Page 33

PIPER

F ire crackles and snaps in the fireplace.

Ambrose and I are lounging in his library while rain still drizzles outside.

It’s gloomy and gray beyond the walls of the house, but here in Ambrose’s library everything is glowing and warm.

I’m curled into one corner of the couch and Ambrose is at the other end.

His feet are in my lap and a soft blanket covers us.

After last night and this morning in Ambrose’s bed, I wasn’t sure if things would be awkward.

I definitely tried to make things weird, because I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.

I thought our agreement would keep me safe from Ambrose's magnetic pull. But I don’t think anything is going to keep my heart from falling for this man.

He’s kind, funny, protective and currently looking for a way to break the hex my father put on me as a child.

He feels horrible about what happened earlier. Commanding me to have an orgasm, but for once in my life, my hex didn’t bother me one bit.

We’ve been searching through books for the last few hours, and I find myself nodding off every once in a while.

Some of these books are dry as dirt, but I think it’s more that I feel so safe here.

The room is chilly, but the fire gives off the perfect amount of heat.

And Ambrose is near. I know that Tucker’s still out there and we have the challenges to face for the coven council, but right now, at this moment, I feel settled.

“Either that page has the most interesting thing you’ve ever read, or you’re falling asleep over there.” Ambrose nudges me with his foot.

I look down at my page and spot a spell for curing itchy feet. I hold the book up for Ambrose and he chuckles.

“Well, that’s not what I was expecting.”

I yawn, my mouth opening so wide I should be embarrassed.

“How about I make us some lunch? We’ll take a little break and then we’ll come back with fresh eyes.” Ambrose closes his book and rubs his eyes. He looks about ready to take a nap too. Maybe we could sleep for a bit and then get food.

A knock on the front door blasts through the peace I’m feeling.

“Did you secretly order lunch?” Ambrose chuckles as he gets off the couch.

When the person knocks on the door again, it’s harder. More frantic. The feeling of comfort and security slowly leaks away. Ambrose frowns, pausing in the doorway. “I’ll be right back. Just stay here.”

That knock didn’t sound like a friendly delivery person.

I stay on the couch while the fire burns in front of me, still bundled up under my blanket.

The front door opens, and I hear Ambrose’s soft tone, along with sobbing.

My stomach drops and I feel sick. I’m off the couch in an instant, my hand clutching the wood of the doorframe, but I can’t seem to walk past the threshold.

Ambrose’s words are still muffled, but the other voice, a woman’s, is growing louder. More agitated with every word. I head toward the front door, knowing with every step that I should turn away. But since when has hiding done me any good.

Stepping into the hall, my first sight is a woman hanging off Ambrose. He has his hands on her biceps, holding her away from his body. Tears track her mascara in rivulets down her cheeks.

“I’ve missed you so much. They tried to keep us apart, but I’m here now.”

I’m close enough now to hear her words. Ambrose’s forehead is creased, his mouth drawn in a flat line. I’m not even aware that I’ve made a noise, but Ambrose’s head snaps around in my direction. There’s anguish in his eyes as he looks at me.

This has to do with his curse.

“Does your family know you’re here?” Ambrose asks, turning back to the woman. He’s still holding her off him. It looks like she’s trying to throw herself into his arms, but she can’t free herself from his grip.

“Of course not. They’re the ones keeping us apart. But I’m here now. I love you.” She sounds so sad and desperate.

I must make a sound because the woman looks over at me, her eyes narrowing, and suddenly, she’s not fighting to get into Ambrose’s arms, but out of them.

“Who the fuck is she?” the woman screeches as she tries to lunge for me.

I step back, my shoulders colliding with the door frame.

“Piper, would you mind getting my phone for me?” Ambrose asks, instead of answering the woman’s question. “I left it in the library.”

Swallowing back all my feelings–hurt, embarrassment, even empathy for the woman–I rush back to the library. Is Ambrose sending me on a task to get me out of his hair, or does he actually need his phone?

With his phone gripped in my hand, I hurry back into the front hall.

Ambrose is calm but curt. “Please call Bethann on my phone.”

“Your code?” I dart a glance at the woman who’s settled into Ambrose’s arms. He’s kissed her. She’s cursed. There’s no reason I should grab her by the hair and tear her out of his arms. That would be ridiculous. And incredibly unkind.

“0315.”

That’s the day we got married. I look up at Ambrose but quickly shield my surprise and focus on the phone. I find Bethann’s phone number and hit call. A woman’s voice screeches out on the other end. “Is she there? Is she with you?”

My voice cracks as I respond. “I’m calling for Ambrose Roth. There’s a young woman here.”

“Oh my God. She left in the middle of the night. We were hoping she didn’t come back there, but we assumed... My husband’s already on the way.”

“A little warning would’ve been nice, Bethann,” Ambrose mutters under his breath.

“Where is her father, exactly?” I ask as I watch the woman stroke Ambrose’s chest. He’s given up trying to hold her back and now she’s clinging to him like a monkey.

“He should be there within the hour,” the woman on the phone answers. I forgot she was still there.

“I won’t go back with him,” the woman shouts at me. Or at the phone, I suppose.

I hand the phone to Ambrose, who says goodbye to Bethann and hangs up.

The three of us stand in the front hall as I wonder what to do next.

“Should we go into the great room? I can make some coffee or tea,” I offer, completely out of my element.

“My baby doesn’t like coffee, do you?” the woman says.

I bite the inside of my mouth to keep from snapping at her.

