Page 15 of Just a Little Wicked (Wicked Sisters #2)

Charlotte

That clip of you lifting your shirt to wipe your face and accidentally flashing your abs is going viral again.

Erikson

I’ve never regretted a moment so much in my life.

M ike was lying as sure as Erikson was a Grimm.

He catalogued the man’s every tell: his refusal to make eye contact, his finely trembling hands, the pallor of his skin, his rolled-in lips.

All of Erikson’s investigative senses leapt to life, his nerves fizzing with excitement.

Connor was the one who really thrilled at the hunt of a new story, but Erikson wasn’t immune to the rush of euphoria that came with scenting a secret.

And Mike was definitely keeping secrets.

Erikson exchanged a look with Winter, gratified to see the disbelief in her eyes. She knew the priest was lying too. The question was why ?

Winter remained quiet, and so did Erikson. She was a natural interrogator, because the silence stretched uncomfortably, until the man nervously shuffled a stack of papers on his desk. “I wish I could be of more help.”

“In a town this small, I’m surprised you’ve never heard such a unique name,” Winter said flatly. “I think there were only ten students in his graduating class.”

Mike’s fingers intertwined and rested on top of the desk as he regained some of his composure. “Not everyone passes through my doors. How did you say you know him?”

“Friend of the family.” Winter’s face was so emotionless that she could have just told the priest she was related to the pope and Erikson would have been inclined to believe her.

No tells for this girl. “We have important, time-sensitive information that we need to share with him, so we’re trying to track him down.

We’re planning to ask around town, but we came here first.”

The priest reached for the carved wooden cross on his desk and ran his thumb over it.

Purple light splashed on top of his head, making the bare patch of scalp glow like a strange halo.

He was clearly wrestling with what to tell them.

At last he came to a decision and sat back.

“This town has had to do a lot of healing. It isn’t wise to go around picking open old wounds.

” He sighed deeply. “However, I can’t stop you, so in the best interest of my community, I’ll share with you what I know, but then I must ask you to please leave town. ”

“We plan to head out in the morning,” Erikson said, his heart pumping adrenaline into his extremities. Whatever Atlantes had done to put the fear of God into the priest’s eyes couldn’t have been good.

The priest rubbed his thumb over the small cross again.

“Twenty-five years ago, a single mother with a young boy moved into town. Her name was Sara. She attended church and worked at what was the video store at the time. She was quiet and she kept to herself, and so did her son. The boy grew into the high school heart throb; half my congregation blushed when he walked into the church. He had dark hair and the strangest green eyes I’ve ever seen.

They almost looked like that.” He gestured to the luminous green light falling over his desk.

“There was something odd about the mother, and especially the boy, something I could never put my finger on. He had this peculiar way about him that made the hair on my arms stand.”

Because they were Witches , Erikson thought. By some ancient instinct, the human priest had sensed the magic simmering beneath their skin.

“The morning after high school graduation, I was awoken by sirens. I pulled on my clothes and hurried down the street, thinking one of my parishioners might need me. A lot of my congregation are older, and heart attacks and other health issues are unfortunately common. But this time the ambulance and police were parked in front of Sara and Atlantes’ house.

Atlantes was sitting on the steps, his long arms wrapped around his knees, and he had the blankest expression on his face.

His shirt was soaked in blood. His mother .

. .” The priest paused and made the sign of the cross over his chest. “She’d been stabbed thirty times in her sleep. ”

Blood roared in Erikson’s ears. Shit . Had Atlantes killed his own mother? Was he in prison now? Was that why he had no digital footprint?

“Did he do it?” Winter whispered.

The priest shivered when he focused on her, and Erikson wondered if he could sense a similar sort of power flowing in her veins.

“He was taken into custody and questioned relentlessly, but was ultimately released. There was no evidence against him. He claimed to have been out of the house at a graduation party that night. When he come home just after five AM, he found her dead. There were several eyewitnesses to corroborate his story.” He nudged the bridge of his glasses higher on his nose.

“The town tried to help the boy, but he lashed out at everyone, and I am sorry to say there were those who didn’t believe he was innocent no matter the evidence.

His mother’s gruesome murder was a blight on this town.

People were frightened. If the boy didn’t kill his own mother, then who had ? Did a killer wander among us?

“The moment his mother was buried, Atlantes left town and never returned. Even though he was gone, his mother’s death and the fear it invoked lingered for a long time. It’s one of the most horrible crimes to have ever taken place here.”

“Do you know where he went?” Erikson asked.

Mike shook his head. “He was friendly with a couple of the boys at his school, but I wouldn’t say he had any friends . He was an odd duck, and he kept mostly to himself.”

“Girlfriends? Boyfriends?” Winter pressed.

“As much sighing and dreaming as I witnessed, I don’t believe he ever took up with any other students.”

Winter stood, and Erikson followed her lead. “Thank you,” he said. “We appreciate your candor.”

“You won’t go around stirring up questions in town, will you?” the priest asked anxiously, pushing to his feet.

“We have one more stop to make.”

The priest didn’t look entirely satisfied with his answer, but it was the best he was going to get. Erikson wasn’t going to consign Winter to a lifetime of murdering her own kind simply because the priest didn’t want to enflame old fears.

“One last thing,” Winter said, pausing on the threshold. “What was Atlantes’ last name?”

“Blackwood.” The priest shivered involuntarily. “His full name was Atlantes Blackwood.”

As soon as they were back in the truck, Erikson texted Atlantes’ last name to Charlotte.

When he finished, he set the phone down just as Winter turned to him.

Her cheeks were pale, and strands of red hair had fallen from her ponytail to frame her wide, hazel eyes.

In that moment, with the sun slanting over her slightly freckled skin, she was a portrait of juxtapositions: softness and sharp angles, fierceness and vulnerability.

