Page 37 of Head Witch in Charge (The Sherwood Witches #2)

Leona…

Because the satyrs don’t do sex dens halfway, the bedroom is a decadent pleasure palace of a room.

There’s a soft glow coming from the motion-activated candles placed around the room that burn brighter when anyone comes close but remain at a low, gas lamp–style flicker while Erik and I are cuddled up in bed.

That’s where we’ve been for the past hour, wrapped up in each other and dark, nearly black silk sheets underneath a mirrored ceiling.

The columns of the four-poster bed are decorated with detailed carvings of fauns and other magical creatures frolicking and fucking that I swear move positions and groupings when I’m not looking.

Then there is the fact that the bed is somehow cool enough that you want to stay forever while at the same time too warm to use the covers.

And then there’s the mattress that isn’t exactly tilted, and yet it seems like an uphill battle to roll even an inch away from Erik—not that I want to.

Yes, I realize that is a problem.

“You’re still awake,” Erik says.

Busted.

Not bothering to swallow my groan, I pull the comforter up over my head and snuggle deeper under the covers. Am I avoiding him even though I can’t stop touching him?

Yes.

No.

I don’t know.

What I do know is that sleep has not been an option.

Instead, I’ve just been lying here in the almost-dark, cataloging every noise Erik makes, how he looks in the mirror above us, and, yes, how much I’m starting to feel like maybe the Vegas Erik is the real Erik that’s hiding under all the Svensen reputation—or at least there’s more of that Erik that’s real than isn’t.

Now, I am not excusing what he’s done.

It’s been a lot.

It’s been bad.

But I just can’t get the jerk Erik who everyone in Witchingdom knows is responsible for the flock of ravens who snatched every ceremonial diamond hairpin from the debutante ball last year to mesh with the Erik who is next to me in bed.

Would the guy with the bedhead and the pillow-wrinkled face really steal millions in diamonds?

To be honest, it’s not a question I want to answer right now and probably not ever.

“So are you going to tell me what has your mind going a million miles an hour, or should I guess?” he asks. “You’re trying to figure out just how far Bessie can go on a tank of gas, aren’t you?”

I snort a giggle, because the answer is obviously as few or as many miles as Erik wants his beloved car to go. “I’ve been wondering how in the world they got that gigantic faun statue in here,” I say, my lie coming out as smooth as if I really were a Svensen.

He traces a finger across the curve of my bare stomach, managing to tease without tickling. “You don’t think they just got the local neighborhood moving witch and had them magic it in?”

“That’s a boring answer.” Rolling over to face him, I prop my head in my hand and let out a dramatic sigh of disappointment. “You told much better stories in Vegas.”

“Is it that you can’t sleep?” He turns over, and our faces are only inches apart. “Do you need to hear a bedtime story?”

“Yes.” My body is already starting to buzz with desire, and I definitely should be keeping my hands to myself, but instead I reach out and brush the flop of hair that has fallen in front of his eyes. “A story would be good.”

He catches my hand before I can tuck it back down by my side and kisses the palm, sending a shiver through me, and I bite down on my bottom lip to keep from making an embarrassing sound.

“So what do you want to hear a story about?” he asks as he releases me, his cocky grin making it obvious that he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

“Do you want to hear about how Sigrid had to negotiate a contract with a gnome and didn’t have any red M&Ms?

” He lays a hand palm down on my hip and leaves it there, making me wonder what he’s going to do next.

“Or maybe it’s a story about how Cy’s goat familiar got his horn stuck in a magic carpet and accidentally set the thing off, and it took us hours to get this idiotic bleating goat out of the sky?

” His eyes grow dark with lust as he takes me in from sex-mussed hair to chipped toenail polish.

“Or do you want to hear about how my cousin Hugo accidentally added dancing powder to the Midsommar celebration crepes and we were all doing the funky chicken for twelve hours?”

“No.” I shake my head. “I wanna hear about you.”

His gaze flicks away from me for a second before returning. “That’s boring.”

“I highly doubt that.” Especially since the more time I spend with him, the more of a contradiction he’s becoming. “I want to know what it’s like to be the Svensen heir.”

He glides his palm over my hip and up to my waist, brushing his thumb against the outward curve of my stomach. “Going for insider information, huh?”

“You tell me yours,” I say, trying to ignore the butterflies doing the conga in my belly. “I’ll tell you mine.”

“You’re gonna tell me about growing up as one of the absolutely blessed and beloved Sherwoods?” Lifting an eyebrow, he snorts in disbelief. “I don’t think I can take that much sugar this late in the day.”

The butterfly dance floor clears in a heartbeat, and I push his hand off me and sit up, curling my legs in tight to my chest. “That’s what you think, that being the Sherwood heir is all fun and rainbows?”

Erik shrugs. “Well, yeah, everybody loves your family.”

It takes everything I have not to let out a loud braying laugh that would probably add another crack to the faun’s stone chair.

“You couldn’t be more wrong. There are a lot of people who are fascinated by our family, but there’s a bunch who just don’t like us, and some—like the Council—who’d like to see us banished to The Beyond.

My mom’s been shouldering all of the pressures that come with that for decades, and next year after we complete the power exchange ceremony, I’ll be the one walking that tightrope—something I can only do if I do the right thing every time. Period. Everyone’s depending on me.”

“To do what, be sure to eat all your fruits and veggies?” he asks, his voice light as if he’s making a joke.

But it’s not a joke, not for me. My jaw tightens as the light buzz of desire turns into something darker, something that I shove down the darkest hallway to the darkest room to the darkest corner.

“No,” I say, barely recognizing the resentful voice coming out of my mouth.

