“Now we need to figure out why she cursed Everett.”

  “Yeah . . .” Veda trails off as his winces intensify to expressions of full-blown pain. “You’re hurt.”

  “Is that worry I detect?” It’s a glimmer of his usual attitude. “I’ve been sore. After rest and a pain elixir, I’ll be fine.”

  Sore is a gross understatement. He’s clammy, moving too carefully. “May I take a look?”

  He raises a brow. “I thought you weren’t able to cast after all that.”

  “It’s been a little while. I’m not depleted anymore. Do you want my help or not?”

  He doesn’t budge. “Even if you can, I doubt body aches are your specialty.”

  “No, and I’m technically not a doctor, but I did attend medical school.” Veda folds her arms and rises to her feet. “I still had to go through rotations in every specialty. I’m qualified enough, so take off your shirt.”

  “What?” Hiram blinks incredulously. “No date first? No drink?”

  She rolls her eyes so hard, her head hurts. “Jokes about your modesty are significantly less funny when you could have permanent injuries.”

  Hiram slowly stands. Eyes on her, he pulls his shirt over his head and drops it on the floor, revealing tattoos mottled by deeply bruised skin. He is . . . well built. Lean. Muscular. Exactly as she remembers. Lowering his arms makes his breath hitch. No wonder he looks like shit. More bruises begin to form before her eyes, and there’s a nasty gash on his side that looks more like a burn than a cut.

  Her eyes skim his body, roaming across the definition of his muscled chest down to the waistband of his trousers—all before she gets a better look. Hiram slowly raises his hands, gripping the back of his neck and trying to steady his breathing, but it grows sharp each time her fingers brush his skin.

  “Looks like a Contact Curse. It causes pain to the first person it contacts. You were likely hit while—” He shielded her from harm. Their eyes meet in silent acknowledgment. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I know.”

  Uncomfortable under his watchful gaze, she keeps looking, frowning. “The pain would have started immediately. Odd that a medic didn’t catch this.”

  “I didn’t allow anyone to look.”

  Except her. She clears her throat. “You should have. You suffered this long when you didn’t have to.”

  “Being a sick kid has given me a high pain tolerance.”

  “Understandable, but pain doesn’t make you stronger; it tires you out, makes your body focus on the wrong thing enough for a minor curse like this to spread. Like it is now.” Little red spots form on his chest and side. The more complex bruises darken from brown to black to a deep purple. “Soon, it’ll be too much to contain.”

  “Any lasting effects?”

  “Luckily it’s low stakes to heal, but if it were higher, you’d need a healer, or at least a doctor with a working amulet.” Veda’s neck still feels bare without hers. “Do you have any potions?”

  “None for pain.”

  Veda steps closer, trying to figure out where to start. She glances at his neck, watching his Adam’s apple bob. She worries at her bottom lip. “I’ll have to cure it myself. It’s been a while since I’ve healed anything.”

  She’s back in the empty hospital hall in Philadelphia, trying to save Dr. Lawson’s life.

  “Take your time.” Gruff yet calm, Hiram’s voice pulls her from her own head.

  After pressing a hand to the bruise on his shoulder, she whispers the charm to stop the Contact Curse: “Auxilium.”

  Warm light flares beneath her open palm. She pays for magic with a shiver that chills her to the bone. The bruise doesn’t fade, but given how Hiram’s stiffness subsides and his face flushes right before her eyes, she can tell his pain is ebbing.

  “Better?” she asks.

  “Much.”

  Veda moves to the gash low on his side, healing it with ease. She works with clinical ease, knitting the skin back together with a spell that she pays for with a wave of momentary nausea. Once it passes, an errant thought escapes: It’s the first time she’s spared any attention to a body that isn’t her own.

  And the first time she’s allowed herself to openly appreciate someone else’s form.

  No longer sallow from the Contact Curse, Hiram looks as good as he smells. Clean with a subtle woodsy scent. It’s heady. She can admit he’s handsome. She’s thought as much, even during her active antagonism. But now she sees there’s an allure about him. More than that, Veda understands why women look his way, why she looks his way.

