Page 24 of Just a Little Wicked (Wicked Sisters #2)

“No, you made an observation,” he said, peeling his gaze from her soft lips. He really needed to find a way to release all of this pent-up sexual frustration. “I used to be. On my phone a lot, I mean.”

“Oh?”

“Connor took on most of Grimm Reality’s production duties, but I had my share of responsibilities. People were constantly calling me. Social media was a never-ending stream of comments and reviews and questions. I got piles of hate mail and love mail. I even had a stalker.”

Winter frowned. “That’s scary, Erikson. I’m sorry that happened to you.”

“Thanks.” He dropped his eyes to the crumpled wrapper of his third egg sandwich.

“It got bad—not just with the stalker, but with everything. I couldn’t sleep.

I was drinking too much and partying too hard.

I had everything I’d ever wanted: money, success, validation—and yet somehow it was the worst period of my life.

Then one day I couldn’t take it anymore and I shut off my phone.

Just . . . turned it the fuck off. And all the noise stopped.

No calls. No emails. No social media. It was bliss.

I realized the problem wasn’t my profession, but what I’d allowed myself to become.

My show was going to soar or tank with or without me seeing every negative comment online.

The producers would get in touch with me during our regularly scheduled calls or during my designated email times.

The world would keep spinning if Erikson Grimm wasn’t at its beck and call. ”

He shrugged and tossed the balled wrapper into the empty food bag.

“I made changes after that. I moved apartments. I took down profiles. I focused on privacy and peace of mind. I made hard rules about what apps were on my phone, and when and how I would interact with the online world. I got my life back.”

Winter was silent for a moment. “I’ve never thought of how difficult it must be to be a public figure.

My family stays very much in the shadows.

Missy is our media manager and public face, but Holly and I don’t even have social media.

Although it can be lonely to be so disconnected, I guess it can be a privilege, too. ”

His heart twisted a little at the thought of how truly lonely Winter Celeste must be. Not only did she isolate herself from the world, but from her family, too. “Very few people have my phone number these days,” he said. “I want you to be one of them.”

“Wow, what a special honor.”

He smirked at her sarcasm and grabbed her phone from the console where it was displaying GPS directions. “Tsk, tsk, you don’t even have a passcode on this. What if someone stole it and found out about your Wicked ways?”

“I don’t think I have to worry.”

Her background photo was of a woman in a bright yellow dress playing the violin, her eyes closed in ecstasy.

It instantly brought back the vision of Winter playing on the ocean’s edge, and something inside him tightened with .

. . recognition? He shook off the strange sensation and opened her contacts, putting himself in as Hot Ghosthunter before returning the phone so she could watch for the next turn.

They left the bridge and continued onto Station Road.

The houses on the island were sparse, the trees short and scrubby, the ground rockier than the mainland.

A large swath of the island was a preserve, with only the outer perimeter given over to the sporadic beach house that was likely used only seasonally.

He imagined in February, when the wind blew cold and fierce over the Atlantic, this place would be unbearably frigid.

They’d traveled several miles without seeing another house, and he was just wondering if they’d passed it already, when they neared the end of the road and spotted a building nestled into a scrubby patch of pines as if it wished to blend in entirely with the trees around it.

It was a dark wood A-frame house with black-painted eaves.

Gleaming oval windows faced the ocean, and beneath them was a deck dotted with two lonely, black chairs and a single table.

Winter pulled into the driveway and switched off the engine. Swallowing, she pressed her hand to her naval.

“You okay? You’re looking a little green around the gills.”

“This is definitely the place. I can feel his magic. It’s making me nauseous all the way out here. I don’t know how I’m going to walk into that house.”

Erikson knew that when Witches and Wickeds were near each other, the two species felt ill. If they came close enough, their powers actually voided one another. If Winter was feeling ill this far from the house . . . it meant Stacy was right: Atlantes was a very powerful Witch.

They climbed out of the truck and he rounded the hood to her side, careful not to touch her, but standing close enough to steady her should the effects of the magic become overwhelming.

It was early enough that even if Atlantes had a traditional job, they should still be able to catch him. The wind buffeted off the water, inflating Erikson’s jacket just enough to brush across his bare skin and give him chills. “Ready?”

She took a deep breath and started up the flagstone pathway to the stained stairs that led to the front door.

With each step she took on the pathway, Winter’s cheeks paled further.

She began swallowing repeatedly. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, she lifted her foot to take the first step and froze.

“I—” Without finishing her sentence, she turned to the side and vomited into an evergreen bush.

Erikson hesitated, and then gently settled his hand on her back. “Maybe you shouldn’t have had the egg sandwich.”

“Oh fuck off,” she moaned before heaving again. He rubbed slow circles on her back until she was finished. She breathed through her nose and pressed trembling fingers to her lips. “This sucks.”

“Can you cancel out his magic with yours?”

“I think I need to be touching him.”

“You think or you know ?”

“Erikson, since when have I ever known anything about my species?”

“Ignorance is your second mistake.” A cool, dark voice spoke from the deck above. “The first was coming here.”

Erikson’s hand curled into the back of Winter’s jacket as he glanced upward.

A tall man with onyx hair and unflinching green eyes stood on the deck, his fingers looped in the handle of a plain ceramic mug.

Although he was dressed casually in jeans and a deep navy sweater, the power that pulsed off him triggered every one of Erikson’s primal instincts.

If he—a normal human—could feel the magic rolling in relentless waves off this man, then what must Winter be feeling?

Atlantes Alaric Blackwood stood on the boards of the deck, staring down at Winter with such blank coldness that Erikson’s blood thrummed. Magic or not, he’d deck this fucking guy if he so much as thought about touching a hair on her head.

Winter flapped her hand, so dismissive in the face of the man’s overwhelming power, that Erikson’s lips twitched. “And what would you know about my ignorance?” she moaned, visibly forcing back another wave of nausea.

A small line appeared between Atlantes’ brows, giving away the fact that he wasn’t as unaffected by her presence as he pretended to be.

He flicked his wrist, and a shimmering, rainbow shield became visible to them.

It wavered around the house like a soap bubble, protecting it from harm.

Atlantes pushed out his palm, and the magic that undulated over the stairs she’d been about to mount, swelled outward.

“Leave now, before I teach you a lesson on what happens when a Wicked riles a Witch.”