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Gray light trickles in through the large wall of windows that look out onto the back side of the vast Campbell property. My gaze drifts to the window just right of center. It looks like the others now, but I’ll never forget when it had fissures with a fist-sized epicenter from when Nolan’s dad punched it in a devastated rage. Like father like son, I suppose. Nolan has taken out a few windows and mirrors in the same fashion, the intense emotions unable to be held within. I can’t say I blame either of them.
Sitting closest to the windows in a long chaise is a blonde woman with deep indigo eyes, and she smiles softly as we enter. She resembles Nolan’s mom, except where Lillian is tall and willowy, this woman is all generous curves showcased by a flowing dress the same color as her eyes. She is bookended by two men—one with auburn hair the shade of molten fire and coffee-colored eyes, and the other fair, with honey-blond hair and steel blue eyes. Both touch the woman in the middle as if they can’t help themselves, stroking her silken, platinum blonde hair, absently playing with her fingers, and touching her knee. There is an undeniable connection between the three of them. The twins immediately beeline toward them.
Nolan’s parents are sitting as a unit on the large brown couch that’s positioned diagonally from the chaise, Robert’s arm wrapped around his wife’s shoulders. When he notices me, he flashes me a comforting smile that turns concerned when his eyes drift to Nolan, who’s clutching my hand so tightly that the tips of my fingers are starting to tingle. Lillian’s gaze runs over her son, examining each inch of his illness-induced weariness, and her bottom lip quivers. There’s no way around it, the past month has been hard on Nolan, the curse wreaking havoc on every part of him.
A wiry woman with shrewd, ice-blue eyes, who I assume to be Nolan’s grandmother, Dalia, walks briskly toward us and grabs Nolan by the shoulders. “Come this way so I can have a look at you,” she orders as her greeting, pulling him closer to the window. When she notices Nolan still has a death grip on my hand, her eyes narrow as they zero in on the bruised mark on my neck that I forgot to heal. “Your thrall can stand over there with the others.”
I look behind me where she indicated. Standing quietly next to the entryway are a middle-aged man and woman. When their attention shifts to me, their expressions go from neutral to kind smiles, their eyes turning soft and inviting. They are dressed head to toe in black, with only their hands and heads exposed. They seem content, but I’m unsure if it’s the constant stream of venom in their veins making them complacent or if they genuinely enjoy their positions as thralls for Nolan’s extended family.
Unnerved by the concept altogether, I return my attention to Nolan’s grandmother and catch her harsh expression aimed at her daughter, clearly offended by what she perceives as a double standard.
“Mother, he’s sick and can only keep her blood down,” Nolan’s mother replies with an irritated sigh.
“What makes her blood so special?” she asks like I’m a family pet who can’t answer for itself.
“I’m a witch,” I interject as politely as one can through gritted teeth before anyone can explain for me.
“Fascinating, I’ve never heard of someone taking a witch as a thrall,” the woman on the chaise, who I assume to be Nolan’s aunt, comments.
“There was a rumor that the Ericson’s youngest managed to woo a witch into a weekend dalliance,” the fair man on her left muses. “She was young and barely more than human, but there was discussion on how the witch’s magic did add a little something to the experience of feeding.”
“How wonderfully taboo.” She giggles, a delicate yet sensuous sound, while placing a hand over her generous cleavage. “I’m impressed, nephew.”
“She’s not a thrall,” Nolan’s dad cuts in, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “As Lillian already stated, we don’t keep thralls, let alone a witch while living within the center of the local coven’s territory. We’re not insane.”
Dalia looks at him with a raised, fine white brow, all of her body language shouting that he doesn’t want to hear her thoughts on his sanity.
“She’s my girlfriend,” Nolan snaps, ripping himself from his grandmother’s boney fingers and stepping back while tugging me behind him. “Stop talking about her like she’s food.”
The twins, who are clustered near their parents, release quiet groans and look at Nolan with pity. It’s somewhat endearing. They may not consider me more than a walking blood bag, but it appears they have some genuine empathy for their cousin.
Nolan’s grandmother grows very still, her shrewd eyes running along my unassuming form. I can feel her picking me apart and finding me wanting. Her gaze then shifts to Nolan, an expression of strained patience taking over her features. Speaking like she’s talking to a toddler, she explains, “Grandson, this isn’t your fault. You’re young and clearly haven’t been trained in proper etiquette” —she shoots a scathing look at Nolan’s parents— “and it’s left you confused. It’s… admirable that you take such good care of your thrall, but it’s unhealthy to develop a romantic attachment to your food.”
“She’s not food,” he grinds out, his stance rigid with growing rage. “Callie offering her blood to me is a gift. She does it because she l-loves me.” He trips over the word as if it still surprises him that I have genuine feelings for him. “If you can’t respect that, leave. I don’t want your help.”
Gasps ripple through the room, shocked by Nolan challenging the family matriarch. Silent tears drip down Lillian’s face, clearly both proud and scared in equal measures. Robert squeezes his wife’s hand like it’s the only lifeline holding him steady. His aunt, uncles, and cousins sit in pregnant silence, riveted in a way one is when watching a train wreck happen in real time.
“Nolan, it’s okay. I can…” I whisper, unsure how exactly to finish that sentence, because his declaration fills me with both joy and sorrow. Damning the consequences for my sake is very noble, but I will gladly take some verbal jabs to save his life.
“No, it’s not okay,” he replies firmly, his gaze never leaving his grandmother’s face.
Dalia’s lips pinch as if she bit into something sour, but there’s something in her gaze when she shifts her attention from her grandson to me, everything that I am transforming into something new and curious. “You would die for this… witch’s honor?”
“Yes,” Nolan answers without faltering, his body beginning to shake under his rigid posture.
The mere idea breaks my heart, the organ skipping a beat due to the sharp pain stabbing through it. I would do and suffer anything to save his life, and he would give everything to honor mine. Again, I’m divided. Part of me wants to kiss him, and the other part of me wants to smack him for being so brazenly careless with his life. His grandmother being a bitch to me is small in the grand scheme of things.
“Very well,” she concedes with a flick of her wrist as if she’s grown tired of this conversation. “If she means that much to you, grandson, I’ll refer to the witch however you like.”
“Her name is Callie,” he corrects with a hard edge in his usually sensual voice.
His grandmother dips her chin in my direction. “My apologies, Callie.”
“Apology accepted,” I reply quickly, my voice loud within the shocked silence.
Dalia glares around the room, the sour expression returning to her face. “Don’t act so surprised. I’m not unreasonable, and I’m certainly not going to refuse my services over whom he’s romantically involved. By the queen, how petty do you think I am?”
“Very,” Robert mutters under his breath, which earns a light elbow jab from Lillian.
