Witches Get Stitches by Juliette Cross

Chapter 15

~VIOLET~

After a restless sleep,I chugged two cups of strong coffee and headed for the shop, deciding to check on Fred before I met my first client. It was early, and I doubted even Sean, Tom, or Lindsey were there yet, which is why the sight I found out in front of the shop had me stopping in my tracks.

There were parts of the sidewalk all along the lower Garden District where the concrete bordered a small section of soil for small trees and shrubs. It added to the homey garden-like aesthetic of the neighborhood.

Outside Empress Ink, we had a long thin border of crepe myrtle trees, which would be full of purple blooms in the spring. Right now, they were bare of any blooms or leaves at all. But they were wearing sweaters. I shit you not.

Clara stood next to the third and last tree, the only one without brightly knitted clothing. She hadn’t noticed me because she was chatting away, while knitting, to the grim leaning against the brick wall next to our entrance. He wore faded jeans and a leather jacket, his jet-black hair hiding most of his profile as he lifted a cigarette to his lips. Henry Blackwater, Sean’s older brother.

“So you’re kind of on a stakeout but without hiding in a nondescript car around the corner?” asked Clara.

“Something like that.” His voice was low and deep and soft but not gentle.

“You know, cigarettes are really bad for you.”

“I’m a grim. I’ve got a long life.”

“Doesn’t matter. Supers can still get sick, which can take years off your life. Instead of living three hundred years—well, how long do grims live anyway?”

“Why are you doing that?” He gestured toward the crepe myrtle in the last square plot of soil bordering the sidewalk.

“Yeah, what are you doing?” I asked, hands on my hips.

I ignored the brush of darkness radiating off of Henry. Way stronger than his baby brother’s aura. A grim’s aura tended to make humans focus on their baser, darker urges. Right now, I was just getting more irritated. Not at Clara, really, but at…

At what?

I’d become increasingly more aggravated since the day Nico left. And that was only two days ago. Dammit, what was wrong with me?

“Violet! Isn’t it adorable?” She gestured wide to the colorful menagerie of covered tree trunks. “I’m yarn bombing you.”

“Ah. Gotcha. And why are you yarn bombing me?”

She smiled brightly at my silly question in Clara fashion, her long blond hair loose down to her hips.

I caught a pulse of magic. Not threatening, but…something. When I glanced at the grim, knowing full well it was coming from him, he remained casual as you please, blowing out a stream of smoke into the cold morning, dark gaze still on my sister.

“Because it’s pretty, Violet. And your trees will now be nice and warm till spring.”

“Of all the things I have on my plate, I wasn’t really concerned about my trees.”

“Which is why you’re lucky to have such a thoughtful sister.” She beamed at me as she continued knitting the last sweater onto its new owner. “Besides, Bernard was definitely getting too cold on that last freeze.”

I knew better to ask, but I did anyway. “Bernard?”

She pointed to the skinniest tree on the far end. “That’s Bernard, then Lucy, and this is Doyle.”

“Trees speak to you?” Henry took another drag on his cigarette. Strangely, his question wasn’t mocking in the least.

“Not with words.” She slid a shy smile to him. “But they feel. Like all living things. I just prefer to give them names.”

“Why?” he asked in the deep, indifferent tone.

“Because it makes me feel good.”

Clara’s need to coddle and nurture all living creatures, right down to the nest of sugar ants that set up a residence in our cupboard last winter, was nothing new to me. And yes, I’m serious about the sugar ants. Rather than allow me to spray them with insecticide, she reorganized the shelves to allow them to keep that one, providing a dish of brown sugar for them.

I wasn’t in the mood to argue with her about this latest exploit of hers and, honestly, tree sweaters just made us look more Bohemian, which was kind of an allure in this part of New Orleans. I turned to the grim. “Sean asked you to come?”

He pulled his gaze from Clara to me and stubbed his cigarette out on the concrete before standing. “Ruben.”

Clara interrupted. “Are there really some werewolves bothering you?” She reeked of concern.

I shook my head. “Nothing I can’t handle. But Nico is just”—I shrugged a shoulder—“you know, cautious.”

“Mmhmm.” She smiled. “I know how Nico feels.”

“What does that mean?” I stepped closer, then glanced at the grim, knowing he could hear our whole conversation. “Never mind. Let’s talk later.”

