Chapter 6
6
JOSEPHINE
M y mother’s nails dig into my arm the second we walk through the front doors of the Delvaux mansion. Ava steps forward like she’s going to tear my mother’s head off, but I give her a small head shake. My friend’s mouth presses tight in irritation, but she doesn’t interfere.
Over our heads in the domed entryway is an aerial artist gracefully climbing up a flowing ribbon of fabric. My heart pounds as she lets go and unravels herself, hurling toward the ground, only to stop with a twist of her leg.
“You should have been here before now.” Francesca Delvaux drags me through the party, smiling widely for her guests while causing me pain every second her skin touches mine. My arms are bare in this dress, so there’s not even a small layer of protection between her skin and mine. I know better.
My mother’s dark hair is sleek in her freshly cut chin-length bob. She’s wearing a navy A-line cocktail dress in structured satin. It looks stiff and uncomfortable. Her heels match and are, as she would say, an appropriate three inches. She denies using a beauty glamor to hide the fine lines in the corners of her eyes, but she’s full of shit.
She tows me to the far wall where my father and sister Camille are waiting. Neither one of them greets me.
“And what is this tawdry disaster you’re wearing?” Francesca leans in, snarling in my ear so no one can hear her vicious tone. She still hasn’t removed her hand. I focus on my breathing, counting with the inhale and then again as I slowly exhale. I’ve become an expert at pretending I don’t feel pain. It’s my tiny rebellion, even though it’s stupid. My mother wants to hurt me. She wants to see me wince and plead. To acknowledge that I’m not strong enough to carry the burden of our family’s curse.
I refuse to bend. Which only makes her try that much harder to break me. I wish I knew why.
“The other dress was too tight,” I lie.
My sister eyes me and makes a crude sound as her gaze lingers on my stomach and hips. I nearly wrap my free arm around my waist. I’m not a size four, but I’m fit and healthy. My friends told me I looked fantastic in this dress, and they wouldn’t lie to me. I don’t think. Definitely not about something important. But a dress?
No. I shove aside my intrusive thoughts.
“Are you drunk?” Francesca hisses in my face. Oops. She must have asked me something while my mind was spiraling. She drops my arm only to clasp my chin tightly, using her magic to turn her fingers into blocks of ice that burn my skin. Forcing me to look at her, she gets in another chance to inflict pain.
My healing magic comes from the Delvaux side of the family. My mother has more elemental magic, and is very good at manipulating water. My father’s family was one of the original founders, but my mother’s line is just as powerful. They both suffered curses, although neither of them does any longer. The perks of giving birth to a new generation, I guess.
I shrug, knowing there isn’t an answer that will satisfy her. She pushes my face away and turns toward Camille. “You may go now. Your sister will take over duties for the Delvaux party for the rest of the night.”
I knew this would happen. Even if we came to this party first, my mom would have demanded I come back. That’s why I saved it for last. That and I wanted to be as drunk as possible before I faced my horrible family.
“I expect you to stay until every last guest has left.” With that proclamation, my parents and sister leave without so much as a goodbye.
Despite being the oldest Delvaux child, no one treats me as head of the family. My mother has never stopped telling me I’m too soft, not talented enough, too lazy. I’ve never understood why. It’s not like I want there to be a reason, but getting to the root of her hatred would offer some closure. At least, I think it would.
Camille is only nineteen, a full six years younger than me. She’s apparently worthy of the family name. While I’m sent out to use my powers on clients who book appointments at our spa, Camille is learning how to run the business and what responsibilities the coven’s council has. The ironic thing is that Camille doesn't suffer the same affliction as me. She can use her magic freely without feeling pain. Only the first child is burdened with their family's curse. And yet, I’m the one touching people all day while Camille does whatever the fuck she wants.
I’d walk away in an instant if that didn’t mean leaving Penelope behind. Or, that’s what I tell myself. The reality is that the idea of starting over, of leaving everything I know behind, is terrifying.
My head is swimming from all the drinks I’ve downed tonight. The reverberation of pain from where my mother touched me thrums under my skin. My breath shudders out of me, and I struggle to regain my composure while the partygoers laugh and chat, oblivious to anything outside their little bubbles.
My parents’ house is a Victorian built in 1856. People mill around the first floor, but the second is off-limits to anyone but family. There’s a musician poised in front of the baby grand, serenading the crowd with slow jam versions of soft rock from the nineties. It’s elevator music that grocery stores don’t even play anymore. From my spot in the corner, I can see the aerial dancer still spinning in her cloth.