“Like memorizing family beefs—even the minor ones—so I always know who to put together or keep apart at events to keep everything smooth and easy for everyone else.” My breath is starting to come faster, and I can feel my pulse in my cheeks.

“Like spending my every spare moment reading the background of every single political figure and attending meetings so I know where their loyalties lie and what I’ll need to do to keep them on our side.

” I adjust my arms around my legs because my palms have gone all clammy, making holding on to my shins difficult.

“Like not bothering to have hopes or dreams or plans of my own because everything about my life was decided before I was even born.” Every muscle in my body is tight and I’m afraid I’m going to throw up, but I can’t stop.

Everything I’ve never said before—barely even let myself think before—has had enough of being in the dark.

“Like the fact that all of the elders in my family seem to think it’s a great gift that my parents are letting me pick from three possible husbands as opposed to just telling me which heir I have to marry for the greatest political gain so the Sherwoods maintain the power they’ve grown accustomed to.

” I’m on fire and on ice and swirling around even as I sit perfectly still and my cheeks are wet and I know deep down in my soul that if my hands slip away from my shins again they’ll be shaking so hard I may never get them to stop.

“Like the fact that I have to always make sure everyone knows I can be counted on, I am dependable, that I will always make the right decision for the family, and that the family always comes first.”

I’m white-knuckling the world right now and I can barely breathe. I’ve never said any of that before.

Never.

And the one person I told? The guy whose family is known across Witchingdom as the most underhanded witches who’ll use any weakness, any hint of discord to their full advantage.

That was definitely not the right thing to have done, and yet I don’t regret it.

Not even a little. The realization is like seeing the sun after four months of darkness.

I can’t quite believe it, but there’s no point in denying it.

There’s a whoosh of coffee-scented magic and then Erik’s behind me. His broad chest presses against my back, his arms wrap around me, and his legs bracket my hips. We stay like that, neither of us speaking or moving, and then he kisses my shoulder.

“I take it,” he says, his tone light, “that I am not in that list of three possible husbands.”

A bark of laughter escapes along with all the tension twisting my gut. “Most definitely not.”

Then we’re both chuckling, because what else are we going to do? Neither of us can change it, so what else is there to do at this point?

“So that is what it’s like growing up the Sherwood heir.” I relax back against him. “Tell me what it’s like to grow up Svensen.”

His body tightens behind me, but only for a moment. Then it’s as if he wills his body into being someone else as all his muscles ease even though I can still feel a ribbon of something fierce just under the surface.

“Well, unlike you,” he says with a who-the-fuck-cares air that doesn’t ring true, “I am expected to mess up everything every time.” He reaches up and cups one of my breasts as if he’s trying to distract me from the frustration he’s not quite hiding.

“Because, you see, my father says that I am first among what he calls his disappointments, or what others would call their children. And since I believe in living up to my potential, that is exactly what I am.”

He says it with such bravado, but I can feel all that hurt just under the surface. My family might make me consider moving to the moon occasionally, but even with all the expectations they’ve heaped on me as the heir, I’ve never doubted their love for me.

“He’s called you that?” I ask. “To your face?”

Erik rolls my nipple between his fingers, and his sigh brushes the side of my neck. “Only on the days that end in Y.”

I don’t know when, and I don’t know how, but someday the Svensen patriarch is going to pay for that. Just because Erik and I can’t stay married doesn’t mean I’m going to stand by and watch him be hurt. Forget family rivalries, no one gets to treat Erik like that.

“Is he as hard on your brother and sister as he is on you?”

“In a different way,” Erik answers, letting his hand drop to the mattress and his cheek to my shoulder blade. “You see, my father only sees them as pawns, as ways to make sure that I’m always doing what he wants—which is usually whatever’s best for him and not necessarily best for the family.”

Once again, we sit together alone, holding on to only each other as our disappointments and frustrations and fears flicker like the flames from the magic candles around the room.

“I’m sorry, Erik.” I lay my hands on his, twining my fingers through his and squeezing. “I shouldn’t have asked. I didn’t expect…”

My words die out, because even though his dad is a complete asshole, I shouldn’t be the first one to say it out loud.

“For my dad to be just as awful as expected?” Erik’s laugh is hollow. “How could you have known? You’re a Sherwood and therefore all that is good. We Svensens, on the other hand, are the shadow to your light.”

There’s something about the regret in his voice—something I’m not sure even he hears—that melts away whatever is left of the grudge I was holding on to about how we ended up here as husband and wife—no matter how temporarily.

Who better to understand what it’s like to shoulder the weight of your entire family’s expectations than someone who’s living through the same thing?

“So you’re always asking me what I want.” I pick up his hands and move them so his arms are wrapped around my waist. “What is it that you want?”

“If I told you, you’d hate me,” he says. “Well, more than you already do.”

“I have horrible news for you, Erik Svensen. I’m not so sure that I hate you that much anymore.” Or at all, not even a little. “Maybe if we were different people from different families, there could’ve been something here.”

He doesn’t say anything in response. Instead, he magics us so we’re spooning on the mattress, curled up together as if our lives could be like this.

“Did I ever tell you about the time that Cy’s goat ate one of Sigrid’s books when she was about to start the final chapter and find out who the serial killer was?” Erik asks.

Desperate for a way not to fall asleep so this night can be a little longer, I grab hold of his offer with both hands. “Tell me everything.”

And he does while I try to forget that once The Liber Umbrarum is locked away in the secured facility, we’ll do the divorce spell. Then he’ll get back to doing all the bad things expected of a Svensen heir, and I’ll go pick a husband who makes the most sense politically for my family.

That’s the way this story is going to end, and the only way it can.