He loves coffee. He even has a giant machine like you find in cafes in his kitchen.

But what would be the point? This is old magic at work, and she has no control over what she’s feeling. That doesn’t mean I have to like it.

“I’ll go make some tea then,” Ambrose says, but the woman starts to sob again, clinging harder to his chest.

“Why don’t you go sit down. I’ll make the tea,” I say, feeling my blood pressure rising as each minute passes.

I stomp off toward the kitchen, feeling annoyed, but also feeling bad for this woman and Ambrose. Neither of them wants this. None of us want our curses. I know he can’t control it, but I’m still pissed. Because that woman has kissed Ambrose. I don’t get to kiss him and I’m his fucking wife.

I fumble with a teacup, nearly dropping it as I get the pot and saucers down from the cabinet. I slap my hands to the counter and lower my head, taking a few deep breaths to calm myself down. Breaking dishes isn’t going to help anything.

I don’t even know if Ambrose has tea here.

I’ve never seen him drink it before, and I don’t like it, so I have no idea where it might be stashed.

Nor do I really know how to make a proper cup of tea.

There's a kettle on the stove and I fill it with water.

While I wait for it to boil, I search the cupboard and find some tea bags.

I throw them in the teapot and say a prayer to the Crone that it all tastes fine.

Although I don’t really care. I’m not going to drink it.

I find a tray and add some sugar and pour some milk into a tiny jug that matches the teacups.

Why am I bothering?

Oh, right. Because as soon as I’m done, I’ll be going back out into that room.

Should I just disappear upstairs and leave them alone until the woman’s father shows up?

I feel sick at the idea. I don’t believe that Ambrose would do anything with the woman, but I’m a little afraid she might force herself on him.

The kettle whistles and I pour the steaming water into the teapot.

The porcelain lid makes a gentle clink when I set it back on.

Holding the tray with two hands, I push open the kitchen door with my butt and head back to the great room.

Ambrose is still standing, and the woman is draped all over him, petting his chest and trying to grab his face.

“The tea is ready.” I wince at how shrill my voice sounds.

Ambrose extracts himself from her hold like a slippery eel. “Amanda, I have something I can put in your tea that will calm you.”

She has a name.

“Do you mind?” Ambrose asks as he opens what I thought was a decorative box on a table next to the windows.

“Of course not. I know you just want to take care of me,” she simpers, and then sneers at me. Like I’m the one interrupting her afternoon. I blow out a breath. This woman deserves my pity, not my annoyance.

She’s wearing pajamas but has a full face of makeup on.

Her hair has been blown out and curled as well.

It’s as if she partially got ready, but couldn’t waste any more time changing her clothes.

Or maybe she was afraid someone would stop her from coming here if she took more time.

The scariest part is the look of possession on her face as she stares up at Ambrose, and the pure hatred there when she glares at me.

Ambrose nods and brings a small brown vial over to the table where I’ve set down the tray.

His eyes are full of apologies when he meets my gaze.

He pours out a cup of fragrant tea. I don’t even know what kind I made, but it smells floral.

He gently rocks the brown vial back and forth and then pulls out the stopper.

The scent of anise, valerian, and a hint of lemon hit my nose.

This is a sleeping potion. I know because I regularly make them for Morty’s store.

He did ask Amanda’s permission, I guess. Ambrose holds the dropper over the cup and three drops plunk into the tea.

“Milk, sugar?” Ambrose asks.

“You know exactly how I like my tea.” Amanda sighs, as though Ambrose hasn’t asked her, but is reciting her preferences.

He nods, his shoulders sagging as he takes her the tea. Amanda brushes her finger over Ambrose’s as she takes the cup from him. Rage sweeps over me, so powerful that I turn around. Did I kiss Ambrose and have somehow forgotten? This reaction is not normal.

“Can’t you get rid of her? Who is she, anyway?” Amanda’s voice is whiny and babyish. Is this the kind of woman Ambrose goes for? The woman at the Hollows was beautiful, so is Amanda. One was blonde, one a brunette. What do they have in common?

“Would you like some tea?” I ask Ambrose as I turn back around. He gives me a disgusted look and shakes his head. He’s sitting on the couch, and Amanda is practically in his lap. The lap that I was grinding all over this morning. I barely hold back my groan.

“No, thank you.”

I busy myself by making my own cup, even though I have no desire to drink it. I know approximately how long it takes for the sleeping potion to kick in and I’m counting down the seconds.

Lifting my tea, I take a sip and wince. No. That’s not for me.

A snore cuts through the silence of the room, and I finally look back at the couch. Amanda is passed out, her head rolled back and her mouth wide open. That must be a stronger potion than the ones I make.

“I’ve learned to keep that potion handy over the years.” Ambrose smiles, but it’s wilted at the edges. He extricates himself from Amanda, swapping his body with a pillow that she takes and immediately hugs to her chest.

“I’m sorry.” Ambrose’s voice is rough. He’s standing in front of me, but I can’t look up from my tea.

My focus is on the brown liquid in my cup. “I don’t even like tea.”

“I don’t either,” Ambrose says, sounding defeated. When I lift my head, he’s staring out the window. Suddenly, I don’t feel cozy and warm in the house, while the weather blusters outside. It feels like a jail.

I jump when there’s a knock on the door.

“Do you think that’s her father already?” Crone help me, I hope so.

Ambrose stalks across the room. I set my cup down and chase after him. Instead of there being a person waiting on the other side, there’s a letter. Ambrose rips into it.

“It’s from the coven. There’s another trial coming up.”