Chapter Nine
Effie…
That is a big-ass bed.
Okay, fine, maybe a normal witch wouldn’t walk into a strange werewolf’s two-thousand-square-foot, open-floor-plan cabin and notice the bed first off, but I am not a normal witch and these are not normal circumstances.
And the bed is really, really huge.
“What do you do on there?” I ask, even though I’m already imagining a million naked possibilities.
Darius doesn’t hesitate. “Quantum physics.”
I doubt that, but there is something about Darius that gives off the whole math-is-my-happy-place vibe, so there is a chance he’s not just giving me shit. Still, the place somehow manages to ride the line of rigidly tidy and sensually decadent at the same time—starting with the bed.
The oversized Alaskan king (so what would that make it—a Canadian king?
North American king? Western Hemisphere king?) has been made with tight military corners, but the fluffy comforter is visibly soft to the touch.
The dozen pillows are arranged just so, making them look like a mix of sink-into-them cushy and prop-you-up-for-just-the-right-angle firm.
It isn’t just the bed that gives the come-a-little-closer vibe though. Standing in the middle of the rustic, cozy-core cabin, I do a three-sixty to take it all in.
The bedroom area takes up the whole back of the cabin.
Next to it is a set of double doors that are open far enough to give me a peek at the hot-tub-sized bathtub and large walk-in Roman shower inside.
The living room has a floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace and the kind of couch meant for a weekend of rotting and binge-watching with a half dozen of your closest friends.
There are cuddle-worthy blankets, a couple of ottomans to put your feet up on, and surround-sound speakers placed at optimal locations around it.
There’s a large oak table with cushy seating in the dining area and a massive island with cushioned barstools in the kitchen, perfect for sitting around and gossiping over morning coffee.
The late afternoon sun basks the whole place in a golden glow that makes me feel all warm and lazy.
This is definitely the place to be held captive if you have to get kidnapped.
Well, as kidnapped as a Sherwood witch can be, considering if I wanted to I could simply magic the two of us to the family house, where my sisters would find whatever charm he’s hexed me with and then make his life even more of a hell than I can by myself.
And what, you may ask, is keeping me from spelling the world’s grumpiest alpha and myself out of here?
I mean, just because I can’t be away from him since he somehow glitched my magic doesn’t mean I can’t transport us both somewhere else.
But I’m not going to. Why? Because then I’d have to admit to my parents that, yes, I may have been a tad too impulsive (read: wildly irresponsible) this time.
And anyway, I’m having fun annoying Darius.
What can I say, I like seeing him get all worked up.
Plus, I have to admit I am really frickin’ curious to know what in the world is going on with this werewolf pack.
A jinx? Old witchy runes? Internal power struggles?
It’s like my own personal reality TV show—one that is not going to end with a wedding.
“I’m not marrying you,” I tell him as I sit on the foot of the bed, sinking down just enough that it feels like the bed is hugging my rear end, “but I might want to move in. This bed is fantastic.”
Darius stays exactly where he is, a good bit away from the bed with his feet planted shoulder-width apart and his hands loose at his sides as if he expects me to take a run at him.
Oh, honey, a direct attack is not my style at all.
“Not an option,” he says, “especially not with that stunt your sister pulled with the spell book.”
I flop back, sending a few pillows flying off the bed, and let out a huge sigh. “What, you’re going to take it personally that she got one over on you?”
I feel the vibration of his footsteps as he marches over to the edge of the bed. It isn’t that he’s stomping or anything like that; it’s just I can tell when he’s getting closer. My body knows.
Yes, I realize that sounds all fated mate-y (if you believe that stuff, which I don’t), but that’s not how I mean it.
Maybe I’m super observant or something—and it took my whole life up until this moment for this skill to kick in.
Well, listen, my sister Tilda went from having no witchy power for her entire life to being the strongest witch for the past several generations recently, so things like that can happen.
And if you keep reminding yourself of that, maybe you won’t feel like such a big liar.
Yeah, that little voice of doubt in my head can shut right up.
“No, I’m not taking it personally,” Darius says, looking down at me from the opposite side of the massive mattress, “but you might take it personally when Nikos gets the votes to ransom you off to the highest bidder to make up for the loss in income to the pack.”
