Chapter Thirteen
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Tripp Nightshade.
Elara shook her head.
He really was a demigod. Somehow, she’d convinced herself it wasn’t true.
But he was related to Hermes, the man he’d labeled the Divine Trickster.
And Florence Shaw was her grandmother. One who couldn’t be bothered to tell Payton or her the truth and barely paid them a living wage. If it wasn’t for their trust funds?—
The trust funds!
They were from their mother’s mother, who, if Elara wasn’t mistaken, was Flo. They’d never gotten that far into the conversation to find out. She assumed with the last name Shaw, Florence wasn’t a Hawthorne, but she might’ve changed it for her own reasons.
Last night, she’d gotten through the rest of her shift on autopilot. Granted, it was shortened considerably when Flo told everyone to “get the hell out” and locked the doors behind them. Payton bolted immediately.
“I’m not waiting around to hear a pack of lies and excuses,” she’d said as she grabbed her purse and stalked out the alley door.
Florence had appeared crushed but rallied in an instant. Chin in the air, she’d given Elara a do-your-worst look. But all the fight had left her, and the only thing she’d wanted at that moment was to leave Tripp, Flo, and Witchmere far, far behind. Her parents’ nomad lifestyle was looking better and better.
When Elara arrived home, she discovered Hex missing and spent the remainder of the night looking for him. Exhausted, depressed, and fearing the worst for her precious cat, she trudged back to her apartment and slept on the couch, jerking awake at every slight sound.
Snow fell outside the patio doors, and her worry for him doubled. Her pampered boy was never gone longer than a few hours, and he might not fare well in the harsh winter elements. Should she appeal to Tripp’s better nature and ask him to alter the weather if he could?
Dismissing the idea, she considered others.
The Sandersons were wolf shifters. Their sense of smell should be more powerful than an average dog’s, right? A quick internet search confirmed her guess. But which one did she approach? Katie? Bohdan? Certainly not Rowen. The brain-searing image of her hugging Tripp still rankled.
“Oh, Hex. Please come back to me,” Elara said aloud, wishing with all her might that he was okay.
Less than two minutes later, a scratch at the glass doors caught her attention. With a cry of joy, she rushed to let Sir Hex-a-lot in. Sweeping him into her arms, she knelt on the floor and sobbed all over his snow-dampened fur.
“Where have you been?” she scolded between gasping breaths. “I thought… thought I’d l-lost you, Hex. You were… gone so l-long, and… and…” The stress of his disappearance, added to all she’d discovered the previous night, was too much, and her shuddering sobs wouldn’t stop. Although Hex didn’t struggle to get away, he didn’t appear to love the torrential tearfest. “I l-love you… you stupid c-cat.”
The expression on his face altered, and his emerald eyes grew softer as he stared at her.
“Meow.” Hex’s purr was deafening as he butted his head against her chin and rubbed his face along her jaw.
And then Tripp was there, shooing Hex from her arms and cradling her within his embrace. “Don’t cry, flitter-mouse,” he said in a low, aching voice as if her tears physically hurt him. “Please, don’t cry.”
Not questioning how he knew she needed comfort or why she accepted it when she wasn’t happy with him, Elara climbed onto his lap, draped her arms around his shoulders, and buried her face against the strong column of his throat. The scent of his freshly showered skin was heavenly, and she sighed, feeling a strange contentment in being held.
Large, comforting hands rubbed circles on her back, and her eyes drifted shut as exhaustion washed over her. Remaining upset while secure in the arms of the man you adored was difficult, and her tears dried up.
“Why are you here?” she asked, pulling back to look at him.
“I was at Wily Witches, but you weren’t. I also felt your angst, so I knew something was wrong.” Tripp smoothed her hair, and his worried gaze traveled over her face. What he searched for, she couldn’t say, but she assumed he wanted to make sure she wouldn’t break down again before he released her.
His comment registered, and her jaw dropped.
“You felt my angst? Like literally felt it as a physical thing?”
He nodded and touched his chest. “Here. It’s an ache.”
Elara’s gaze locked on the hand pressed to his heart, and hers melted along with her anger toward him. “How is it that you feel connected to me?”
“I don’t know,” he confessed. “It’s been this way since I arrived in Witchmere and saw you.”
She frowned, considering all the times she’d made an absolute fool of herself. Did he feel her discomfort or just her pain?
“When I… um, when I… was dodging you… I…” She swallowed, preparing to try again.
“Some,” he said, taking pity on her. “Not as strong as the sensation has been since our first kiss.”
What must it be like to have powers like his?
“Did you feel your other, uh, lovers’ emotions?” She mentally kicked herself for asking when hesitancy crossed his face. “Never mind. It’s okay.”
“I don’t have a problem answering, but I don’t want to upset you further.”
“Why would it upset me?”
