Married (27 page)

Tulah stood a few inches away from him, making no move to get closer. Adam was the one who shifted toward her. He was the one who lifted his hand to her satin-skinned cheek and stroked, in full view of Constance. “I know what she wants.”

“I don’t know how you could have…” She shook her head, refusing to meet his eyes. “Never mind, it’s not my business.”

“Put her out of your mind. Call for room service, stay away from Graves and don’t go anywhere. Okay?”

Tulah nodded. “All right, but don’t forget about me. I don’t make a good prisoner, and this room is worse than being locked in a dungeon.”

Adam cupped her jaw, tilting her face up to his. He could see her unhappiness, her fear and frustration. His lungs squeezed. Without thought for the consequences, he lowered his lips to hers. Sweet, chaste, a simple kiss to deny the gut-clawing need ripping through him. A taste of Tulah’s vulnerability, a single-minded knowledge of her defenselessness amidst the Ngozi men.

Emotions churned—possessiveness, protectiveness, suspicion, even fear. Restlessness tore Adam into pieces and had him suffering a slew of doubts and needs he’d never faced before. He needed a quiet place to think things through, to find his center and get a handle on his turmoil, but he couldn’t stand the thought of going back to his room where the scent of Tulah’s pleasure still perfumed the air and the pillows still held the impression of her head.

He forced neutrality into his tone. “Lock your door behind you, honey. I won’t be gone long.”

* * * *

With the morning still so new, Adam refrained from waking his grandmother. Instead, he followed hazy instincts prodding him toward the ground floor sitting room where he’d lost his senses and buried his cock in Tulah’s hot body for the first time.

He burst through the door but closed it softly behind him after noting the room’s vacancy. His fingers spun a spell—a magical ‘do not disturb’ sign that would keep other guests away until Adam had gotten control of himself. He threw himself into a chair before the roaring fire and willed his body to relax, to absorb the heat and let it calm his mind. But less than a minute later, his twin walked right through his spell and set his nerves to jangling anew.

Christiana planted herself in front of him and folded her arms over her chest. “While you were fucking your little nobody, Grandmother was fighting a dark magic spell that leaves no trace of its source.”

Adam jolted. “Is she okay?”

“She’s fighting. We could use your help.” Christiana’s harsh glare swept over him. “If you can pull yourself together.”

“Of course I can.”

He made to rise, but Christiana wouldn’t let him up. Her thinned lips softened enough to let her say, “Why her? What is it about Tulah?”

“She’s vulnerable.” Adam’s shoulders lifted. “Abused, and no woman should be. Tulah’s been stripped of everything, Chris, forced to witness trauma, forced to be strong enough to rise above it and keep pushing on. And she’s still sweet. Not like Constance.”

His twin’s mouth dropped. “Holy hell, Adam. Do you hear yourself?”

“She’s someone I could learn to love.”

“Bullshit.” Chris snorted. “You’re the spoiled youngest grandson of the Family Matriarch. You’re used to being taken care of, doted on, indulged.”

“I’m not the only one who fits that bill.” He didn’t deny his sister’s accusation. The pampering of the women of his Family only made his protectiveness toward them that much sharper.

“You gave me advice once,” Chris whispered in a strangled voice. “You told me I was moving too fast, falling for a pretty face without knowing what was behind it. I thought I loved him, too, and it turned out to be the worst mistake of my life.”

“Your mistake. Not mine.”

“One you never let me live down, Adam! To this day, you are terrible to my husband because of my past sins.”

“Your sins are mine, aren’t they, Chris?”

“And they’re about to be repeated, because you’re making the same mistakes I did! Open your damned eyes! She’s the lowest member of her Family, desperate for a way out.”

“She’s not like Constance!” Adam jumped to his feet, pushing his sister out of his way and driving his hands through his hair.

Tulah deserved protection. It was his possessiveness that threw Adam off balance. He’d never been a possessive man—his situation wouldn’t allow for it—but he wanted to keep Tulah close. He wanted to keep her, period. He admired her strength, was proud that she stood up for herself and terrified that she’d dared. She was by turns strong and submissive, capable of both surrendering sweetly and fighting for what she wanted.