The house’s decor is loyal to the original era. Its furniture is meant for decoration rather than comfort. My mother is a particular fan of Rococo revival furniture with ornate and fussy ornamentation and velvet fabrics. She loves to show off her home but hates for anyone to use it. Everything from the drapes to the woodwork is dark and heavy. Being back here always makes me claustrophobic. I have very few good memories of this house.
The windows are closed because it’s cold outside, but it’s stifling inside with all the bodies gathered in one space. I’m pressed to a corner, trying to avoid anyone touching me. The guests are loud and talking with broad gestures. Their riotous laughter crowds me, leaving me penned in. Trapped. It’s too much.
I bite down on my lip, my back pressed against the wall as an unruly guest stumbles past me. My magic slips loose and forces the closest window open with a groan and a creak.
My magical strength is primarily healing, but all witches can do other basic magics. Like calling upon the elements, moving items, and object location spells. How good you are at this magic is highly dependent on your power levels. Large amounts of power usually mean the witch has good control out of necessity. The fact that I just blasted the window open is a sign of how off-balance I am.
I spy Piper across the room. She’s surrounded by her awful family. How is it that none of us lucked out and have decent parentage? Near the doorway, Stellan is gesturing wildly, trying to capture my attention. He throws up his hands as if to say “finally” when I look his way. Ava is slumped against his side. If he didn’t have his arm around her, she’d be passed out on the floor. Stellan throws a thumb over his shoulder, the universal sign for we’re leaving. I want to cry and beg him to stay, but that’s pure selfishness.
I give him a thumbs-up and immediately feel like an idiot.
It’s close to midnight, and the staff has lit candles, turned off the lights, and left the room cloaked in shadows. A few of my mother’s contemporaries have come looking for her, only to show their disappointment when the only Delvaux present is me.
I haven’t sobered up one bit, but the rest of the crowd has been catching up to me. The air hums with a charge, the feeling of recklessness about to be unleashed. Laughter is too loud, and I’ve seen more than one of my parents’ friends groping people they aren’t married to. It’s a veritable slice of life in the Lumen coven. They love to expound on how they are the righteous ones, the wielders of light magic, the morally superior of the two covens. But I’ve seen a lot of light witches do horrible things.
There’s a soft ripple through the crowd, and I crane my neck to see what’s gathering everyone’s attention. Piper hasn’t gotten free from her family, and the misery on her face makes my heart hurt. I catch her eye. The smile she gives me as her family turns their attention to the front door is painful. Movement near the entry pulls my attention in that direction. Three men in dark suits and a woman in a shimmering white dress that clings to her curves walk into the room like they’re filming the hero shot in a movie. One of them must be using magic because, I swear, they walk in slow motion with a breeze blowing through their hair.
They’re all so damn beautiful.
None of them are from the Lumen coven, but I know exactly who they are. Ambrose Roth, Odette Draven, and Abraham and Roman Blackthorn. All children of the founding families that make up the Tenebris coven. My gaze falls on the man who invaded my space earlier today, and I can’t look away. Even without the incredible suit that was obviously made for his body, he would command the room. He has a presence that can’t be taught. It’s an innate quality that I have never possessed—confidence and the sense that wherever he is, he belongs there.
I constantly feel like I’m in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The candlelight flickers, casting his face in a play of dark and light. He lifts his head and angles it as if he senses someone watching him. Except it’s the whole party. Everyone’s eyes are locked on the four newcomers.
Roman slowly turns his head until he’s staring directly at me.
“Fuck,” I hiss out.
“Excuse me.” Mrs. Vonnert-Kippling clutches her pearls–her actual pearls–and glares at me like I’ve just thrown up in her designer handbag.
I shrink back. “Nothing. I’m sorry. I was startled by…” My words trail off as Roman crosses the parlor. He can’t be headed this way.
“You’d better believe I’ll be telling your mother about this. Your generation has no sense of propriety. All sucking off the teat of your parents. Too lazy to work and pull yourself up by the bootstraps. Just like my precious John did.”
I barely hold back the eye roll. Her husband John inherited his money, his family home, and has done as little work as possible over the years. Not to mention the fact that she has never worked a day in her life. But sure, keep complaining about a younger generation that has to hold down two jobs to make rent.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t you, ma’am me. Just as disrespectful as ever…” Mrs. Vonnert-Kippling trails off when a dark form looms over her. Roman places his hands on her shoulders and guides her away from me, pointing her toward the rest of the partygoers instead of in my direction. Her jaw hangs open at the impudence. I clap a hand over my mouth to keep from barking out a laugh.
