Chapter 16. Blaise
Well, that couldn’t have gone any worse.
I’d presumed that, after six months without penetrative sex, the biggest issue I’d face when first making love to my mate would be premature ejaculation.
But no. Of course it had to be the phantom image of Ambrose.
Because the moment I let myself give in to desire, I’d pictured him there with us.
I should have waited. No matter how desperately my body ached for Caitlyn, I shouldn’t have allowed myself to give in before I was ready. I should have told her about Ambrose—about why I needed time to forget him.
And more than anything, I should be ashamed of myself.
Ashamed of being the kind of mate who could imagine sharing his fated partner with another, when instinct demanded the opposite. A good mate should feel a primal urge to tear any rival limb from limb for so much as looking at her that way—not entertain the thought of inviting them to join.
And the thing was, that instinct was there.
The bond between Caitlyn and me was still fresh, still raw, and if anyone tried to stand between us and proposition her, I don’t think I could stop myself from unleashing my shadows and tearing them apart.
Anyone—
Except Ambrose.
But when I turned to Caitlyn, my thoughts fumbling for an explanation, she was staring up at the precariously pitched roof of the tent, her mouth forming a small O as she disappeared deep into thought.
The scent rolling from her was thick with honeysuckle-sweet, unfulfilled desire, the sharp edge of disappointment cutting through it. Threaded beneath that, though, was something else entirely—the crackle of an idea sparking to life, a trail of thought she was already chasing.
I should have been relieved that she wasn’t focused on the abysmal performance she’d just endured.
That her mental reset had worked despite it.
And as desperately as I wanted to stumble through an apology, an explanation, a confession, I didn’t want to be the thing that pulled her away from her thoughts until they had fully formed.
I couldn’t stop the frustrated breath that tore from my lips as I sat up and glared at the floor, wishing the earth would open up and swallow me whole. The air mattress shifted beneath me—Caitlyn changing into the pajamas I’d left by her pillow, no doubt.
When I finally found the courage to look at my mate, she was sitting cross-legged on the bed. The small patch of dampness darkening the fabric between her legs was a quiet, unmistakable reminder of my failure.
Her gaze lifted to mine, and heat crept up my neck and into my cheeks. Caitlyn reached out, her fingers gentle beneath my chin as she tilted my face up to meet her eyes.
“We have a lifetime to figure each other’s bodies out,” she said.
Before I could stop myself, I said, “Caitlyn, there’s something I need to tell you—something I should have said much earlier.
” Her gaze met mine, and suddenly I seemed to forget how words worked.
With nothing left in my vocal library except quotes from Hexes at Noon, my mind dragged forth the parting words from the final episode, where it was left on a painful cliff-hanger, which hinted that Kendra and Xaden might finally get together, before abruptly ending.
“I know I’ll rue this night forever for not having—”
“Are you quoting the last episode...” Caitlyn’s focus slipped away mid-sentence. Her gaze had gone distant, the spark in her eyes flaring bright as the idea finally bloomed.
“You just thought of a way to finish your potion, didn’t you?” I said.
“I’m sorry, Blaise,” she replied, shaking her head as if trying to pull herself back into the moment.
But the idea had already caught fire, and I’d be damned if my spiral of guilt was going to take precedence over something she’d poured her heart and soul into.
I lifted her chin gently, fitting it into the crook of my finger until her eyes met mine.
“We have a lifetime to figure this out,” I said, even as guilt coiled tight in my gut at the thought that she might not want that lifetime once I finally told her everything.
“And I, for one, want to spend it with a mate who’s successfully brewed her Wailing Whirls. ”
“No,” she started, but I pressed a finger to her lips.
And just like that, I didn’t want to tell her any of it. The selfish part of me wanted to keep the truth tucked away out of fear that once she saw how tangled and broken I really was, she might turn away.
“Go, Caitlyn,” I said quietly, brushing my thumb along her cheek. “Be the perfect witch I already know you are.”
She smiled and leaned in to press a quick, affectionate kiss to my lips before slipping off the bed and darting out of the tent. A moment later came the soft clink of glass on glass as she rummaged through her ingredients, followed by an exasperated sigh.
“Do you need help?” I called after her.
“I was sure I had some already dried.”
“What is it?” I asked. “Maybe I can help find some.”
A moment later, footsteps approached, and Caitlyn poked her head through the opening of the tent.