But his sister was right—no matter how much Adam wanted to deny it. He didn’t know Tulah, or what she wanted from him. He didn’t know her motivations, her needs in life, her desires for the future. He didn’t know if she was acting in the moment or laying a complicated plot to trap him at her side. He didn’t know if she was lonely, scared, rebellious or acting on Graves’ orders.

“That’s right,” Chris taunted, yet her tone held sympathy. As it should, considering her first marriage. “See it for yourself, honey.”

Adam forced the chaos in his head to calm, tensed his muscles against the pain of facing his inner self and followed the pathways of intuition to learn the truth hiding inside him. He breathed in and out, controlled, nervous at what he would find but admitting the need to find it.

Tulah had caught his attention the moment he’d seen her, a unique beauty who appealed to him at the deepest levels. She tied him in knots and smoothed them out with a touch. She was generous both in bed and out, instinctively giving him exactly what he wanted. Hers was a soothing presence that still managed to whip the chaos inside him to new heights. Adam was both relaxed in her company and on edge, wanting the peace she exuded while simultaneously wanting to destroy that peace and make her wild. He liked the flow of emotions on her face, even as he lamented her ability to hide her thoughts.

Out loud, he said, “She would be a weakness I would have to guard fiercely, if I’m going to claim the right to protect her.”

“
What
?”

“I want her.”

His sister made a rude noise. “That’s nothing new. You’ve wanted many women.”

“You think I can’t tell, after all this time, when a woman fucks me for my influence?” He’d become so adept at spotting their manipulations, they no longer had the power to hide it from him. That kind of pressure, to constantly defend his emotions, took a toll.

Adam wanted Tulah. He wanted to talk to her, learn her secrets and her hopes, hear her opinions and figure out the way she thought. He knew what made her scream with pleasure, he wanted to know what made her curse in anger. And he wanted to fuck her again.

Slowly, the darkness inside him lightened. Tulah wanted freedom, not power or a position in a matriarchal Family. She wasn’t good at playing politics, not with such a readable face, so he knew she couldn’t be looking to claw her way up the ranks. She didn’t press for knowledge about him or his Family, didn’t ask sly questions.

If she was in his bed at Graves’ command, she was either the greatest spy on Earth, or the very worst.

And with that realization, breathing resumed its normal ease. Adam’s muscles unlocked, his heart took up a regular rhythm and the wash of heat sloshing through his stomach settled down. He was lightheaded, but satisfied that Tulah was what she appeared to be.

His sister noted the change in him with a look of horror. “No, Adam.”

“I know what I’m doing.” He reached for Christiana, trying to impart confidence and comfort, but the moment he took her hand he became aware of an insistent swirl of magic in the room around him.

Chris gasped and flinched. She swung around with a wide-eyed stare, gripping his fingers hard to keep their Matched magic merged. “You feel that?”

He held still, evaluating, but the trail was too elusive. Adam began to chant and Christiana joined in until magic rose and spilled forth with every word—spoken words always made a spell stronger. The air distorted as the pressure of their combined talent grew. Concentrating, Adam sought the source of the magic he sensed.

The spell wound around the room like a snake, investigating every corner. Doubling back, the power shoved him, and he stumbled, lost his balance and fell to his knees, dragging Christiana down with him. Directly in front of the roaring fireplace.

A subtle odor of burnt hair invaded his nostrils. Choosing a different spell from their vast repertoire, Adam and Chris kept up a steady stream of incantations as their magic bolted toward the flames. The fire sputtered and sparked, fading slowly.

When it was nothing but embers, a terrible pulse shook the hearth. Adam jerked back. Chris swore and squeezed his fingers as a dark ball of magic bloomed into existence and winked out almost immediately.

Adam found the effigy at the back of the hearth, half-eaten by flames, darkened and scorched. He gently lifted the little figure from the fire, using more magic to extinguish a tiny lick of orange determined to chew on the black dress the doll wore. Dark human hair was anchored to its wax head, the tiny arms stuck out to either side.

