Chapter 13 Braxton
Braxton
My fingernails dig into my scalp as I run my fingers through my hair. I’m off. Everything about that interaction I just had with Azalea was off, and I don’t know how she pulled that kind of truth from me.
It has to be because of the damn business I had to attend to today.
Business that impeded upon my time with Azalea.
But when that witch comes knocking, I have no choice but to answer.
After all, she is the contractor of this sky-forsaken curse.
The old bitch has been a thorn in my side since the damn deal was made, and the curse binding Azalea to this castle was implemented.
As if her taunting letters weren’t enough, now she’s decided to start visiting too house calls. Closing my eyes, I take a cleansing breath, but it’s useless when my vision fills with her haggard appearance.
Blowing out a breath, I know that’s a stretch. Unfortunately, she’s quite beautiful, which is how she tricks you. She has benevolent features that would make any weak man succumb to striking a deal. I don’t know why I ever thought I was above falling for her trickery.
Entering into this curse with her and having an unpayable debt in the process is one of the worst decisions I’ve ever made. And still, I know I would choose the same fate in a heartbeat.
Today, though, she truly showed the evil that has taken over her soul, if she even has one anymore.
I can perfectly picture the way she flicked her thick blonde hair over her shoulder, before setting her violet eyes on me.
Her rosy cheeks plumped further as she gave me one of her sickeningly sweet smiles.
However, there was something different about her appearance today that gave me hope.
When I looked closely enough, I could see the texture of her skin and the beginnings of a few wrinkles.
This might not sound like much, but when witches begin to age, they do so rapidly, as if all the extra years they’re granted with the condition of keeping their magic flowing through the lands deteriorates them.
She’s beginning to deteriorate. A realization that makes my body hum in pleasure. If I could, I would watch her rot before my very eyes and enjoy every second of it.
Her magic is drying up, which means so is her power, but none of that matters unless I can break this curse or drag it out long enough until she loses every last drop of her magic, which could take another century.
Worse than that, if she still has even the slightest hints of her magic, that means she still controls the curse and is capable of changing it as she sees fit, which is something she loves to remind me of when she wants me to stay in line.
Normally, for curses, they are ironclad and bound so tightly that the mage who performs them isn’t able to do such things.
I, however, was a desperate idiot when I drafted my agreement with her, and I allowed her to slip in a clause that gave her permission to change the curse if and how she saw fit.
I exhale sharply, mentally kicking myself for allowing the wording of the curse we drafted to allow her leeway to change it at her will if she so chooses.
It’s been a century of kissing her ass. And even still, she knows she’s already won.
Or at least she thinks she has, which is why she hasn’t tried to alter the curse.
No, she simply keeps stopping by to taunt me with the ticking timeline that has been looming over my head since the first day I became bound to this castle.
A frustrated groan rumbles out of my chest as I recall our meeting today. She asked me if I was absolutely positive that Azalea hadn’t triggered her memories. I know she’s just trying to get in my head, but still, finding Azalea in the kitchen afterward was both uplifting and terrifying.
She didn’t notice me until I let her, and I didn’t let her for a while. It was intoxicating seeing her smile like that again, watching her find one of her old comforts.
It’s good that she can’t remember how she knows how to bake, but it’s concerning that those habits are filtering into her memories at all.
Most of it looked like instinct with little thought, which gives me hope that her memories haven’t been triggered, and therefore wont come trickling back.
I’m hoping our arrangement will keep her curiosity at bay while I continue to control her narrative.
A memory involuntarily flashes in my mind. A memory filled with flour, handprints, and...
No.
I stop myself. I can’t torture myself like that. Not again. I can’t torment myself with thoughts of the woman I loved. Because she died. She’s gone, and she’s been gone for a long time.
Feeling my frustration mount once again, I do something I swore to myself I wouldn’t do anymore; something that never leads to anything good.
Stalking toward my study, I throw open the door and make my way to the bar table I have in the corner. Then, I drop some ice into the crystal glass before I pour at least three fingers of bourbon. The brown liquid sloshes up the sides of the glass with the intensity of how I pour it.
Taking a seat in the oversized chair that is also filled with unwanted memories, I bring the glass to my lips and drink deeply. And I don’t stop doing that until the memories begin to fade away.