I stormed off, irritated that yet another sister seemed to recognize the simmering attraction between myself and Nico. I suppose we weren’t fooling anyone. Not even ourselves.

By the time I’d unlocked and opened the door to the shop, Clara was already back to chatting up the silent grim acting as sentinel.

Honestly, I wasn’t even sure how he could help if a whole gang of werewolves showed up. As far as I knew, all grims could do was appeal to a person’s darker nature. And for werewolves, that wasn’t anything we wanted. But if Ruben trusted him, then I was fine with it.

I flicked on the lights as I headed down the hall to the back entrance. After unlocking the door into his courtyard, I relocked it from the other side. I didn’t want anyone traipsing back here to Nico’s private residence. A place I now felt perfectly natural invading myself.

Fred clucked at me and pranced around the grassy area, which he’d apparently commandeered as his personal territory. I went over and petted him on the chest how he liked. After about three minutes of that, he was done with me.

I took my keys out and went inside Nico’s house to fetch the feed he’d left in the closet in the foyer. After spreading some feed for Fred in the grass, I went back inside to wash my hands.

Afterward, I couldn’t help but wander his quiet domain. I wasn’t about to go upstairs to his bedroom because that felt too invasive, but I couldn’t help but peruse his bookshelf to discover what books interested this man.

I didn’t know what I expected, but historical biographies was not it. Napoleon, Winston Churchill, Queen Elizabeth I. The one I found most interesting was Lord Nelson, an admiral of the British Royal Navy in the 1700s.

“You are just full of surprises, Mr. Cruz.”

I trailed my fingers along the spines till I saw a few photographs on one shelf. There was one of him and Mateo in front of a stone fireplace in what looked like a ranch house. Then another of them much younger, maybe late teens, sandwiched between two men, one looked exactly like an older version of Mateo and a silver fox on the other side.

I remember Nico mentioning that he’d grown up with Mateo, his uncle and his grandfather. The last picture squeezed my heart for a different reason.

It was a pretty brunette woman taking the selfie of her and Nico. Nico held a precious little girl on his shoulders. She had chubby cheeks and brown curls and she held a stuffed bunny triumphantly over her head. Behind them was a carnival stand, a carousel in the distance.

I couldn’t look at it long before my stomach flipped with that nauseous feeling again. If he had a daughter, that was great. Right? She looked adorable. And the woman looked, well goddammit, she looked kind and lovely. I’d never been the jealous type. I never wanted a guy long enough that warranted envy.

I was not a fan of this feeling.

Pushing down the wretchedness, I moved on, finding a shelf with more books. Poetry?

Who was this man?

Here I’d thought he was just this broody, somewhat cocky, loner who liked to hop from town to town, playing bar-room gigs and such. But just like everything else in the world, there was so much more beneath the surface.

There were some classic collections: Frost, Dickinson, Thoreau. Then some modern ones I didn’t know at all. I pulled out one by a poet named Kahlil Gibran. There were sticky notes marking some pages. I flipped open to one of them.

The poem was about fear. A metaphor about a river, flowing on and unable to go back. Because going back was impossible. A profound and beautiful reflection on not allowing mistakes or regrets to guide you. Or fear. Nico had obviously read this one many times, highlighting a few of the lines. He’d even made a pencil notation. Three words. Let it go.

As I slipped the book back into its place, I saw the journals. The one he’d had open on the coffee table the last time I was here wasn’t there. I really shouldn’t snoop in his journals. But wouldn’t it give me better insight into who he was? No harm in that, I told myself, biting my bottom lip.

I wanted to walk away, but I couldn’t.

“Just one peek,” I whispered to myself before snagging the brown, leather-bound one in the middle.

Taking a seat on the sofa, I flipped toward the beginning. I suppose I was expecting some kind of dated diary entries or something. But that wasn’t what I was looking at. I scanned the first page, marveling at the lyrical beauty of the words in verse. Then the next and the next. I was hypnotized by this little glimpse into the man I was currently obsessing over.

And what a glimpse it was. Pages and pages of loveliness. Drafts that had been scratched out, then rewritten. But all ending in something utterly beautiful.

“Do you like them?”

I jumped right out of my skin, snapping the journal shut. Nico stood in the entryway of the living room, a backpack at his feet. He looked haggard, bags under his eyes and two-day-old scruff, almost a full beard already. Even so, he took my breath away. And not just because he scared the shit out of me.