Most often used for long-distance harm to a witch, a magical totem required a piece of the victim to work. Hair, blood or even a precious memento—if the offending witch was strong enough—would anchor the spell and send it soaring away to find the victim. Legends were made of such things, and mere humans mimicked the truth of them, sometimes with surprising success.

“Oh, fuck.” Chris stared at the doll and cleared her throat. “Not every witch can do this. Margaret mastered the art decades ago.”

Suspicion screamed in his head as he turned the doll over until the unharmed face stared up at him. Adam went cold, struggling not to drop the thing, struggling not to crush it in his hands. Surprise took his breath and nearly stopped his heart. For a long moment he studied the familiar face while fear ate him from the inside out.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Georgeanne

Georgie turned the little wax doll over in her hands, freely admitting that the witch who’d made it was quite the artist. Small lines had been carved into the surface, delineating the face, the sharp nose, even the crow’s feet, and the lips were a pink that matched real life perfectly. Shriveled black hairs clung tenaciously to the wax. The tiny, black bead eyes hadn’t popped under the pressure of the flames.

Adam had gotten to it in time. Effigies were notoriously slow to burn, even Georgie knew that. The wax legs had melted together, the little black dress was ragged and charred, but the head remained perfectly intact.

Taking a breath, Georgie looked up at the group around her, perched on every available surface of her grandmother’s sitting room. Adam and Christiana bracketed Margaret’s chair, across from Madeleine’s, while Silviu, Ileana and Eliasz ranged along the sofa. Georgie alone was on her feet, pacing as she studied the little doll in her hand.

“It settles the question of whether or not we’ve been purposefully distracted from a larger plot,” Silviu said.

Georgie met his gaze for only a second before moving to stand in front of her grandmother. Madeleine stretched out in the recliner, legs elevated under a thick blanket. Her face was pale, dark circles emphasizing the exhaustion in her black eyes.

Georgie handed her the effigy. “It looks just like you.”

Madeleine barely glanced down as she curled her bony fist around the doll. “Who made it?”

“Much of the surface magic has burned off already,” Silviu said. “It’s nearly impossible to tell. It would have been stronger when it was first found, though. Any thoughts, Adam or Chris?”

Adam shook his head. “I can’t tell. I guess we can crack it open and see who it’s anchored to, if you’re looking for an adrenaline rush.”

“Too dangerous,” Chris protested.

“What do you mean?” Georgie let her gaze drift between her cousins and her betrothed. All three looked like hunters in that moment, cold, determined and focused. Their anger was enough to thicken the air.

“There’re two parts to an effigy’s spell,” Silviu explained. “A piece of the target witch, and a piece of the casting witch. The materials chosen anchor the magic, one witch to the other, so the connection can be formed and manipulated.”

Margaret leaned forward in her chair. “The germ is hidden inside the body of the doll.”

Georgie hefted a brow. “Germ?”

“The piece of the casting witch,” Margaret explained. “You want that to be the very last thing to burn, giving the magic a chance to hook onto the grain of the affected witch. Whoever made this will have put their germ inside.”

“I’ll get a knife, then.” Georgie spun toward the door.

Silviu jumped to his feet and grabbed her. “No, love, you can’t cut the doll open.” Silviu steered her back toward the sofa, pushing her down into the spot he’d just vacated. “If you open the doll, you could kill your grandmother.”

“Please,” Madeleine snorted. Her tone wavered with exhaustion, but still held a wealth of stubbornness. “I am the Davenold Mother. I will fight off any ill effects of any effigy, no matter how similar to me it appears.”

Frustration battled with rage in Georgie’s chest, a familiar irritation. The rest of the participants of the conversation were already aware of all the ramifications of this particular magic. Georgie was not. Her studies had included only the basics, Madeleine pushing her more toward self-defense, politics and geography.

Bane witches had little need for magic lessons.

Though she gritted her teeth, Georgie thought her emotions weren’t visible as she sat still and relaxed, composed and quiet. Silviu’s eyelids flinched as he took in her expression, his way of narrowing his eyes while in public, when hiding his emotions was paramount. Georgie broke his stare to look at her grandmother.

“Margaret,” Silviu said softly, “effigies aren’t really my thing, but I’ve heard you have quite a talent with them. Could you please give me a refresher course?”