“I’ve never,” the older woman huffs.
“It’s a wonder no one else has succumbed to the temptation. You’re positively horrible.” Roman doesn’t even look at the sputtering woman as he insults her. My laughter is a bubble in my chest, fighting for room with my beating heart. I’ve seen Roman Blackthorn from afar several times. His name is murmured in magical circles, even among the Lumen coven. Today was the first time I’d seen him up close, and now, twice in one day.
I press my palm to my stomach, not sure if I’m trying to still my shaking hand or quell the nervous butterflies.
Roman inclines his head, but his eyes are all over the place. Studying my face, sliding down my body in an inquisitive look that has my skin heating.
“Houses Blackthorn, Draven, and Roth all checking in. We’ve left our blood offerings at the door. I believe we have fulfilled the unnecessary commitment of visiting all founding houses tonight.”
“How did you know you’re supposed to check in with me?”
“You’re the only Delvaux I see.” His eyes bore into mine. It almost feels like his statement has a double meaning, but that’s just wishful thinking. “Doing the grunt work of the family?”
Or maybe I imagined the spark of interest. Not that I can do anything about it anyway. For one, he’s part of the Tenebris coven. More importantly, I can’t touch him. I don’t imagine Roman Blackthorn wants to be friends. I can’t even picture him wanting a relationship except one of a sexual nature. That’s not something he can ever have with me. Not unless he wants to sleep with someone frozen in pain and having a miserable time.
Who wouldn’t be interested in that?
Franklin Messier, one of the higher-status Lumen coven members, shoves into Roman’s back, pushing him right into me. Roman instinctively reaches out to steady me. As our bodies collide, he whips his head around and sneers over his shoulder.
“Watch where you’re going, Messier.”
Franklin says something back, but I can’t hear it. I can’t hear anything. My body is braced for the pain; every muscle clenched for the agony of both of Roman’s large hands clasping my upper arms. Except…it doesn’t come.
I freeze, waiting for the burn to sink into my muscles, to burrow its way through my flesh until my very bones ache. It doesn’t happen. All I feel is the warmth of Roman’s palms, the press of his chest to mine. Roman’s head slowly swivels around. Franklin is still speaking, but Roman has turned his attention to me fully. His eyes are wide, and the intensity with which he’s staring at me has my heart hammering in my chest. He has the oddest look on his face.
Roman drags his hand down my arm in a lingering caress, and I gasp. His eyes are bright with confusion, and his fingers tighten around my wrist. Can he feel my pulse pounding beneath his hand? I want to shout, to demand to know what’s happening, but I’m scared to lose this moment.
Ever since my curse kicked in when I was sixteen, I haven’t felt a touch that wasn’t painful. This small bit of human contact has me close to bursting into tears. Goosebumps break out over my skin, and my breaths thrash out in shuddered exhales.
“How?” Roman demands, shaking his head. His body crowds mine, his spiced scent wrapping around me. It’s a masculine cologne, heady, drugging. I’ve never smelled anything as mouthwatering.
I blink up at him dumbly. He still hasn’t removed his hands from my arms, and I don’t want him to.
“How…what?” I stumble over my words. Does Roman know that I feel pain when touched? Is he trying to hurt me and stunned that he can’t? Is that the reason for the look on his face? Does he realize that there’s something different with his touch? Is that what he’s asking me?
“I feel you.” His words sound like an accusation.
I’m lost.
None of this makes sense, but I’m afraid to question it. What if the pain is just delayed? What if this reprieve is a form of torture, and the pleasure of touching another is going to be ripped away before I store up enough of the feeling to get me through all the aching, lonely nights in my future?
Roman’s fingers find mine. He clasps my hand tightly, and I squeeze him back, reveling in the fact that I can touch him.
“Privacy.” The one word is a demand I don’t dare disobey. Not that I want to.
“This way.” I don’t question him. I don’t stop and think. Normally, I overanalyze everything. I look at a situation from every angle and dissect all the ways it could go wrong. What the hell has that ever gotten me? I don’t allow myself to sink into the why. For once, I shut off my brain and let my body take over.
I lead Roman to the back of the house. There’s a grand staircase up front, but there are too many eyes there. The back of the house has an old staff stairway that’s much narrower with plain wood treads. It’s nothing like the Aubusson carpeted steps at the front of the house.
I consider dragging him into my old bedroom, but it’s not really my room. My mother stripped anything that made it personal to me the moment I moved out. Whatever is happening between me and Roman already has me off-kilter and vulnerable. Actually, that’s my constant state. One of vulnerability and powerlessness. Right now, something different is happening. I feel bold and reckless and alive. I don’t want to douse those feelings with reminders of how insignificant I am.
