Chapter 20. Ambrose
I cursed for the entirety of the journey to the location of Blaise’s job.
I cursed the work van for refusing to go any faster.
I cursed jaywalkers, cyclists, and anyone who dared hesitate at a zebra crossing.
I cursed the tactical gear rattling loose in the back, shaken free by my sharp turns and reckless driving.
I cursed Blaise’s too-small spare boots that I’d found in the back for cutting off circulation to my feet—but I’d rather curl up and die than drive barefoot.
And I cursed Priscilla twofold. First of all, for denying me the satisfaction of tearing her mother to shreds myself.
Second, I cursed her for making me leave my phone, ensuring Isadora would believe I’d simply died in the night, swallowed by shadows, leaving me to navigate my way to Blaise with a paper map like some medieval pilgrim.
Apparently, her compulsion had to be used sparingly, and making sure her mother didn’t notice the van was missing was as far as she was willing to push it.
But the bulk of my curses belonged to Isadora.
In some twisted way, I was almost grateful for her.
At least she gave me something solid to pour this seething mass of emotion into—something violent enough to keep my thoughts from drifting back to Blaise for most of the journey.
Whenever my mind tried to circle him, I dragged it instead to Isadora.
To the countless ways I would end her when I eventually had her in my talons.
For most of the eight-hour drive to the location of Blaise’s job—a lonely circle on a paper map in the middle of nowhere—I planned her death in meticulous detail.
Because when I reached the house, I would have to confront him.
And his new mate.
And imagining Isadora’s end was far easier than picturing myself forcing a smile while watching Blaise stand beside someone else.
But there are only so many ways one can imagine killing their captor.
Eventually—despite my best efforts—my thoughts did what they always did.
They drifted back to Blaise.
I’d spent most of the drive to Isadora’s job wondering what I would say to Blaise when I finally saw him again.
I’d never thought I would need to rehearse a confession.
Until the moment I grabbed his hand beneath the table at the summoning and he squeezed back, I’d never allowed myself to hope that he had feelings for me too.
But when we’d returned to the apartment that night, he’d exploded at me, telling me that at the very least, he wanted things to go back to the way they’d been.
And admitting that he also wasn’t opposed to. .. more.
And I’d been a coward.
I’d walked out under the pretense of needing time, when really I’d been afraid of myself. Afraid that if I stayed, I’d press him into the couch before I’d fully understood what he was offering, and before he’d fully understood just how deeply my feelings ran for him.
So, on that long drive—somewhere between convincing myself that we both needed time to breathe and fighting the urge to go straight back to him—I’d planned my confession a hundred different ways.
But that had all been before I realized I was too late.
He had a mate now.
And I would not put myself between them.
So I scrapped my grand confession and made a different plan.
I would be calm. I would say hello, shake the hand of his mate, and tell them how happy I was for them both. I would briefly relay what had happened to me—omitting Priscilla’s name, as she’d requested—and tell them, and whoever Purdy was, that they needed to return to the coven.
Hopefully, they’d listen. Hopefully, they’d just go.
I didn’t want to linger in their presence any longer than I had to.
Maybe I would get my warning out and then expire from starvation at their feet.
My hands tightened on the steering wheel. No. I needed to keep going—at least until I’d seen things through with Isadora.
My memories of the last few weeks were hazy, as though whatever had been wrought by Isadora’s compulsion had fractured and drifted out of reach.
But I remembered enough. The way she’d replaced the feelings I’d had for Blaise with her own face.
The way she’d cursed me into believing it was her I wanted.
I shuddered.
She’d tainted my very nature.
My anger only subsided when I finally cleared the tree line and saw the creepy, gothic mansion squatting in the middle of a field, Blaise’s van parked out front.
I couldn’t help but loosen my vise-like grip on my senses—and nearly veered into a fence post as Blaise’s scent flooded my nose. Cardamon and sandalwood. Woven through it was another scent entirely, as though the whole field had been steeped in sunlight and honeysuckle.
That must be the candy witch—Caitlyn, I reminded myself.
Hells, I’d read her name often enough on the bookings that it felt branded into the inside of my skull.
The scents of emotions lingered in the clearing as if too heavy for the wind to carry off—shame, embarrassment, relief—but happiness and hope were the strongest by far.
I should be happy for him, I told myself.
But as I selfishly drank in Blaise’s scent while pulling up beside his van, a new feeling reared its head. One I hadn’t expected from myself.
Jealousy.
Or... not jealousy exactly. Longing.
A longing I’d never anticipated, because while I still yearned for Blaise, something else stirred alongside it. A second ache, born from the way his scent tangled with another’s—and I wanted that too.
For the first time in my existence, Blaise wasn’t the only one who occupied my thoughts. For the first time, a space carved itself out in anticipation of someone else.
Ironic, really, that the first time I allowed thoughts of my fated mate to surface was when I was confronted with undeniable proof that Blaise was no longer mine—not that he ever had been—and that he’d found his happy ending.
His happy ending with a mate who smelled of sunshine and honeysuckle.
As I made my way up the front steps on unsteady legs, an odd calm settled over me. Even the unmistakable sense of being watched didn’t spark enough suspicion to make me send out my shadows.
I rapped on the door and felt oddly at home.
But that could have just been my body beginning to shut down from starvation.
The door swung open, and I was met with nothing but the glassy stares of taxidermy animals and the glint of trinkets, dappled in refracted light from a glittering chandelier high above.
I stepped into the hallway, the distant creak of footsteps signaling that Blaise was on his way... and I felt none of the worry that had gripped me moments earlier. It was as though it had all been stripped away, replaced by a quiet, insistent certainty.
