Page 35 of Bewitched by the Fruit Bat King (The Bewitching Hour #3)
I stopped pacing, a sense of cold clarity washing over me. "I'm going to open my side of the bond completely. No barriers, no restraint. I'm going to make him feel exactly what he's missing."
Luna stood, looking alarmed. "That could be dangerous. We don't know how the curse might interact with—"
"I don't care," I interrupted. "He doesn't get to make unilateral decisions about our connection. He doesn't get to shut me out without explanation after what we shared."
The shop plants were growing visibly now, responding to the intensity of my emotions. Vines crept across the ceiling, flowers bloomed and released intoxicating scents, roots tapped against floorboards like impatient fingers.
"At least wait until we understand more about the curse," Luna pleaded.
But my mind was made up. Three days of silence had built a reservoir of hurt that demanded release. Three days of feeling him through the bond while he ignored my existence. Three days of growing magical power with no guidance, no support from the person who had triggered these changes in me.
"I'll close up early," I said, already moving toward the door to flip the sign. "I need to prepare."
The apartment above my shop had transformed even more dramatically than the store below. What had once been a modest collection of houseplants had become a veritable jungle—plants covering every surface, climbing walls, hanging from ceilings, creating a living tapestry that pulsed with awareness.
They knew what I planned. They approved.
I spent the afternoon in careful preparation, selecting specific plants to surround my bed—jasmine for sensuality, orchids for desire, passionflower for intensity, moonflower for connection.
I positioned them strategically, creating a circle that would amplify emotional energy and strengthen the mate bond.
The moonflower, still communicating more clearly than the others, offered suggestions through impressions that formed in my mind. Blood orchid behind your head. Vampire's heart vine at your feet. Dragon's breath for passion amplification.
I followed its guidance, feeling the power building in the room as each plant took its place.
This was old magic, Florence magic—the kind passed down through generations of witch women who had learned to speak with plants, to harness their energy for spellwork that required no incantations or wands, only the quiet communion between witch and growing things.
As twilight fell, I showered and changed into a silky nightgown I'd never worn before, its deep green matching the plants surrounding my bed. I brushed out my hair until it fell in waves down my back, applied a touch of the jasmine oil Luna had gifted me, and surveyed my creation with satisfaction.
The room hummed with botanical energy, the plants watching me with collective awareness that should have been unsettling but instead felt comforting. They were extensions of me now, allies in my plan.
"He'll feel this," I told them as I settled onto the bed. "He'll feel everything."
The mate bond hummed steadily in my chest, a constant reminder of the connection Kane couldn't truly sever no matter how hard he tried to ignore it. I closed my eyes, focusing on that warm point of contact between us, and deliberately began to lower my defenses.
It was like peeling back layers of gauze that had been wrapped around the bond—each one removed allowing more sensation to flow between us. I felt his immediate response, a spike of awareness as my emotions began to filter through to him more clearly. Confusion. Concern. Wariness.
Good. He was paying attention now.
I leaned back against the pillows, surrounded by my living audience, and slowly began to touch myself. First just trailing fingers along my collarbones, down my arms, across my stomach—teasing touches that sent small shivers of pleasure through me and, I knew, through the bond to Kane.
The plants around me responded, their leaves rustling though no breeze stirred the air. The moonflower's bloom opened wider, releasing its intoxicating scent into the room. The dragon's breath plants began to glow faintly, their red flowers pulsing like embers.
I felt Kane's shock ripple through the bond, followed quickly by something darker, hungrier. His barriers strengthened momentarily before wavering under the assault of sensation I was deliberately projecting.
"You don't get to ignore this," I whispered, knowing he couldn't hear my words but would feel their intent. "You don't get to pretend we aren't connected."
I slipped the straps of my nightgown down my shoulders, the silk cool against my increasingly heated skin.
My hands found my breasts, cupping and teasing as pleasure built slowly, each sensation flowing through the bond with perfect clarity.
The plants around me grew more agitated, their movements more pronounced as they responded to my rising arousal.
Through the bond, I felt Kane's resistance crumbling. His hunger sharpened, focused entirely on me. His barriers were failing under the onslaught of deliberate sensuality I was projecting. Good. Let him feel what he was missing. Let him understand what he'd walked away from.
I slid one hand lower, beneath the silky fabric, finding myself already wet and ready.
The contact sent a jolt of pleasure through me that echoed across the bond with such intensity I felt Kane's physical reaction—a harsh intake of breath, a spike of desire so strong it nearly overwhelmed the connection.
The plants around me went wild—blooming, growing, moving in sinuous patterns that mirrored my increasing pleasure.