“I thought you were the alpha,” I say because it is a very logical point and not because I’m distracted by the way his biceps look when he crosses his arms like that so it’s the first thought through my brain.
“I am the alpha,” he says, totally unbothered by what others surely would have taken as a challenge. “But this isn’t a dictatorship. When it comes to things that can have a massively detrimental impact on the entire pack, we come to a consensus.”
That makes sense with what I’ve seen so far of Darius and his pack.
I haven’t spent a ton of time around werewolves (every pack pretty much despises witches as spoiled know-it-alls), but it’s usually all about brawn over anything else.
Even a hint at disagreeing with the alpha gets smacked down—usually literally—immediately. The Aetos pack is different.
“You’re a new kind of alpha, huh?” I say.
He rubs his hand over the back of his neck, the move nudging the collar of his T-shirt around and revealing a glimpse at the complicated multicolored tattoo climbing up from his shoulders and chest. “I’ve seen how it works the other way, so yeah, I guess I am.”
“So, what does that have to do with us getting married?”
He lets out a sigh and sits down nowhere near me, because this bed could sleep a half a billion.
I roll over and prop my head up in my hand to get a better look at him as he takes his time deciding what to say next.
Does that move me a person’s-width closer to him?
Yes, it does, and I’m not sorry about that.
The seams of the man’s jeans are fighting to keep it together around his tree-trunk-thick thighs, and I wanna be there if they lose.
“If we’re married, then you’re part of the pack, and you won’t end up in one of the Council’s holding cells—or worse—because they were willing to pony up the most money.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Are you under the impression the Sherwoods don’t have bank?”
“Oh, I know you’re just a poor, bored little rich girl who has to entertain herself by doing dumb shit on social media, but the Council doesn’t just have bank,” he says, his tone as neutral as his words are damning. “They are the bank.”
Ouch.
Not at the bank thing, that’s whatever, but at the poor-bored-little-rich-girl part.
I am more than just my social media. And yes, fine, most of my life plans center around others, like being the best eccentric aunt ever to my sisters’ future kids, but that doesn’t make me less than anyone else.
It just means I’m living for the day. I’m not worried about tomorrow because what’s someone like me ever going to do about that?
I’m not the heir. The family magic took one look at me and knew better.
Even I can’t argue with that.
I am the Sherwood exception that proves the rule.
My sisters all have their purposes. Tilda is the once-in-several-generations magical talent.
Leona is the heir to the family magic and head witch in charge.
Bea can see into the future, even if interpreting it is a whole other story.
Juniper is an expert on rare magic and the smartest of us all, even if she does have a bad habit of cheating at Scrabble because no one wants to challenge the arcane words she uses and therefore she plays that to her advantage.
And me?
I make silly videos on WitchyGram.
Really, if the Council is going to throw one of the Sherwood sisters into a deep, dark, and dank cell, I’d be the best one to sideline in our fight against those fascist assholes.
Determined not to show Darius that he scratched my soft underbelly with his comment about social media, I shoot him a grin. “Are you a follower? Do you subscribe to my profile or just hate-watch when it comes across your timeline?”
He waves me off. “Not the point.”
“Ooooh.” I scooch a little closer. “I’m totally leaning toward subscriber, but under a private alt account like Snarls McGee or Sir Growlishious.”
“Witch,” he grumbles, but it lacks any real censure—especially since one of the corners of his mouth is fighting to stay in a straight line.
“What is your alt naaaaaaaame?” I ask in a singsong voice.
“Effie, this isn’t a joke. It’s serious.
” He pivots in his seated position and looks down at me, seemingly not shocked that I’m within touching distance.
“Our marriage will give me time to come up with another heist that will refill the pack’s accounts so we can make it through the winter.
Then we won’t have to ransom you since the spell book is gone.
Plus, that will save you from being handed over to the Council.
Saying ‘I do’ at a ceremony tonight will help us both. ”
I roll onto my back and look up at the beamed ceiling because I can’t let him see I’m cracking. I will not be a softie for this man, no matter how tempted I am to request that he take off his shirt and ask me again.
“This doesn’t look like the home of an alpha whose pack is scrounging to make ends meet,” I say, swerving the conversation.
“It’s not.”