  For now, Veda lets her attention roam, combing every detail from the dusting of freckles on his shoulders to the intricate, albeit incomplete, sleeve of ink along his arm. She is only checking for bruises, of course. But her gaze lingers, drawn to the labyrinth of color and detailed art. The starry night sky with the rising sun and a waning moon on his shoulder. A compass and a handless watch entwined with flowers. Two trees, one skeletal, the other in full bloom. And then . . . the eye identical to the one on her amulet. She pauses, lifting her gaze to meet his. Hiram’s expression gives nothing away. Her eyes drop again, still too curious. Wrapped around his wrist is a snake eating its own tail, while symbols fill in the spaces between each image. This is far from being a haphazard collection of impulsive decisions; it’s a dedicated work of art. Every mark speaks of intention, of a calculated man. Even the clean stop at his wrist feels deliberate, designed to keep the inner workings of his life hidden from a world too eager to judge him. Just like she had.

  “You don’t seem like the tattoo type.”

  “I didn’t know there was a type.” Hiram gives her a look she can’t interpret. “I never cared about what any of it meant until I recognized the eye on your amulet when I saw you in the cave.”

  “You scared me that day,” Veda confesses.

  “Do I scare you now?”

  Increasingly so, but she doesn’t take the bait. “The bruises should fade in a few days.”

  “I may swim in the healing waters and bring Antaris with me tomorrow. You should come, too.”

  Veda doesn’t know what to make of the invitation, unable to shake the coiling that feels like trouble. “We’ll see.”

  Hiram doesn’t put on his shirt. Instead, he rolls his shoulders and stretches his arms out, every motion more fluid than the last. Beginning to relax, his head tilts slightly, eyes focused but hazy from the fading pain. Veda observes as he tests, works, and flexes the muscles of his shoulders until he catches her eye.

  “I should get ready to go,” she says quickly. “Khadijah is on her way.”

  “Have you eaten?”

  Veda’s stomach clenches at the thought of food.

  “I made butter chicken,” he adds.

  “While in pain?”

  Hiram nods and leads the way to the refrigerator, pulling out leftovers. “Life of a single parent. The show must go on.”

  Veda leans against the counter, watching him pack a plate for her to take. She ignores the energy in the air, the oddness growing into something tangible. She knows it’s attraction. Logically, nothing deeper than the competence of a shirtless, bruised, and tattooed man packing up food he’s cooked. A few minutes later, he places a container on the counter and studies her as if she’s both the problem and the solution. “It’s ready.”

  Veda slips past him, but Hiram boxes her in with a hand on the counter, forcing her to turn toward him. Just like that, she’s trapped, and he’s far too close, challenging her with a look. Veda feels like forcing him away, with magic if she must. She’ll pay the cost. “I healed you. It’d be a shame if I—”

  “If you what?” Hiram asks, voice low, leaning a fraction closer. “I wanted to say thank you.”

  “You could have done that from across the room.”

  “I could have.”

  “And you thanked me with dinner.”

  “I did.”

  But when he doesn’t move, Veda wonders if this is his intent. “What do you want?”

  The smooth edge of the granite countertop digs into her lower back. Veda doesn’t know why she shifts forward, but she does. Close enough to touch his arm, she has every intention of pushing it away. Sidestepping him. Leaving.

  But warmth radiates from Hiram’s skin. He’s the kindling, the spark, and the flame.

  “Do you know how you’re looking at me?” His voice is but a whisper. “How you’ve been looking at me?”

  Veda doesn’t answer. She can’t.

  “I’m not impulsive.” Hiram exhales, eyes falling to her lips. “I am a glutton for punishment.”

  “Let me guess . . . I’m the punishment.”

  “Yes.” Hiram leans in with confidence, searching her eyes until he’s a breath away. Hands cup her face, his lips ghost hers. “You’re going to say no to me, aren’t you?”

  She means to. Needs to. But curiosity keeps her silent.

  Hiram rests his forehead against hers, eyes fluttering shut. “Good.”

  A sharp inhale fills her lungs with air the moment he kisses her.

