Taming the Wicked Wolf (A Date with a Demon #2)

Chapter 7

SEVEN

Silas

Claws click against the fake hardwood as Poppy barrels through the dining room to the front door, nearly ramming her head against my shin, her tongue lolling out of the side of her mouth.

“I missed you too.” I say, holding the white box higher, while I try to lock the door and give the dog an appropriate amount of attention.

“Silas?” Emilia asks from the kitchen, “Is that you? It’s been nearly a half an hour. I was about ready to send out a search team.”

“I had the strangest conversation with your neighbor just now. We were talking about sports and then he asked me if I was allergic to tree nuts, to which I said no, then he shoved this white box in my hands.”

“ You like sports?”

I don’t miss the mocking tone in her voice, but when I look up, my mouth goes dry. Emilia stands just past the threshold leading into the small kitchen, she has changed out of her baggy t-shirt and yoga pants and into what she calls her work attire.

A low cut black sleeveless top, with a bright red lace bra peeking out underneath. It shows off the generous swell of her breasts and her soft stomach and her dark blue jeans almost look painted on, emphasizing her fuller hips and thighs.

I realize I would give anything to worship every inch of her. This woman has the body of a literal goddess, I should know, I have met one or two in my lifetime. Thanks, Dad.

“I, uh, no. I don’t follow them, but it’s easy enough to fake.”

“You should come to the bar. There’s usually a game on, that way you can form an actual opinion.” She walks over and touches the box, smiling. “Oh, cookies.”

“Is that what these are?”

Emilia takes the box from me, lifting the top, “His daughter Katie bakes them whenever they spend time together.” She grabs one and holds it up to my mouth, “These look like walnut chocolate chip.”

I pluck the cookie out of her hand, “Why are we the ones enjoying them?”

“Because he shouldn’t have the sugar and he loves her too much to refuse.”

Humming to myself, I inspect the baked good before taking a bite. It’s soft and chewy, without being undercooked in the center, a perfect mix of salty and sweet. “Jesus fucking Christ.” I groan, loud enough that Emilia looks at me.

At that moment, Poppy rears up and crashes against the back of her knees, making them buckle. I bite down on the rest of the cookie, freeing my hands up to wrap around her waist as she guards the white box, pressing it against her chest.

“Poppy!” Emilia yelps, her gaze traveling from the dog up to me, a soft smile pulling at her lips as she rights herself. She playfully reaches up and snaps off the excess cookie, popping it into her mouth. “They’re good, huh? I keep saying that she should sell them.”

Through what I can only assume is a miracle, the cookies remain unharmed, the only casualty is my pulse.

I watch, dumbfounded, as she takes the box into the kitchen. “Yes, she should.”

The little witch doesn’t know how much she riles me up with her gentle teasing. So much so that I can feel my blood boil, the demon side of my heritage stirring beneath my skin. I turn my back to her, willing myself under control. There’s no way of telling how she would react to seeing me in such a state.

My true form emerges when I’m fighting or fucking. There’s no way for her to know, she might mistake it for me going feral and attempt to put me down.

“Hey, Silas?” She asks, her voice so soft that I barely can hear it over the sound of my racing heart.

I continue to take even breaths, until the sensation subsides, “Yes?”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.” I turn to see her watching me, expression soft.

She swallows, and I wonder what it is she sees when she looks at me. It’s clear that she’s not afraid, but why would she be? With the spell tethering us together, as weak as it has proven to be, I am entirely at her mercy.

Even without it, after seeing the fear and vulnerability in her eyes last night, I knew I had to protect her. I would draw blood to keep her safe.

Which is why I should push whatever these feelings are aside. She couldn’t possibly feel the same about me, not with our deal hanging over her head.

“Do you really think I can, you know, help me get my powers back?”

“Yes.” I huff out a breath, “Emilia, what do you think happened?”

She shrugs, “I don’t know. I always thought that I lost them. I grew into them as a girl and maybe I just grew out of them. It’s all part of getting older.”

“Magic, especially a witch’s magic, is tied to their emotions. I can see yours right now, glowing as bright as a star.”

“Can you teach me how to find it again?”

Shit.

“I can try.”

Maybe I haven’t thought this through completely. Of course, I can help her. It’s probably just a case of her confidence being shot. I can already see glimmers of it returning, and it’s such a beautiful sight. Magic is personal, like a fingerprint. To remind her of the feeling, I would have to let her feel a bit of mine.

The process is intimate. This wouldn’t matter if I were a full demon, but since I have witch blood, it would allow her to sense my emotions, including this hopeless attraction.

“Good.” She says, “Poppy, go to bed.” She snaps her fingers, pointing to the large cushion against the corner of the living room.

The dog saunters over and grabs her lamb toy, squeaking out her grievances as she obeys, curling up on the pillow.

