Chapter Twenty-Six
TWENTY-SIX
I’m settled in on the floor beside the fire.
Bishop is on the settee, hands on his thighs as he leans forward to watch me.
He asks whether he should stay silent, and I say no.
I’ll be delighted if he takes an interest. And he does, asking questions until I’m sure his interest isn’t feigned, and I explain more when he asks about my grimoire and grimoires in general.
“They’re like spell-casting journals,” I say.
“Each witch has one, and it’s very personal.
Perhaps less like a journal and more like a recipe book.
Even women who hire cooks often have their own recipes.
As girls, they fill their book with their favorite recipes, passed down from family or friends of the family.
When they marry, they’ll use the recipes and continue adding to the book and then pass along recipes to the next generation. ”
“And witches do the same with spells.”
I nod. “We start ours when we’re old enough to begin casting, which for me was my twelfth birthday. Like with many supernatural powers, our true abilities ignite during puberty. A witch’s grimoire isn’t just a compendium of spells, though. It traces our journey as spellcasters.”
“You told Beatrice it’s difficult being separated from yours, and I know that was partly a way to convince her to give you Edith’s, but is it difficult?”
I consider the question. “I would like my own grimoire for practice. This feels odd. Sometimes, if I’m anxious, I want it as a measure of security.
I can calm my mind by leafing through it and thinking of spells I need to work on or ones I want to find.
Mostly, though, I’m worried that something will happen to it.
Fortunately, I know it’s safe. I trust Alfred. ”
“You would just be happier with it in your possession.”
“Yes, but rationally, it’s better with him for now. If it had been at Trevelyan…” I shudder as I think of it burning. “No, it’s fine where it is, and in the meantime I have this one, with all the mysteries it contains.”
“Will there be spells you don’t know in it?”
“There are. That’s why Beatrice killed Edith for it, just as I’m sure she’d have killed Lenora for her grimoire if she thought she could.
It’s like human women guarding recipes. They have special ones that they won’t pass on until their daughters are old enough to jealously guard it themselves.
Of course, food recipes don’t seem valuable, but for human women, with limited sources of power, they are. ”
“The very special dish they’re renowned for. If they share the recipes, anyone could make it and they lose social power.”
I smile. “Yes. For witches, rare spells are true power. The ones you’ve seen me cast are basic, found in almost any non-Coven witch’s grimoire.
I have others in my book, but I need to work on them.
Then I can add them to my repertoire. Edith was known for her collection of rare spells.
She’d track down ancient grimoires, take what she wanted, and then, in some cases, burn the book. ”
“So no one else could have the spells.”
I lift the grimoire. “But now I do. Lenora would have loved…” I stop and swallow, and he makes a move to rise and come to me, but I wave him back and take a sip of my brandy instead.
“I used to tease that half the reason she wanted to avenge Edith was to get her grimoire from Beatrice. She’d be pleased that I have it. ”
I take a deep breath. “All right, enough talking. I’m going to start with a small fireball, as a warm-up of sorts. There are two spells in here that I’d started to work on but haven’t mastered: confusion and calming.”
“I presume those do what they seem to?”
“They do.” I leaf through Edith’s grimoire for the spells. “Confusion sows temporary confusion. Calming will help temporarily calm someone who’s agitated—or suspicious. Lenora considered them cheap tricks. I don’t agree, but her distaste made me reluctant to master them.”
“I would say that either would be useful in a fight.”
I smile. “My thoughts exactly. All right, let me get to work.”
“That is enough for today,” I say. “I hope you can handle anyone who attacks us in our bedchamber, because my well has run dry.”
Bishop only stays where he is, stretched on the settee, watching me. I lift a hand and wave it.
“Have you fallen asleep with your eyes open?” I ask.
His lips curve in a slow smile. “No, I’ve simply been enjoying the respite. A quiet hour to do nothing but sit with my feet up and smugly congratulate myself on my good fortune. To forget everything that has gone wrong, and think only of what has gone right.”
“Good. I’m glad something has gone right for someone, because those confusion and calming spells are still beyond me.”
“You’ll get them.” He tilts his head. “Are you not going to ask what has gone right for me?”
“Do I need to?” I smile over at him as I gather my practice items. “You’re Alpha of the Albion Pack.”