  Veda hasn’t done this in so long, yet falling into him feels natural. He’s warm, and it’s all too easy to kiss him, to touch his chest and catalog each sensation before she floats away. The pounding of her heart. The fluttering in her stomach that’s far from nerves. It’s human nature to seek connection through touch, to want more than the bare minimum—natural to take what she wants, what she deserves. Working Hiram’s mouth open with hers, she feels his hands on her waist, his heart racing beneath her palms. He’s a delicious push and pull, a sharp rise and a steep fall. The language of touch and sensation teases the coils of pleasure.

  He lifts her up on the counter, parts her legs, pulls her closer. The permission Hiram seeks in touch is silent, but her answer is not. “I didn’t say no.”

  “It’s not that,” he murmurs, blue eyes heavy on her. “Didn’t think I’d get this far.”

  Neither did Veda, but her hands are already in his hair. “This is nothing.”

  They’re too far in to stop now. Hiram’s hands slide to the small of her back, then lower. When Veda gasps and arches into him, he smirks. “Keep lying to yourself.”

  “Shut up.”

  Acquiescence comes with him tilting her chin and dragging her in for more. Aside from talking and arguing, breathing and sighing, kissing each other is what their mouths are made for.

  Hiram seems determined to change her mind as kisses morph into something achingly deep and hungry. It’s good. The feel of his hand on her hip, the other teasing the elastic on her waistband, anchoring her in place. So good. The way he nips at her bottom lip and pulls, none too gently. The perfect pressure of his tongue as it slips in unchecked, brushing against hers. Too good.

  Freedom is exhilarating. Ignoring the future for the right now is addictive. Where Hiram will go and how far she’ll allow him to take her is a mystery, but it’s not one they’ll solve tonight. Hiram’s lips travel to her neck. The shock of him sucking on her pulse makes Veda moan, clench her thighs, and grip the back of his head like she needs a bit more to—

  Hiram grunts and pulls away, wincing when her knees press against a bruise too hard.

  “Shit, sorry,” she blurts, her cheeks heating in embarrassment. She looks everywhere but at him, murmuring, “I didn’t mean to—uh—I should go. Khadijah should be outside.”

  He nods after a beat, reluctantly stepping back.

  Veda looks at the picture he makes. His hair is a mess, lips pink, and there’s a high flush on his cheeks. Ignoring the tiny scratches on his chest where she unconsciously marked him, Veda hops off the countertop. Her legs are shaky, and her body feels far too warm. She wonders how disheveled she must look. Hiram’s eyes are on her when she grabs the container of butter chicken and heads for the door.

  His hand lands on her waist, stopping her. “Veda?”

  “Yeah?” she replies awkwardly.

  Contemplation blooms alongside the determination in his eyes. Hiram catches her chin and turns her head to meet his gaze. His thumb brushes over her lips. Instantly, her stomach is in knots. She nearly bites his finger in defense of her self-control.

  “Our timing couldn’t be worse.”

  That’s not what she expects to hear.

  “What?” Her voice is like a shared secret.

  Hiram’s fingers scrape against hers. Another spark of warmth searching for a way in. “You’re free to fight this, to fight me. I know you will, but what I refuse to do is live in a delusion of your creation and pretend that this is nothing. Think about it. I’ll wait.”

  One last kiss seals his promise.

  Hiram opens the door as Khadijah pulls into his driveway.

  The tingle of his lips on hers lingers all the way home.

  Twenty-Four

  Two hours later, Hiram wakes abruptly with one word on his breath.

  “Shit.”

  Hiram knows a runner when he sees one. Veda is predictable, and Hiram has been paying attention to her tells. He knows when she’s ruminating and wonders if kissing her was the right action at the wrong time.

  By the time he’s finished dressing, the decision is made. He keeps a packed bag under his bed—a habit from his first escape. He packed a similar bag for Antaris weeks ago. After grabbing snacks for the road, his phone, and his keys, he tosses both bags into the trunk of his car.

  Waking Antaris is hard because he’s sleeping so soundly, but Hiram manages it gently. “Let’s go on that little trip I told you about earlier.”