“I’m sorry, Nico.” I popped up and went to the shelf, putting it back. “I didn’t mean to snoop.”

“Yes, you did.” But his mouth ticked up into a half-smile when I turned around. “Did you like them?”

There was a soft vulnerability to the question, in his voice. I nodded.

He moved closer until he stood beside me, staring at the neat row of journals.

“You’re a poet,” I said stupidly. For someone who was never at a loss for words, I couldn’t come up with anything better than that.

“A songwriter, actually.”

“You write songs?”

“I do.” Now he was grinning down at me, only a foot away. “What did you like about them?”

“Fishing for compliments?” I arched an eyebrow, trying to play off some of the sexual tension ratcheting up like a fucking rocket at the moment.

“Yeah,” he said evenly, leaning in even closer. “From you, I’d beg for them.”

I gulped hard at that. His gaze dropped to my throat, skated a little lower, and then slowly rose to meet my own again.

I’d heard of werewolf hangover, the aftermath of a full moon excursion. And maybe I’d noticed Mateo or Nico act like this before, but for some reason, it was wreaking havoc on my lady bits this time.

There was a feral look in his eyes. And some other raw emotion that sizzled off his skin. It was said the wolf lingered following the full moon, just beneath the surface.

Today, I knew that was true. There was magic—wild and potent—pulsing in the air around him, now encircling me as well. His slow movements actually made me feel more nervous rather than put me at ease. I stared at the journals, a little afraid to meet his gaze though I could feel him staring at me. A blaze of heat licked along my skin.

“Why haven’t you tried to sell them as your own? Your voice is amazing.” That was the damn truth. “You could be a rock star if you wanted.”

“I don’t want to.”

“What?” I finally turned my head to look up at him.

“I could’ve had that life. Had a contract offer with a studio in L.A. about ten years ago.”

“A lucrative contract?”

“Very.”

“Then what was so unappealing? People would kill for a voice like yours, a talent like yours. To get offered something like that?” It wasn’t that I thought him ungrateful. I just didn’t understand why someone would spit in fate’s eye and say no thanks to potential success like that.

“Guess I’m just broken inside.” His steady, unwavering gaze eased over me with torturous slowness. “A werewolf should never live in the spotlight anyway.”

“Devraj did. He was a Bollywood superstar for years.”

“He’s a vampire. There’s no chance of him suddenly shifting into a raging monster in front of a stadium of thousands.”

A shook my head, very aware how close we were standing. “Is it really that bad? The lack of control?”

He looked away toward the living room window. “Sometimes,” he admitted gruffly, pain flickering across his face. “It can be.”

I looked back at the shelf, running my fingers over the tops of the journals. “Such a shame. “Your writing is…” The right word wouldn’t come, but “stunning” was what I finally said.

My heart screamed at the injustice of someone as talented as he was being forced into a more limited lifestyle because of his werewolf. Again, I felt the keen unfairness of his situation, more determined to help him.

He exhaled a heavy breath. “I sell my songs to indie musicians. But some of it I just write for myself.” His eyes were back on me. “I didn’t want that kind of life anyway.”

“Like just being a loner, don’t you?”

“I didn’t say that.”

He was standing in front of me now, so close. I flinched at the sudden contact of his fingers skating along the backs of my hands, sliding over the knuckles until they curled around my wrist. His thumbs glided back and forth across my pulse on each inner wrist. I gulped hard when I looked up at him, apparently having lost all saliva in my mouth

“What are you scared of?” he almost whispered.

“I’m not scared,” I argued.

“Your heartbeat says otherwise.”

I started to pull away, but he gripped me harder, easing closer. His body heat scattered what brain cells I had left. I stopped struggling. His hold loosened, but he didn’t let me go.

He was right. I was scared. Terrified actually. Obviously, I was attracted to him, but what if we went there and it all went to hell like the cards had told me it would. Then it ended in heartbreak and he hated me.

“We’re friends,” I said stupidly, my odd protest sounding weak even to myself.

“No, we’re not.” His green eyes had gone deep-woods dark, an aggressive tint that had me hypnotized. I couldn’t look away.

“You said we were friends.” I think I even whimpered.

“I lied.” His thumbs continued their slow sweep over my pulse, now with gentle circles. “We can never just be friends. You know this. You’re not stupid.”