Her plush lips begged to be kissed, while her black clothing and prickly demeanor screamed back off!

The way the golden light bathed her made something inside Erikson crackle with recognition, like he’d seen her in this exact way not once, not twice, but a thousand times before.

Half-covered by a sheet in his bed, sun gilding her face.

Running to him through a field.

Sitting beside a window, scenery flashing behind her.

She said something, but Erikson missed it because he was seized by a sudden and powerful urge to drag her over the console and take her mouth with his, to peel apart those contradictions and bare the raw Winter inside, like kissing her was simply what he was supposed to do when the sun traced her cheekbones like this. Like it was something he’d always done.

Before he was aware he was moving, he leaned across the console and cupped the back of her neck, tugging her close enough to see the way her pupils expanded and her lips parted on a rushed exhale that smelled of mint.

Her hair was silky against his fingertips, and he felt her swallow against his thumb resting gently on her throat.

His gaze dropped to her vicious mouth that could bring a man to his knees in more ways than one.

A child screamed at his sibling just outside the cab, and the noise cut through the sheer instinct he was acting on.

Erikson quickly dropped his hand, the fog of desire rapidly receding.

He pressed his shoulders into the seat and struggled for breath.

What the hell had just happened? Had he almost kissed her? Why?

There had to be an explanation for the ferocious, blinding need that had overtaken him, for why Winter had looked so fucking, impossibly familiar in the light.

“Erikson, what was that?” She was leaning back in her seat too, her eyes round and her fingers curled into fists on her thighs.

“I . . . don’t know. I’m sorry.”

She studied him for a long moment, and he had no idea what she was seeing on his face, but he must’ve looked as confused and disoriented as he felt, because she surprised him when she didn’t force the issue. “Okay. But just to be clear, this,” she pointed between them, “is never going to happen.”

“Of course not.” He cleared his throat. “What were you saying before?”

After another searching look where he felt like she was flaying the skin from his very soul, she said, “I asked what you thought about Mike’s story.”

It took him another few seconds to pull his thoughts together. “I think Mike knew on some level that Atlantes and his mother were Witches. I’d bet that was what made Atlantes seem so odd to everyone.”

She brushed back the escaped strand of hair and wrinkled her nose. On the heels of his momentary madness, it aggravated him that he found the act adorable. The last thing he needed was to get soft about the hellion beside him.

Frowning, he adjusted his baseball cap and put the truck in gear. “Atlantes Blackwood could either be very dangerous or very misunderstood.”

She tossed him a cocky look. “He won’t be dangerous around me. Witches and Wickeds nullify each other’s powers in close proximity, so you don’t have to worry about his magic.” She patted his forearm. “Plus, I have a mean right hook. I can take care of you, big guy.”

The endearment was meant to patronize him, but it had the opposite effect.

His gaze dropped to her mouth again, and there must’ve been something in his expression that made her still, like a rabbit in the woods.

“Say it again,” he growled. Teased . Because he was only teasing her like always, right?

She hesitated. Then, “No.”

“Come on, humor me.” He pulled into the street, forcing a joking note into the demand.

It was a vain attempt to quell his lust and return to the easy, bickering banter they’d shared up to this point.

Until five minutes ago, his attraction to her had been insulated by a buffer of unconscious distance he’d inserted between them.

There’d always been a reason to shove her appeal to the back of his mind and bug her instead: she was tough as nails, she was his brother’s fiancé’s sister, she wasn’t his usual easy-going type, she thought he was a useless playboy, and on and on.

But now that his hindbrain had pictured having her, no matter how involuntary it had been on his part, it seemed his old tactics weren’t working. The buffer had been decimated, and in its absence, there was nothing but clear, burning desire for the red-headed tyrant across from him.

Fuck.

“How does anyone stand you?” she asked, completely unaware of his inner turmoil. She’d probably stab him if she knew what he was thinking.

“You wouldn’t believe it, but I don’t typically act like an annoying asshole.”

“Then what makes me so special? Why do I deserve your bullshit? Do you take pleasure in my torment?”

He slanted her a look. “I would absolutely take pleasure in tormenting you.” He was more than gratified when the faintest hint of pink touched her cheeks, before silently scolding himself for going there.

This was bad. Really bad. If he couldn’t force himself to return to their easy bickering, then what was left?

Friendship. They could be friends at the very least, couldn’t they?

Before she could respond, he added, “But you’re right, you don’t actually deserve my bullshit.”

She waited, brow arched, for the other shoe to drop. When nothing else came, she cocked her head suspiciously. “That’s it?”

He flipped on the blinker. They still had an hour to kill until they headed back to Lucas Gillis’s house to question him, and he’d seen a little music store in the touristy section of streets by the waterfront that he thought she might like.

“Here’s the thing,” he said, “I think I’ve been acting like a jerk because I enjoy riling you up and putting that pretty flush on your cheeks.

You’re so serious and withdrawn all the time—and rightfully so—that it’s been faster and easier for me to tease you into a response.

But you’re worth more than the cheap, easy route, Win.

I think I can pull you out of your shell without enraging you. I want to be friends, not enemies.”

I want to close my hands around your thighs and . . .

NO. No! He wanted to be friends. Friends. Christ, talk about intrusive thoughts.

She stared at him for so long that the cab became uncomfortably silent. Eventually she swore softly and turned to look out the window.

Erikson stifled a smile. His new mission, besides saving Winter’s future, was to show her that she didn’t have to shoulder the burdens of the world on her own.

Winter needed more than the Wickeds in her family to lean on.

She needed friends, and he was going to prove to her that despite her rather low opinion of him, he could be that for her.

What was the point of knowing there were supernatural beings in the world if you couldn’t be the human sounding-board for one of them?

He had this all under control.