“You want to start right this moment?”

“You said that it would be easier if I could use magic.” She shrugs, walking over to kneel in front of the coffee table.

“Don’t you have work?” I step closer.

“Yeah, but we have time.” She points to the spot beside her and gives me a gruff, “Sit.”

The spell connecting forces me to my knees right next to her, the sudden movement surprising us both.

She chokes out a laugh, her hand flying to her mouth. “Oh, Gods, I am so sorry, Silas. I forgot all about the bracelet. Are you okay?”

“It’s fine. I’m fine.”

I try to glare at her, but can’t muster the ire. Her cheeks are flushed a rich pink, the color continuing down across her shoulders and chest, disappearing under her shirt. Gods, I would love to bury my face against her neck, filling my nose with her scent, feeling her soft body pressed against me.

I am so screwed. Though, maybe not. If I keep the touches light, just a brush of my fingertips. I should be able to do this without revealing too much.

All risks aside, I am curious to see how much power she has. This could be an opportunity for me to glimpse her potential to shatter the demonic hierarchy once and for all.

“How do we start?” She asks, her voice still bright with her laughter as she represses a smirk.

“I don’t trust either of us enough to play with fire at the moment, so what other abilities do you have?”

She settles back, tucking her feet under her, “Just my telekinesis. That was the first to manifest. You can imagine how surprised I was when I moved my hairbrush one day and set it on fire.”

“We can start there and leave the fire for later on. Focus your energy on something lightweight.”

Emilia tries to hide her discomfort, but it’s clear she has some trauma attached to her magic that forces her to keep it contained to the point of being stifled.

I’ve had it happen several times throughout my life, but it’s hard to force yourself to look inward, especially when you’re afraid of losing control.

She scans the room, her attentions snagging on the half bookshelf in the corner. I pick out her target immediately, amidst the old dusty tomes is the single Harlequin romance I left there a few days ago after I finished it.

It has to be one of my favorites so far. The story is about a billionaire who has to fake date his receptionist to improve his emotional intelligence, all the while ignoring their clear sexual attraction.

Emilia lifts her hand, and I keep my eye on the book. After a few seconds, shuffles its way across the shelf then stops, like it’s hit an invisible block despite her hand shaking from the exertion.

“I can’t.” She slumps her shoulders.

She’s still in her head.

“Why the Harlequin?”

“What do you mean?”

“You could have chosen the squeaky toy, it’s made of thin rubber.” I nod towards Poppy’s toy bin, “Or maybe one of the herbs you have set out to dry on the dining room table. You chose the book, knowing you might fail. Why do you want to prove yourself right?”

Emilia frowns and pushes herself up onto her knees, “I didn’t sign up for a therapy session. You were supposed to help me with my magic. If you think this is hopeless.”

“Wait.” I touch her elbow, allowing a trickle of my magic to pass through to her, “I never said you will fail.”

She looks down at where we’re connected, grabbing ahold of my forearm, her touch seeking my magic, then settles onto the floor.

“I will help. Try again.”

“Okay,” she breathes, holding her hand out.

I feed her enough magic to spark the flame. If you’ve been without for years, it’s easy to lose sight of the sensation.

Suddenly, her magic overtakes mine, coursing through my body like an electrical current. It’s been lying there, dormant for so many years, and now it’s starving.

Not just a well of power, an untapped reservoir. She could lead her own coven if she wished it or live as a queen in the demon realm, with all the lesser begging for scraps.

Above all else, her magic feels like home. Not the raging fire that I expected, built upon pain from the defiance in her eyes, but it’s the warmth of sunlight. It’s the comfort of a lover’s embrace and the one thing that she never lost sight of. Hope.

The book slides further across the shelf and launches into the air, flying a good three feet before landing on top of the coffee table in front of us with a satisfying thud. Emilia lets out a whoop and rocks onto her knees, wrapping her arms around my shoulders.

“We did it.” She says against my neck.

“No, you did it.” I gingerly place my hand at her side. I cannot help but lean into her touch, turning to nearly brush my lips against her shoulder.

Emilia pulls away, her eyes searching my face. “What do you mean?”

“I only reminded you what it felt like.”

“Well,” she smiles, her gaze catching on my lips and making my heart skip a beat, “Thank you.” She releases me and sits back, holding her hand out and making the book levitate an inch or so off the table without my help.

It doesn’t seem like much, but it’s far more progress than I had expected.

She closes her fist, and it drops, “I should get ready for work.” She turns to me and presses a kiss to my cheek, then climbs to her feet, leaving the room.

Here I was afraid that she would know everything about me. I never once thought that I would taste her magic and, by extension, know the caress of her soul.

Now, I’m not sure I can think of anything else.