this over with,” he muttered under his breath.

Inside, the opulent foyer greeted him with its soaring ceilings and glittering chandeliers. The strains of Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons” drifted through the air while grim-faced portraits of his forebears lined the walls, their judgmental gazes boring into him as he strode past.

The long walk to the dining room felt like a death march.

When he entered, the space reeked of old money—from the gleaming silverware to the priceless china to the massive crystal chandelier casting everyone in its cold glow.

His assembled relatives were clad in haute couture black, perched on high-backed chairs like a murder of fashionable crows.

The children sat rigid and expressionless, hands folded, looking more like porcelain dolls than actual kids. Lorcan suppressed a shudder. This place suffocated the life out of everything it touched.

He plastered on his most charming smile and sauntered in to meet his fate. What he wouldn’t give to be back on a construction site right now, magic and politics be hexed. At least there he could breathe.

His mother welcomed him coldly, pointing out how he was the last one to join and they could finally sit to dinner.

Lorcan ignored the not-so-veiled criticism and nodded at his relatives as he slid into his seat near the end of the table.

The spread before him was a veritable feast—roasted pheasant glistening with butter, truffle-infused mashed potatoes whipped to creamy perfection, and an array of delicate pastries that resembled art pieces more than food.

Each dish was a masterpiece, no doubt prepared by the most skilled and expensive chefs money could buy.

But as he reached for a slice of artisanal bread, loneliness crept up on Lorcan. The food, while exquisite, lacked the warmth and comfort of a simple home-cooked meal shared with friends. He longed for greasy pizza and cheap beer. Maybe a scowling, brown-eyed witch to share them with.

The subdued conversations around him did nothing to ease the ache.

Low, measured voices discussed stocks and investments, the latest charity galas, and wizarding politics.

Lorcan struggled not to roll his eyes. It was all so hexing pretentious and dull.

A stifling air of formality blanketed the room, snuffing out any hint of spontaneity or genuine connection.

He tugged at his collar, feeling like he might suffocate.

At the head of the table, his mother presided over the affair like a queen over her court.

Lorcan studied her—the severe black dress, the tightly coiled silver-streaked updo, the rigid set of her shoulders.

Under the regal poise, he glimpsed the iron will that had built an empire.

The same cool imperiousness he’d endured his entire life.

And of course, not a single person offered their condolences for Elijah’s death. The lack of acknowledgment stung like a slap. In this room, his best friend’s murder was a trifling inconvenience, an awkward bit of gossip to be glossed over in favor of dividends and debutante balls.

Lorcan’s chest constricted with a swell of grief and fury. These people, with their unimaginable wealth and power, couldn’t spare an ounce of compassion for a good man cut down too soon. A friend who had been like a brother to him.

He reached for his wine glass and took a long swallow, knuckles white around the delicate stem. This evening was going to be interminable. But under the suffocating weight of his coven’s callousness, a small, stubborn flame refused to be smothered.

Sarah Michelle’s face flickered in his mind, fierce and lovely, eyes sparking with challenge. She understood loyalty and fighting for those you loved. She reminded him that there were still things in this world worth believing in.

Worth raising a little hex for.

Not here, though. In a room full of people who shared his blood, Lorcan had never felt more alone.

If he thought being ignored was bad, halfway through the meal, Lorcan had to reconsider when his mother turned her cool, appraising gaze on him.

“I’ve heard some troubling rumors, Lorcan.

That you’ve been seen fraternizing with a member of the Callidora coven.

” Her words cut with the precision of a blade.

The accusation hung in the air, laden with centuries of animosity between their families. Lorcan met his mother’s stare head-on, refusing to flinch. “I’ve been working with Detective Callidora to find out who killed Elijah—my best friend. Remember him, Mother?”

Cordelia’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Associating with a Callidora is bad enough, but to be seen fraternizing in public places like coffee shops is utterly unacceptable.”

Lorcan’s temper flared, a hot surge of anger that threatened to boil over.

But his mother wasn’t finished. “And while we’re on the subject of your questionable choices, let’s discuss your insistence on working at that human business.

If you worked in a proper wizarding establishment, you wouldn’t be mixed up with scum humans and having to investigate their murders. ”

Something inside Lorcan snapped. The dismissive way his mother spoke of Elijah, reducing his friend’s memory to a mere inconvenience, was more than he could bear.

He gritted his teeth. “You have no right to dismiss Elijah’s life with such disregard.

He was a good man, and his death deserves justice, not disdain. ”

His mother’s eyes narrowed, but before she could respond, Lorcan pushed back his chair and stood. The scrape of wood against marble echoed like a thunderclap in the sudden silence. He could feel the weight of every stare, the shock and disapproval radiating from his relatives.

But he was done. Done with their snobbery, their heartlessness, their obsession with outdated feuds and social standing.

He’d rather spend a lifetime in the company of someone like Sarah Michelle, with her wit and her courage and her unwavering sense of right and wrong, than another minute suffocating under the yoke of his family’s expectations.

Without a word, Lorcan turned on his heel and marched out of the dining room, leaving a chorus of scandalized whispers in his wake. Each step felt lighter than the last, as if he were shedding the chains that had bound him for so long.

He didn’t know what the future held, but one thing was certain—he was done living by anyone’s rules but his own. And if that meant chasing justice alongside a fiery detective with a smile that made his heart stumble, then so be it.

Lorcan stepped out into the cool night air, grinning like a fool. He felt alive. Alive and ready to raise a little hell.

He didn’t give a hex what coven Sarah Michelle was from. He liked the witch and was done pretending otherwise.