Chapter Ten
Nolan
Three hours later, and I’m still thinking about Harriet.
The curve of her shoulders. The slight inhale through her nose. Her hair curtained in front of her face, so she could hide from me.
Flat on my back in a bed that’s not all that comfortable, I stare up at the ceiling in my bedroom and watch the way the light moves across my ceiling.
I see Harriet’s face in every beam that spills across the shadows, specifically the way her eyes turned glassy when I mocked her for trying to be helpful.
I’ve seen enough of her past to know that she feels like she’s a burden on those around her. Her parents didn’t offer an ounce of affection, and she’s struggled to find her place. I know there’s a bruise there, but I pressed on it anyway.
She’s right. I was being cruel.
“Fuck,” I rumble, digging the palms of my hands into my eyes until I see spots. How much of me has been twisted by the people I’ve been haunting? How much of myself have I lost?
She didn’t know what she was saying when she spoke of my moving on, but that doesn’t mean she deserved to be the outlet of my frustration. She didn’t deserve to be hurt.
I drop my hands to the bed. Tomorrow, I’ll go back to the antiques shop. I’ll make it up to her. Explain the situation. I’ll … try to articulate my own feelings, though I should probably untangle what those are.
Regardless, I’ll do better.
The floorboards creak in the hallway. I sit up on my elbows, sheets pooling around my hips.
“Builín?” I call.
For years, cats have been attracted to my little house on the water. Sometimes they appear on the porch. Other times, they sneak in through the window that never quite closes all the way. I’ve had countless ambiguous pets over the years, coming and going as they please.
But Builín has been the only one for the last decade or so. I imagine she’s returned for her nightly burrow in my sheets. Or her apparent need to terrorize the stacks of books in my living room.
“Nolan?” a voice calls back.
Harriet appears, framed by the light that seeps in from the windows. She’s wearing her minuscule pajamas again—the ones with the candy canes printed all over them—and my mouth goes dry at the sight of her.
Pale skin. Round hips. The smallest sliver of her stomach beneath the hem of her shirt. Bare shoulders and golden hair turned silver in the moonlight.
“Harriet?” My hands fist in the sheets at my sides. “What are you doing here?”
“Couldn’t sleep,” she slurs, digging a fist against her eye. “Not with how we left things. I don’t—” She drops her hand. “I don’t do well with conflict. As you’ve probably noticed.”
She shuffles closer to the bed, her feet bare.
Her knees hit the mattress, and she climbs up without hesitation, crawling over my body still trapped beneath the sheets.
It’s too much contact, too fast. I’ve only allowed myself to touch Harriet in increments, and now she’s laying out a feast. I grip her hips as she drapes her arms over my shoulders, her bare thighs hugging my sides.
The thin strip of fabric on her shoulder drops to her elbow, the curve of her breast a tease through the material.
“I didn’t mean to make you mad,” she whispers, her nose digging into my bare shoulder. I am painfully aware of the little fabric that exists between us. “I really did want to help.”
“I’m not mad,” I tell her, still bewildered by her sudden appearance, but not enough to question it.
I press my hand to the small of her back and hold her to me, tracing the line of her spine until I can knot my fingers in her hair.
My magic hums in quiet approval, my skin buzzing everywhere we touch.
In the quiet of my bedroom, Harriet shifts in my arms. There’s only the rasp of my sheets and the even pattern of her breathing. I don’t know how she found me, but I’m glad she’s here. I hold her tighter and her chin finds my shoulder.
“I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did.” I scoop all of her hair up in my hands and let it fall through my fingers. “Are you mad?” I ask.
“No. I’m not mad.”
“You should be.”
“Yeah, probably.” She settles deeper in my lap and I grunt, my hands tightening against her. She feels so good, her weight pressing me down into the mattress. She feels solid. Real. I fall backward into my pillows so I can see her, sliding my hands to her hips.
She stays sitting, perched on my lap like some sort of moon goddess.
“Maybe I’ll be mad tomorrow. Tonight—” She traces her palms over my shoulders, across my bare chest, and down to where the sheets ride low around my hips.
My back arches and my eyes fall shut. No one has touched me like this in years. It feels … indescribable.
She slips her fingers beneath the twisted material of my flannel sheets and tugs them lower. Cool night air kisses my sleep-warm skin.
“Tonight,” she continues, her breath at the hollow of my throat. The ends of her hair tickle my bare arms. “Tonight, I want something different from you.”
Her mouth hovers over mine. I want it so badly.
Kiss. Devour. Take.
I wake with a jolt, my heart thundering in my chest. My bed is empty, my sheets twisted around my middle. I can still feel the weight of Harriet in my lap, taste her peppermint on my mouth. My cock is heavy between my legs, my magic singing in my blood.
I collapse back against my bed and throw my arm over my eyes, exhaling a groan. Heat is pulsing through my veins, centering low between my hips. Harriet, in those pajamas. Harriet, with her mouth on my skin.
Harriet, Harriet, Harriet.
I hesitate, then dip my hand beneath my blanket and wrap my fingers around myself. I squeeze, and my hips arch.
A dream. It was a dream.
For the first time in over a century, I had a dream.
And I dreamed of Harriet.
“Fuck,” I mutter.