  A blanket, his favorite bow tie, and a stuffed rabbit are all his son brings with him. Hiram turns on the automatic cat feeder until he can call Peter to cat sit. Antaris is already dozing again as Hiram pulls out of the driveway, activating the talisman as they leave. The drive slows as Hiram relies on memory to find the right spot. He misses it the first time, realizing he’s gone too far when the river comes into view. But moonlight catches the path the second time.

  “Reserare,” Hiram murmurs, uncertain whether the driveway will open to him until it does, the trees peeling back like an invitation.

  Floating light illuminates the path, guiding his car through the thick brush until he sees Veda’s house. The outdoor lights glow dimly, and her bike is parked outside. Hiram checks on the still-sleeping Antaris before stepping out and approaching her front door. The talisman hums in welcome.

  Inside, a light switches off. Hiram is about to write this entire night off as him coming to the wrong conclusion when the front door opens.

  Veda steps out, bag slung over her shoulder. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I had a feeling you might run.”

  “I wasn’t running.” The sharp tension in her doesn’t ease.

  “The bag says otherwise.”

  Irascible frustration sours her expression. “I couldn’t sleep. So much is happening. If I leave . . .”

  “It changes nothing.”

  “I’m in danger, which means you and Antaris are in danger because of—”

  “You don’t have a plan, and Ariadne probably expects you to be impulsive. She’s been two steps ahead this entire time. If you’re going to go somewhere, it needs to be a place she doesn’t know or expect.”

  “With you?”

  “Yes. Well, with us.”

  “Us?” She glances past him at the car. “Antaris is inside?”

  “Sleeping,” Hiram confirms. “We could get out of town and come back with a plan.”

  Veda studies him for a long moment before shaking her head. “What happened in your kitchen shouldn’t have happened. It can’t happen. Nothing changes the fact that I’m cursed, Hiram. There’s a reason I don’t let myself want. It’s unattainable. I don’t have a future. I’ve spent years living on the bare minimum because I know that it’ll end in a second, and I can’t get used to something that’ll be ripped away. I tried to have hope. I tried to be positive. I left your house thinking—it doesn’t matter, it put everything into perspective and made it clear that I need to go back to—”

  “To what?” Hiram snaps. “Isolation in the greenhouse or your cottage or fortress, whatever you call it—and avoiding everyone who gives a damn about you?”

  “Yes! Exactly that! Get used to me not being here, because I—” Veda falters, visibly struggling. Softer, she asks, “What happens when I die? Have you thought about that? Antaris is still grieving his mom, and losing me will send him spiraling backward. I know I started this by caring about him. He was drowning, I couldn’t let him, but I should have backed away as soon as you got your shit together. I shouldn’t have kept coming to your house, acting and pretending like everything is normal when it’s not. He’s a child. He can’t take too many hits. It’s better if I—”

  “That isn’t something you get to decide without our input after making yourself integral to us!”

  Veda’s eyes blow wide at his admission.

  “Him,” Hiram amends weakly, then throws it all out in the open between them. “Fuck it—us. Him. Me.”

  “Hiram . . .” There’s disbelief in her whisper.

  “Trust me, I’ve thought about running from you as much as I’ve thought about losing you. What will it do to Antaris? What will it do to me? I’m not willing to back away. I’m so fucking sick of running, of accepting things I want to change, of not arguing or fighting and just letting things happen. I meant what I said before. I’ll show you who I am, but I’ll do it by fighting for what I want. And that’s you.”

  Veda is frozen. “What you want from me, I can’t give.”

  “I know,” Hiram replies, soft and tentative. “But you think about it sometimes.”

  When Veda says nothing, he takes a slow step toward her.

  “You want to dream. To want. Am I wrong?”

  Veda remains defiant, resolute, until the cracks split wider. “I was fine before Antaris. I was better before you. But now . . . I can see the people I’m going to miss, and hints of the life I won’t get to live. And I . . .” She fights back tears. “I’m not fine. I’m fucking terrified, with too many regrets I keep pretending are sacrifices. I’m sick of fighting for every single day and having to hold the pieces of myself together when I’m falling apart.”