Page 33 of My Hexed Honeymoon (The Bridgewater Pack #2)

Andromeda recovers faster, sending another shard of blood through my opposite shoulder. She’s not looking to kill me, she’s just doing what she’s always done—hurt me. Physically and emotionally, as she tries to carve a legacy I don’t want into my bones.

I throw out my arm and the thin crimson blade shatters, the pieces falling to the ground where they glitter, the sanguine color now dripping down my arm.

Andromeda flings a dozen tiny daggers of blood at me, but this time I’m ready, throwing up a golden pane the sharp tips bounce off and break against.

Holding my shield takes an inordinate amount of energy, and the muscles in my shoulders scream with the exertion. So I dig even deeper, tapping into my reserves as I charge forward with a roar.

My mother’s forming herself a rapier sword of blood, long and slender with a hilt that twists around her hand and wrist.

I rush her before she can raise it, barreling into her hard enough, we go tumbling. It breaks the sword and my shield and the ground trembles under the intensity of our popping magic and flying fists.

We both get to our feet in a flash, circling like wrestlers who’ll later shake hands, though that certainly won’t happen in our case.

Before she can feed the weapon any more of her blood, I bind up her feet with the grasses beneath them. Then I give my next strike all I’ve got, pivoting my weight and sending my elbow right into her nose.

Cartilage crunches, the Loom dropping to the ground as she screams and whips up her hands to catch the scarlet gush.

I dive to the ground, scrambling on all fours, the object I desire finally within reach.

My fingers wrap around the bone handles of the Loom…

Andromeda stomps on my hand and then kicks me square in the face, her shoe slamming into my nose so hard I taste the coppery tang of blood.

It fills my mouth and my throat, and I roll away from her, going on hands and knees as I cough up a mess of ichor and gore. My eyes water and bile burns my throat, threatening to come back up as I struggle to regain my bearings.

If only I hadn’t sent Gideon and Elias away.

I’m sure they have their hands full. I keep trying to signal the werewolves to let them know if they’ll take out Riven and that cluster of witches holding the Overcaster Spell in place, we can win this fight it suddenly feels like we’re very much losing.

But maybe I just feel that way because my mom kicked me in the face and I’m getting my ass kicked.

Hey, one could always hope.

It’s not something I have much of when it comes to our odds, so I go the fake-it-till-you-make-it route, flinging out a gilded vine to wrap around her ankle and jerk her off-balance.

Her body slams the ground hard enough I’m sure it knocked the wind out of her—now if I could just catch my breath, I could take the loom from her.

Crouched in an all fours position, I half-lunge, half-crawl, but she’s already moving, a charged whirlwind of magic circling her.

It beats at my skin and sends dirt and dried leaves into my eyes.

The bloodied loom hums, delighted at being used, and a primal, slightly feral type of envy churns through me.

I know it’s dangerous how much I want it to be mine again, just like I know Andromeda will do the most horrendous things with it.

Considering she’s used the magic she already has to murder entire communities, I trust my judgment way more than hers.

Frankly, I’m too scared to know what atrocities she’ll commit with my loom.

It’s why I marched these werewolves into war, and I consider it my job to stop her.

Blinking against the spinning column of dust and debris, I plant my feet and gather all the lifeforce I can, wishing there were more woodland creatures to lend me their strength.

As much as I wanted to use what little vitality the vampires have left against them, the flimsy puffs of threads snap and break at the slightest tug, so plants will have to do.

I reach out a little farther to find the towering oak tree in the front yard of the house where I grew up.

I spent hours in those branches, drawing and reading and hiding from my mother.

It’s familiar and floods me with an extra warmth, until I’m a charged lightning rod, my teeth chattering with borrowed vitality.

Andromeda has reformed her rapier sword and is already advancing, the detritus circling her slowing my steps and pinging against my skin hard enough to leave welts.

Molten flaxen fibers wind themselves around my body and harden, forming glistening armor that effectively blocks the debris. I add another layer, stacking up all the times I felt helpless as she punished and struck me.

I’m furious and ashamed and righteously unhinged.

Every bit of me wants to end her—to wrap my glowing threads around her and squeeze until she feels what it’s like to not be able to breathe.

My threads form vines again, this time with spindly, sharp thorns almost as long as my fingers.

But no, I am not her.

I let go of the hate and lean into my splintered grief over losing the idea of a mother as well as a sisterhood I felt welcomed by. I hold onto the balance and decide it’s high time I exert my control.

“Enough,” I yell, my voice cracking like a whip through the space between us.

My vines wrap me in a protective cocoon, tingling like my skin’s made of pure electricity.

I form a couple of long vines that look and act more like tentacles, calming down the length of the thorns before flinging them into the whirlwind of magic my mother’s protected herself with.

As my golden tentacles wrap around her and squeeze, the cyclone slows and fades away as my mother loses her ability to wield.

She writhes and screeches, finding thorns that are still long enough to make their point, pun very much intended. Despite everything she’s done, I’m glad I calmed them down to be slightly less brutal. My goal is to defeat her, not kill her.

And then I’ll feed her to the wolves.

A grin plays across my face, even though I’m talking a very big game. It’s just the first time I’ve gained the upper hand against her in anything ever.

I roll her to me like a top, locking my eyes with her as she struggles against my vines and swears again.

“The loom,” I say, holding out my hand.

“I can’t give it to you with these fucking vines around me,” she says, and I guess that’s fair, though my mother’s never been fair to anyone else.

As soon as I get the weapon, I’ll use it to stop the witches holding the Overcaster Spell.

I can’t think about counting our losses or the amount of death and destruction on the battlefield—not right now.

Not until I finish securing our future. Tiny scratches cover my mother’s arms from the thorns, dried blood covers the space between her nose and upper lip, and she has a few scratches on her cheeks as well.

We’re both a battered, gruesome sight, I’m sure.

I just want it to be over—to return to my home with the werewolves and never have to face her or her cold indifference again.

Andromeda keeps the sneer plastered on her face as she ever so slowly begins to lift the hand holding the Blood Loom.

It rattles like a weathervane in her hand, pointing to me, fervid in its desire to belong to me once again.

My throat goes dry, that overwhelming hunger rising up as I reach for the item I retrieved from the Hollow, another place I never hope to go again.

It’ll be nice to close this awful chapter and start a new one.

Andromeda looks down, not at the tool she’s relinquishing, but at my belly. “Hmm. Looks like you did get there.”

I frown, confusion cutting through the rush of adrenaline.

Then I glance down, wondering how she could possibly know, or if she’s lying to catch me off guard.

A faint, golden thread glimmers there, coming from my belly, a fluttering so impossibly delicate I hold my breath as I study it. I can’t believe I didn’t notice it before, but then again, I’ve been a bit busy.

I’m pregnant.

My free hand automatically goes to my belly, cradling a glorious future I not only get to choose, but also want more than I’ve ever wanted anything before.

“Too bad it was too late,” Andromeda says, driving her dagger straight into my belly.