“True.” He gets to his feet and slowly advances on me. “But I never for one moment questioned whether I would be Alpha, which seemed proof that my self-confidence is impenetrable. And yet, it appears that isn’t entirely true. Because I still cannot believe I have won you.”
He kneels in front of me, reaches for my chin, and lifts it into a slow, delicious kiss. When it breaks, he holds my face there, eyes looking into mine.
“Yesterday, you gave me an incredible gift,” he says.
“You admitted how you feel about me, despite the fact it frightened you. We have that in common. Pride and the terror of giving anyone the ability to hurt us. We’re constantly on guard against attack, knowing that we’ve made choices that could bring that attack at any moment, from any direction, and we accept that, because we’ve locked down the part of ourselves that can truly be hurt. ”
His thumb runs over my lips so softly I barely feel it.
“I didn’t have a chance yesterday to thank you,” he says, “for opening that part of yourself to me. To say that I understand what it means, because it’s just as hard—excruciatingly hard—for me to do the same.
To say I want you. Desperately want you to stay with me, and desperately want to give you a life that is worthy of you. ”
I shake my head. “You don’t need—”
“I want to do it. To lay the crown of Alpha at your feet and hope you’ll take it.
I need a proper Pack to offer you first, and I want to be sure you understand that I’d never expect that to be your entire world.
You can rule alongside me without severing any part of yourself, any part of your own ambition. ”
He inhales. “And that is a very long-winded way of getting to what I want to say. What I should have already said, but I needed the right moment to do it, so it cannot possibly be misinterpreted as anything but the most sincere declaration.”
His lips move until they’re brushing mine. “I love you, Cordelia.”
He kisses me before I can reply, and it’s a long enough kiss, ardent enough, deep enough, that I know he doesn’t want me to reply.
He’s making absolutely certain there’s no awkward silence I might feel the need to fill.
Making sure I don’t reply automatically, even if I want to, and that’s not really about me but about him.
Because if I say the words, he can look back and decide they weren’t real, even though they would be.
When the kiss breaks, he scoops me up and carries me into the bedroom. He lays me down on the bed and then pulls the drapes and lights a candle on the side table. I ignite another with a spell.
“We do make a good team, don’t we,” he says as we light them, one by one.
“The best,” I say. “Although, to be honest, I’m only helping because there are a lot of candles and it’ll take you far too long to get back to bed.”
“Blame Julius.”
“Oh, so I can’t credit Julius with the existence of the candles, but I can blame him for the preponderance of them.”
“Precisely.”
I let him light the last two. The spell might be very small, but I can still feel it emptying the dregs of my power. When he’s done, the room seems to dance with firelight, and I watch him as he approaches the bed, the light and shadow playing over him.
“Take off your shirt,” I say.
He lifts one brow. “Is that what you’d like to play? Not that I’m arguing. I simply want to be sure I know what the game is.”
“No game,” I say softly. “Not today. I phrased that poorly. Please remove your shirt so I can get a better look at you before you’re in bed.”
He peels it off so slowly that I move two candles to watch, the flames dancing over his chest, one inch at a time revealed as I sigh in pleasure.
“I love the way you look at me,” he says as he lets the shirt drop.
“I love to look at you.”
One corner of his mouth quirks. “Which does nothing for my ego, I’ll warn you.”
“I don’t care. If not admiring you is the only way to keep your ego in check, then I’ll just have to risk inflating it.”
He lets out a slow breath. “You are altogether too much for me.”
I rise to run my fingers down his chest. “No, I think I’m exactly enough for you.” I reach back for a candle and hold it by his chest as I touch him, exploring.
When I run my finger along the waistband of his trousers, he says, “Would you like those off, too?”
“Not yet. I’m taking my time, and right now, I’m appreciating this particular part of you.”
I run my fingertips over his stomach, touching a faint new scar there.
He gives a low chuckle. “Admiring your handiwork.”
“Mmm. I should say I regret it, and I would, if the man I stabbed was my husband, but sadly, he was a werewolf come to kidnap me and so he deserved it.”
“I suppose he did. Now it stands as a reminder not to try making my wife do anything she doesn’t want to do.”
“Unless she’s only saying that because she’s playing with you. But then you’ll know it. And there will be no stabbing involved.” I look at him from under my lashes. “Unless you want it.”
A soft chuckle. “From now on, I think I’ll do the stabbing.”