Wolf, Willow, Witch (The Gideon Testaments Book 2) by Freydís Moon

Author:Freydís Moon [Moon, Freydís]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: anonymous
Published: 2023-09-03T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter eight

The pre-cooked, perfectly seasoned scalloped potatoes slid neatly into a casserole dish alongside garlic green beans. Tehlor sprinkled a bit of parmesan on top of the food and swatted her palms together, shaking away crumbs. She looked over her cookout contribution and sighed.

Lincoln bounced down the staircase dressed in an army-green turtleneck and dark denim. His labradorite pendant was concealed beneath the chic cable-knit material, and his two-toned eyes flicked from the not-quite casserole on the countertop to Tehlor’s face.

He snickered. “Store bought?”

“Restaurant take-out, obviously.”

She met his steady gaze and remembered two days ago, her fingers knotted in his short hair, holding his face between her legs, then her back pressed against the wall, watching his shoulders flex in the mirror across the room, her feet bouncing, his hips snapping. Sex was different with him—unlike anything she’d experienced before. She’d felt every shred of the act. Him, widening her. How she felt, warm and tight, squeezing him. She’d endured the growing heat of his climax while coming down from her own, gasping and clinging to him. His sharp, explosive pleasure had weighed heavy on her oversensitive body, blurring her vision, causing her head to spin. It was a new bond, spirits and bodies, magic and flesh. Too intense to name, maybe.

Being with Lincoln, seeing herself through his eyes, feeling her body through his own, brought the surreal, primal truth of their interconnectedness to light.

Tehlor Nilsen would never find another lover like that. She could never make someone else her vorðr. The thought paralyzed her.

She imagined herself an insect accidentally perched on a carnivorous plant. Stuck; petals folding in. But Lincoln had been a conscious choice, and Tehlor was not defenseless. She found her feet glued, regardless. Limbs frozen, struggling against the inevitable.

“Nice dress,” he said.

She shimmied her arms, shaking out the long bell sleeves on her fanciful garment, decorated like blue and white Qinghua pottery. Small buttons were centered neatly on her throat and her wrists looked oddly petite shackled by satin cuffs. She’d roped the top of her hair into a French braid and the rest fell past her shoulders in tousled waves. The gold bands stacked on her fingers matched the thrifted crucifix strung around her neck. She felt like a beautiful fraud. Like Mary Magdalene, a reformed whore.

“Bet it belonged to someone’s grandma,” she said, sealing tinfoil over the dish. “Heels or flats?”

“Modest heels.”

“Yeah, I don’t own any of those, Clifford. What’s the point of cramming your feet into a pair of heels if they’re not high?”

Lincoln silently repeated the name, mouthing Clifford confusedly.

“Fine. Yes, heels. But wear the cardigan, too,” he said.

Tehlor deflated, saddling him with a pitiful frown. “Seriously? The atrocity you found on the two-dollar rack?”

Laughter rumbled in his throat. “Yeah, that one. C’mon. Coat, rat, keys. We shouldn’t be late.”

She seethed at him as she rounded the breakfast bar. His hand ghosted her waist, just barely. She remembered kissing the side of his bony muzzle during a shared shower and tracing the autopsy scars carved into his torso.

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