“It’s rue,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper.
“When you said the rue-this-night quote from Hexes at Noon earlier, which is actually my favorite episode ever, I realized it was exactly what the Wailing Whirls were missing.”
“Great,” I whispered back. “But why are we whispering?”
She glanced over her shoulder before answering. “Because I’ve seen rue growing in Creep’s killer greenhouse. I thought I might already have some dried, but apparently not—and I’m not ready to go crawling back to her just yet.”
With that, Caitlyn slipped out of the tent. A moment later, the soft clink of glass on glass drifted through the air as she began sorting through her potions and herbs again.
After a long exhale, I pushed myself to my feet and headed for the entrance of the tent. I had no idea what dried rue was supposed to look like, but a second set of eyes couldn’t hurt.
By the time I reached her, Caitlyn was sprawled on her back in the grass, potion bottles and bundled herbs laying scattered around her like fallen constellations.
Over her shoulder, the house—which I could have sworn had edged closer to the campsite—loomed with every window thrown open, net curtains billowing in a wind that didn’t exist, as if it were straining to listen in.
“No luck, then?” I asked.
“Nope.” She pushed her bottom lip out in a small pout. “I guess I could order some rue from Witchmart, but it’ll take days—”
An almost ear-splitting crack cut through the air, and a mason jar thudded onto Caitlyn’s stomach, filled with what looked like dried thyme, only more yellow.
Caitlyn swore under her breath, clearly remembering a second too late that she’d been trying to keep the secret ingredient secret from Creep.
Jaw tight, she grabbed the jar and flung it over her shoulder, then sat up, folded her arms across her chest, and glared at the house. “I don’t need help from a traitor.”
The house let out a mournful groan, and with a much softer crack, the jar of rue materialized once more in Caitlyn’s lap.
Her lips tightened, but the tension in her brow eased, the anger faltering just enough to show how hard she was fighting it.
With a small shake of her head, her features set again, resolve hardening back into place.
She closed her fingers around the jar and, steadying herself with her free hand, pushed up to her feet.
Caitlyn cast me a look that might have meant Trust me or Brace yourself for war—I wasn’t entirely sure. Then she turned and marched toward the house, the porch steps groaning beneath the force of her thudding footsteps.
The front door cracked open, spilling an oddly bright wash of candlelight into the evening and haloing a decidedly sullen-looking Creep.
She slipped through the gap, porcelain head bowed, coils of red hair tumbling forward to curtain her painted face.
With her hands clasped behind her back and one small foot twisting shyly in its polished black shoe, she looked like the very picture of remorse—an adorable, doll-sized embodiment of I’m sowwy.
And apparently, being cute was all Creep needed to tug at Caitlyn’s heartstrings.
Caitlyn rolled her eyes, the jar of rue cradled awkwardly against her chest as she crossed her arms.
After a long sigh, Caitlyn said, “You don’t deserve it after everything you’ve done—but I’m prepared to give you one last chance, Creep. Under conditions.”
Creep slowly lifted her head, glassy eyes fluttering. Even her fixed, painted smile looked faintly hopeful.
Caitlyn let out a sharp breath. Finally, she spoke through gritted teeth. “I don’t understand why you’re so infatuated with Priscilla. She bullied me and my friends relentlessly when we were kids—and she’s still the meanest witch I know.”
Creep’s gaze seemed to narrow, her small body going rigid, as though she were fighting the urge to search for the nearest razor.
“That said,” Caitlyn continued, “I’m not going to tell you who you can and can’t be friends with. You’re not mine to control.”
Creep tilted her head, suspicion flickering across her painted features.
“But I do expect you to acknowledge that Priscilla and I have a history—one that caused me real pain,” Caitlyn said.
“I don’t want her in the house. This is meant to be a safe space for all three of us.
” She paused, then added coolly, “If you insist on spending time with her, do it elsewhere. Build yourself a little horror treehouse.” Under her breath, she muttered, “Preferably high up in a rotten tree where gravity can do us all a favor.”
Creep evidently heard her. Her back snapped straight as she shot Caitlyn a death glare that Caitlyn met without flinching. After a long, taut moment, it was Creep who looked away, her chin dipping as her gaze fell to her polished shoes.
“Speaking of Priscilla—” Caitlyn said.
Creep’s eyes rolled up beneath her fringe, fixing Caitlyn with another sullen glare.