Vines crept across the bed to twine around the bedposts.
Flowers released pollen that glittered in the air like golden dust. The moonflower's light bathed everything in silvery radiance.
I closed my eyes, giving myself over to the sensations, to the knowledge that Kane was experiencing every touch, every wave of pleasure as if it were happening to him. My fingers moved with increasing urgency, my breath coming in quick gasps as tension built within me.
Through the bond, I felt Kane's desperation—to block me out, to give in, to be here with me instead of wherever he was. His hunger had taken on a dangerous edge that I might have found frightening if I weren't so consumed by my own building pleasure and vindictive satisfaction.
"Feel this," I gasped as my movements became more insistent, my back arching off the bed. "Feel what you're missing."
The plants responded to my command, their collective consciousness amplifying my intention, sending it through our mate bond with devastating clarity. The room filled with their energy, with the scent of a hundred different blooms, with magic that pulsed in time with my heartbeat.
When release finally came, it crashed through me with shocking intensity—waves of pleasure that had me crying out, back arching, every muscle tensing before melting into liquid heat.
The sensation flooded our bond, unfiltered and overwhelming, a tidal wave of ecstasy I knew Kane couldn't possibly block.
For a moment, barely noticeable through my own pleasure, I felt his barriers shatter completely.
A flash of his response reached me—hunger so primal it barely seemed human, need so desperate it bordered on pain, and beneath it all, a darkness that sent a chill through me even in my languorous state.
Then nothing. His barriers slammed back into place with such force it felt like a physical blow. The connection narrowed again to that distant awareness of emotion—but now edged with something new. Something dangerous.
I lay among my wildly overgrown plants, breathing heavily, sweat cooling on my skin. The satisfaction of my release mingled with the bitter triumph of knowing I'd gotten through to him, forced him to acknowledge our connection, if only for a moment.
But that glimpse of darkness troubled me. Whatever Kane was dealing with, whatever had driven him to avoid me, it was serious—more serious than vampire politics or corporate crisis.
The moonflower's bloom turned toward me, its silent communication flowing into my mind: Drake blood turns savage when Florence blooms.
I sat up, the pleasant afterglow evaporating as the plant's warning registered. "What do you mean? What's happening to him?"
The change comes for him first, as king. Blood calls to blood. Fruit no longer satisfies.
A chill ran through me as I realized what the moonflower was suggesting. Kane wasn't just dealing with transformation among his people—he was transforming himself. Turning into a blood drinker.
The revenge I'd just enacted took on a suddenly more ominous dimension. If Kane was fighting against transformation, against blood hunger, then what I'd just done—flooding his system with desire, with need, with primal emotion—might have accelerated the process.
I scrambled for my phone, suddenly desperate to undo days of angry silence. I needed to talk to him, to understand what was happening, to share what I'd learned from the grimoire about the curse's fatal flaw and the possibility of breaking it.
But as I stared at the screen, no calls or messages appeared. The bond remained closed on his end, though I could sense turbulence behind his barriers—a storm of emotion and struggle he refused to share.
"Dammit, Kane," I whispered, clutching the phone so tightly my knuckles whitened. "Talk to me."
The only response was the collective rustle of my plants, their leaves shifting in silent sympathy. The moonflower's bloom closed slightly, withdrawing as if in apology for delivering unwelcome news.
I fell back against the pillows, the triumph of moments ago replaced by gnawing worry and fresh hurt.
Whatever game of emotional chicken we were playing, the stakes were clearly higher than wounded pride or hurt feelings.
The curse was progressing, affecting Kane directly.
And still he wouldn't reach out, wouldn't let me help.
Fine. If the mountain wouldn't come to Mohammed, then Mohammed would go to the mountain—with an army of plants at her command.
Tomorrow, I decided as exhaustion finally claimed me. Tomorrow I would take the fight directly to Kane Drake's door, whether he wanted to see me or not. The curse that bound our bloodlines had gone untreated for too many generations.
It was time to confront our shared legacy, face to face.
The plants around my bed settled into watchful stillness, their collective awareness dimming as I drifted toward sleep.
Only the moonflower remained vigilant, its silvery light casting my shadow against the wall—a shadow that seemed to flicker between my familiar silhouette and something older, someone else who had once faced this same impossible choice between love and duty, between heart and heritage.
Hazel. My ancestor. The witch whose broken heart had cursed generations.
As sleep claimed me, I could have sworn I heard her voice, carried on the scent of blooming flowers: Don't let him choose as Viktor did. Some betrayals can never be undone.