I kick off my shoes at the bottom of the steps, an urgency driving me to move faster. My bare feet hardly make a sound on the wood of the steps. Roman’s hand is clutched tightly in mine, but he frees his fingers. I nearly sob at the loss of contact.
I stop in my tracks, peering at him through the darkness of the enclosed stairway. My heart skips a beat as something occurs to me. What if this is a trick? Some elaborate prank that the Tenebris coven is pulling on me.
What could I have done that would gain their attention? Is this because I was in Tenebris territory earlier today?
Roman drags in a breath as his palm skims over my hip and lands on the curve of my back. My stomach swoops dramatically, the heat of his hand sinking through the fabric of my dress. The sensation burns, an aching fire growing from that one point of contact and spreading out through my body in a rush of heat.
Roman is on the step behind me, and we’re nearly the same height this way. “Is this where we’re stopping?” His breath whispers against my cheek. I want to lean back into him, to turn my head so our lips brush together, but I’ve never been bold. Hauling Roman up these stairs is probably the wildest thing I’ve ever done.
I slowly resume my ascent, my fingers trailing over the smooth walls that have been painted countless times. It’s a fight not to gouge my fingernails into the layers of acrylic, to peel back all the superficial coats until we get to the chipped and imperfect surface beneath. Irrationally, I want something else to feel as exposed as I am.
The second floor is quiet. My parents and sister have taken off for the other founders parties. My youngest sister is hidden away in her room on the third floor and won’t come out for anything. The wooly carpet pricks at the bottom of my feet as I try to keep from running toward the library. My heart is beating impossibly fast. I should stop, take a breath, and calm down, but I don’t want to. I don’t want to be sensible. I don’t want to question why I am doing this or what I’m feeling. For once, I just want to react.
The hallway is dim, with only a lamp halfway down the corridor giving off a soft, golden glow. This floor is decorated with family portraits. The kind you see in royal properties and the homes of people who consider themselves better than everyone else. As if anyone wants to look at a mediocre reproduction of my family’s faces in oils. The largest of the paintings depicts my mother sitting on what can only be described as a throne. My father has his hand draped over her shoulder while Camille stands to my mother’s right. My sister Penelope and I are noticeably not in the painting. According to my mother, it was only for the future of the magical family. She meant it to be a punishment, but I was relieved not to have to sit for the painter. Francesca would have touched me in some way throughout the entire process just to bring pain.
Keeping Penelope out of the painting was another way to manipulate and belittle my sister. While Penelope doesn’t have my curse, our mother is excellent at using her words to inflict a different kind of hurt. She picks at my youngest sister for everything from her posture, height, personality. She comments if she smiles too much or not enough. There’s no pleasing her because her criticisms change like the weather.
I ignore the cold stare that even a master couldn’t paint out of Francesca’s expression and rush toward the library, Roman’s large body so close I can feel the heat from him. The door to the library sticks, the frame warped from age. I lean my hip against the wood and knock it open with an angry screech.
The door gives way, and I stumble inside the room, barely taking in the floor-to-ceiling mahogany shelves stacked with books. Two club chairs sit in front of a fireplace that lies dormant tonight. A Chesterfield is nestled in another corner. I spin around, glancing up at Roman with a nervous knot stuck in my throat. Some instinct had me dragging him up here, but now the reality of being alone with him crashes over me.
Roman watches me carefully step backward, a look of absolute hunger in his eyes. He stalks after me, his eyes dark, an animal with his prey in sight. He pulls at his tie and unbuttons his collar with a carnal sound that makes my skin hum and a flame burn deep in my belly.
My fingertips brush over the neckline of my dress and Roman’s eyes follow the movement. Beneath his gaze, my skin heats, and for one moment, I feel like someone else. Someone bolder and brave. A character that I’m playing and not truly me.
“That is an incredible dress.” A hint of a smile tips the corner of his mouth, and I get lightheaded. Roman Blackthorn’s smile is a weapon. A lethal one.
“It was an impulse buy.” I inwardly cringe. Why don’t I just tell him how much I paid for it, too?
“Are you impulsive, Josephine?”
“No. Hardly ever.” Except dragging him up here is pretty damn spontaneous.
“Maybe I bring it out of you.” The back of his fingers graze my cheek, and my eyelashes flutter shut. My breath hitches.
I don’t understand how any of this is happening. “How are you doing this?”