I did. I did! But dammit, he didn’t have to go and say it aloud! Now I couldn’t laugh off his flirting and pretend I didn’t feel the blazing sexual tension anymore. You can’t put that genie back in the bottle. Once it’s out, it’s out. Did I even give a fuck about the stupid card reading anymore? I wasn’t sure.

“We work together,” were the ridiculous words that came out of my mouth. There was a strange desperation in my tone. I didn’t know where it came from.

“No, we don’t. I’m an investor in your business. I check in from time to time with inventory and building issues, but we don’t work together. I’m more of a landlord.”

“Semantics.”

“That doesn’t make a difference anyway.” He tilted his head, brow furrowing, his expression hardening.

“Could be a conflict of interests,” I added, trying to find a way out of whatever the hell was happening right now.

His piercing gaze intensified and I could’ve sworn he was about to shift, his electric energy vibrating over my skin. His body whispered to mine, some kind of siren song, entrancing me with his nearly hostile and violent allure.

“It’s not.” His gaze dropped to my mouth, but he didn’t lean the last few inches to kiss me. Just looked and looked, his broad chest rising and falling. “You’re just running.”

“I’m afraid it will all go sideways.” My voice cracked. “And it’ll end in heartbreak. For both of us.”

“It won’t,” he said with conviction.

“It’s just that we’re—”

“I know what we are,” he snapped back, almost viciously. He curled his hands completely around my wrists, squeezing firmly but not to the point of pain. “What we could be,” he growled. “If you’d just let it happen.” Then he let me go. His voice was rusty and grating, demanding that I listen. “I’m tired of waiting, Violet.”

I didn’t move. Didn’t respond. Didn’t take the opening he was offering me. Why? Because he was right. I was running. And I didn’t fucking know what to do. His primal, possessive look screamed words like heart and soul and forever. But that psychic warning I’d received in that reading a year ago kept haunting me.

The intensity of it, of him, had me scared shitless. No one had ever looked at me like that. It was awesome and terrifying at the same time.

For once in my life, my confidence wavered. I just stood there, unable to form any kind of response, not knowing what to do. So afraid to make the wrong move that I made absolutely none instead.

He gave me a stiff nod, then fisted his hands at his sides and took a step back, dropping his gaze for a brief moment before he turned and marched toward the entrance to the foyer.

“I’m really tired, so if you’d excuse me.” He gestured toward the door, a mixture of disappointment and irritation in his tone.

He was kicking me out?

He was kicking me out!

Was he breaking up with me? We weren’t even together yet!

My mouth hung open for a few seconds before I snapped it shut. Then I pulled on my cloak of bravado and marched across the living room. Only when I glanced at his pack did I realize something. I stopped in front of him.

“You’re back a day early.”

The bags under his eyes seemed more pronounced all of a sudden, but the hardness of his gaze didn’t falter at all. If anything, he drew his own mantel around himself, a cold, frosty one.

“I need to rest, Violet.”

He wasn’t going to tell me why he was back so early or why he looked like such hell. I knew for a fact that he and Mateo typically returned from their full-moon weekends looking more virile, more powerful than when they’d left. What was so different now?

“You didn’t have to return early because of those werewolves.”

“I didn’t.”

“None of them have been around,” I assured him.

His expression was completely unreadable, his gaze still hostile. “I know.”

Yeah, of course he’d know. He’d been keeping tabs with Ruben and Devraj, who were obviously on the lookout for those guys.

“I guess I’ll go then.”

“That would be a good idea.”

I frowned up at him, but still, his expression was grave, adamant, unmoving. A fiery tempest blazed deep inside those eyes.

I stormed out of the house and back across his courtyard toward the shop. He’d never been legitimately angry with me, but there was no mistaking the cold fury following in my wake. I walked straight through the shop and out the front doors in sort of a daze.

Clara was gone, but Henry was still there at his post. I didn’t say a word but kept walking home, feeling somehow disconnected from everything. Sort of adrift.

I replayed our conversation on loop all the way home. My stomach fluttered at the thought of his soft, burning touch. I remembered how the hypnotic sweep of his eyes and fingers had held me spellbound so intensely, I hadn’t even realized I’d daydreamed the entire walk home till I was suddenly on the little sofa in our loft and staring out the window at Archie playing in Devraj’s back yard.

Tears pricked my eyes with a sudden wave of emotion as I recalled the heartbreak already in Nico’s eyes. Was the Death card already coming true because I was rejecting what we could have before it had even begun?