This is right, I thought.
This is right for Blaise.
And, strangely, another thought followed close behind.
This is right for you too.
And there went my sanity.
Tricked again by my longing for Blaise, my mind eagerly filled in the gaps I’d never allowed myself to examine.
The forever home I’d refused to imagine was suddenly a creepy manor, complete with an odd, hopefully not haunted doll perched among dead-eyed animals, watching me.
I pictured Blaise’s arms around me, his voice hoarse from all the times he’d told me I love you too.
And the sun-and-honeysuckle scent of my fated mate who, apparently, was perfectly content with the idea of two incubus mates.
I shook my head to dispel the thought, which was a mistake. Hunger and fatigue made it feel as though my brain had come loose inside my skull, pins and needles cascading down my spine and into the tips of my extremities.
“Ambrose?”
The voice stopped me dead.
Blaise stood in the doorway of one of the adjoining rooms, hair tousled, dressed down in sweatpants and a plain tee. His expression hovered somewhere between disbelief and panic as his golden eyes met mine.
And then—before my better judgment could intervene—I crossed the room and pulled him into my arms.
The moment stretched, wrong in all the ways I hadn’t prepared for. I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting. For him to press into the embrace? For him to give me a friendly pat on the back and crack a joke?
Instead, he went rigid, his chest unmoving as if he refused to breathe in the scent of me.
I felt the slight tilt of his head against my shoulder as his gaze fixed on something behind me. Suddenly, the front door slammed shut with enough force to rattle the walls, followed by the sounds of half a dozen locks clicking into place.
“No, no, no!” Blaise called out, and I instantly released him, stumbling backward and only just managing to steady myself on the console table without knocking any of the dead animals to the floor.
His eyes were wide, darting between me, the front door, and, absurdly, the creepy doll beside my elbow. He dragged a hand through his hair, teeth clenched as though holding himself together by sheer will alone.
“I—you—” His brows, slightly hairier than usual, drew together. Finally, he said, “What are you doing here, Ambrose?”
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
My thoughts scattered, my attention snagging on the way his gaze kept flicking to the doll.
Finally, I managed, “My job went south, and—”
Blaise’s eyes snapped back to the doll with a look of warning.
“—I think you might be—”
He took a step toward the table, finger lifting as though he were about to scold it.
I broke off, irritation slipping through despite myself. “Hells, Blaise. Why do you keep looking at the damned doll?”
“Because it’s the one who locked the damned door.”
I barely registered the absurdity of his words, because I’d finally noticed what was in the room he’d emerged from.
Steeped in shadow and flickering candlelight, blankets and cushions were arranged on the couch. A laptop sat open, paused on the opening credits of the first episode of Hexes at Noon.
My chest tightened.
I remembered the first night I’d ever spent in his apartment. After making sure he was fed, and cleaning the house together, the pair of us settled on the couch to watch Hexes at Noon. He’d fallen asleep with his head on my shoulder.
It was the moment I’d truly fallen for him.
But this—this wasn’t for me.
He hadn’t known I was coming.
This was all for Caitlyn.
And I needed to get out of here. Because, as it turned out, I didn’t have the strength for this—not now. Maybe not ever. I’d have to... I didn’t know. Write the warning down and nail it to the front door? Buy a burner phone and text it to him?
All I knew with certainty was that I had to do anything that got me out of this damned house.
The house, it seemed, had other ideas.
When I staggered back into the hallway, Blaise was wrestling with the door—one foot braced against the frame, both hands locked around the handle as he tried and failed to force it open.
He muttered a string of curses under his breath before turning back to the doll. “Creep, please. If you have any love for Caitlyn at all, open the door.”
The door didn’t budge.
I headed for the nearest window.
The shutters slammed shut in response.
Just as I was considering hurling myself through it anyway—glass and wood be damned—Blaise finally gave up. His hands dropped to his sides. He shot the doll a death glare before turning slowly to face me.
“Ambrose,” he said, his voice strained. “We have so much to discuss.”
I stumbled backward, once more catching myself on the console table, but Blaise didn’t notice. His attention snapped back to the doll as he hissed, “I can’t believe you’re making me do this right now.” Then his gaze returned to me. “I... well... the thing is...”
As Blaise fumbled over his words, I fixed my focus on anything but him, fighting the nausea rolling through me. I focused on the faint scrape of ceramic on ceramic—had the doll in my periphery just moved?—and the low, ominous hum of a vehicle approaching outside.
“And... now’s not the time to go into detail...”
The scent of honeysuckle thickened in the air. Blaise shot a panicked look toward the door before glaring down at the doll again. “She’ll never forgive you for this, Creep. And neither will I.”
Footsteps sounded outside. Blaise’s cheeks flushed red, a heady mix of shame and unfettered anger directed squarely at the doll.
“The thing is...” he ground out through clenched teeth. “The witch I came here to work for... she’s my—”
The front door creaked sharply as it swung open.
The most beautiful creature I had ever seen stood framed in the doorway, haloed by the setting sun.
Two bags, filled to bursting, were clutched in either arm.
As the breeze carried the full force of her honeysuckle scent into the house, it wrapped around me, sank into my bones—and awakened something primal.
My teeth ground together. My fists clenched around the edge of the console table so tightly I was certain the doll and the taxidermy animals would go crashing to the floor.
Caitlyn—because it could only be her—paused just inside the threshold, confusion flickering across her face as she glanced between me, the doll, and Blaise.
I spared one last look at him.
Apologetic horror stared back at me from his golden eyes.
And with no restraint left in my body, I turned to Caitlyn and ground out the word that would change everything.
“Mate.”