“Because you don’t believe my story about the boots, Elaina, and élise.”
“I do now,” she confessed. “At least about the women. You can’t live as long as you have without falling for someone, I imagine.”
His gaze ate her up before settling on her mouth. “I keep telling myself I won’t, but then I do.”
“But you won’t allow yourself to love fully? Why?”
Elara’s question gave Tripp pause. Over the years, he’d told himself it was because gods and mortals didn’t mix. If he were to sustain a severe wound, he’d heal. The likelihood of mortals doing the same was nil. But perhaps Elara was the exception. Her Shaw bloodlines produced extraordinary witches, though she’d yet to tap into her full magic. The Hawthorne side was rumored to be formidable, too, maybe more than the Shaws. However, his theory regarding her father’s heritage was still a work in progress. Soon, Tripp would discover the truth.
Yes, the footwear was enchanted and the catalyst for her recent spells, but the abilities were all hers. Those blasted boots merely tapped into her significant power, which made both her and those damned things dangerous.
“Tripp?”
“Yeah, sorry. You threw me for a moment.” He sighed and brushed a stubborn lock of hair from her brow. Whenever she tilted her head in inquiry, it tended to fall from its mooring behind her ear and obscure her soulful eyes.
“You don’t have to answer,” she hedged.
“I’m considering the question.”
And he was.
Could his reticence be attributed to his mother’s misguided matchmaking? His inability to settle down? The lack of desire to stay in one place longer than a decade?
Elara seemed to give up on a response and tucked her head in the crook of his neck. In the reflection of the patio door’s glass, he saw her watching Hex, or rather, Hermes as Tripp now knew the Trickster to be.
“That’s not a regular cat, Elara. You’ll need to come to terms with letting him go,” he said gently.
“I love him.”
Tripp’s gut clenched. Yes, she believed Hermes was a dumb beast, but he knew differently. The knowledge of her caring for his cousin in any capacity tied his guts into knots.
“You don’t truly know him.”
The so-called cat locked eyes with Tripp, hiked up his leg, and began licking his balls.
“It looks like he winked at you,” she said with a contagious giggle.
“He did,” he replied sourly. “Let’s make an appointment for him to get neutered tomorrow.”
Hermes hissed and, with his tail puffed to three times its standard size, stalked from the room.
“Was it something I said?” Tripp asked dryly.
Straightening, Elara shifted her weight, preparing to abandon his lap. Unwilling to release her, he lifted her at the waist and resettled her to straddle him, putting them face to face. Her eyes flew wide, but she didn’t object.
What he didn’t expect was the feel of her heat against his dick, and the damned thing woke, ready to play.
Unable to keep his hands to himself, he wove his fingers into her thick hair, holding her head in place as he gazed deep into eyes that exposed her vulnerable soul.
He wanted to say, “Oh, flitter-mouse, you have no idea what you do to me.” Yet the words stuck in the back of his throat, refusing to be uttered for fear of revealing his deepest desire.
Her.
When had she turned the tables and gained the upper hand? How had he become the flustered one, dodging encounters for self-preservation? Not to mention the preservation of others. Kissing her again could blow the lid off Rainier, and yet, he was tempted by forces stronger than him.
“What do you want from me, Tripp? Other than the boots.”
Her solemn-voiced question struck to the heart of him.
“I don’t know,” he confessed hoarsely.
Her expression morphed into the carefully controlled one she presented to the world. The smile she offered was small and tight. Dismissive.
“Don’t!” he barked, causing her to jump. Moderating his tone, he said, “Don’t give me that look. Please. I hate it.”
“What look?”
“The one that hides your true feelings. The one that says you don’t need anyone because you’re prepared to tough it out alone.”
Surprise sent her jaw plunging, and Tripp couldn’t ignore her siren’s call another second longer.
“I’m going to kiss you, Elara Elizabeth Hawthorne, and if it’s not what you want, say it now.”
Heartbeats passed.
Finally, in answer, she dragged his head down and offered her mouth to him.
The moment their lips met, the world seemed to hold its breath, and then—like a dam breaking—raw, uncontainable energy surged between them. Elara clung to Tripp as the ground beneath their feet rumbled. Floor-tile cracks radiated outward like the earth was reacting to their union. In the distance, Rainier’s snow-capped peak shivered. Its icy crown liquefied under the sheer heat of their connection, sending rivers of water cascading down its slopes. The kiss deepened into a storm of need and promise, and their power entwined until it was impossible to tell where his magic ended and hers began.
When they finally pulled apart, breathless and trembling, the air was thick with steam and power, the landscape forever marked by the fire they had unleashed.
A shadow blocked the morning’s rays, and Tripp glanced up to find Hermes, naked-assed, staring out the patio doors toward the mountain.
“Fuck all, Tripp!” he snapped. “The villagers are going to want your head on a pike.”