Laying onto my side, I hugged a throw pillow to my stomach, feeling so much self-loathing and pity I wanted to scream. My thoughts spun in my head, making me dizzy with fear and sadness.

I squeezed my eyes shut to will it all to go away but, instead, my mind drifted far back into my memory to a summer day long ago. Green, prickly grass. Warm summer sun. My twin sister laughing beside me. I fell asleep.

The dream wound in circles, only sensory images flashing in and out. A blue-breasted lark sang from the branch of a flowering dogwood tree. Then everything went silent; only the wise voice of Aunt Beryl resonated through my mind.

“Your true love is broken inside. Like all of his kin.”

I snapped awake and sat up with a frightening jolt, the sun having slipped behind the houses.

“Oh, my God!”

I’d slept the entire day away, but that wasn’t what had struck me like a thunderbolt.

Nico’s voice echoed right behind Aunt Beryl’s. “Guess I’m just broken inside.”

“It’s him,” I whispered to myself, voice shaking.

Aunt Beryl’s words slammed into me like a psychic whip cracking through my soul. “Never smart for a Seer to divine for herself anyway.”

The magic didn’t sizzle under my skin. It burned, punishing me for what I’d obviously gotten so wrong.

Unable to ignore my magic screaming at me to pick up my cards, I scrambled back to my bedroom and pulled my favorite deck from my desk, the old ones my mother had given me. The ones I’d used in my first reading.

With blinding speed, I scattered the cards upside down—hands shaking—and chose three cards within nanoseconds for Nico, for me, and for our relationship.

Death, Three of Swords, the Tower.

A tear escaped, trailing down my cheek, because now I could see what was there all along. What I’d been too blind to understand. To see.

Death did mean endings. But what it also meant, which I’d failed to see, was change and transformation. Indeed, my life had been going through transformation. Even when I’d first pulled the card, I’d been on the path to opening my shop and changing things. But this wasn’t even about that. This was about changing my life to include him.

“Nico,” I whispered.

I’d wanted him for quite some time. Even as I’d denied us both.

The Three of Swords reflected Nico’s heartache, which I’d caused by my constant rejection of him when he so obviously wanted me all along.

I sobbed, realizing I’d been breaking his heart by refusing him. My blaze of magic sung with the truth of it like living flame searing through my blood.

The Tower, the symbol for our relationship, could’ve meant chaos and upheaval as I’d thought all along. But my magic whispered that I’d misinterpreted that as well. The Tower also meant revelation. Awakening.

A starburst of powerful energy shattered with warmth inside my chest as it hit me. The awakening was happening right this very second. I opened my eyes to realize that Nico was the one. He was mine.

“My one true love.” Laughing and crying at my sappy words and the pain I’d caused us both, I swiped angrily at the tears on my cheeks.

The cards had been true. I’d just misread them, thinking only disaster awaited us. When in reality, my denial was part of what put it all in motion.

The transformation began the night Nico arrived in town because that’s when I’d stopped hooking up. I’d been focusing on opening Empress Ink and had put all thoughts of men and sex to the side. Except for my secret craving for Nico.

His heartbreak began when I set on a path to reject what we could be, thinking wrongfully that I was saving us both.

His words at his place echoed back to me. “I know what we are…what we could be.”

And now I was standing at the pinnacle of the Tower in the light of the awakening, the dawning realization that it was him all along. The one that was meant for me.

“Fuck.”

I’d really messed things up. But I could fix them. There was still longing in his eyes tonight before he’d turned a cold shoulder against me and kicked me out.

I needed to gather my thoughts and my courage. Tomorrow, I’d pull him aside before Sunday dinner and tell him that he was right. We should go for it. Or I’d just kiss him and hope like hell he’d kiss me back. The rest would be easy, I hoped, because our bodies had been craving each other for a while now. I wasn’t oblivious to his desire all this time, even if I’d pretended I was.

Sighing deeply, I headed into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of wine, even though it wasn’t even five o’clock yet. I sat on the sofa and hugged myself under a pretty pink crocheted blanket I’d never seen before. Must be one of Clara’s new creations.

Sipping my wine, a heaviness that I’d been carrying a long time suddenly floated away.

“Tomorrow,” I whispered happily.

Tomorrow, I’d finally cross that bridge and tell Nico he was right. That I wanted him. And hoped he still wanted me.