Page 63 of Haunt Me, Maybe

“That will not be happening!” I squealed and managed to find the strength to scoot away and finally close my legs. My thighs burned at the movement.

“We’ll see.”

The cocky ghost was back. The one used to getting what he wanted. Well, too damn bad.

“You will get a front row seat to an exorcism if you go anywhere near there, Wes.”

He lay down beside me, ignoring the very pointed glare I aimed at him. He kicked his pants off and pulled the blankets over us, cuddling into me like I wasn’t threatening his afterlife. The room was dark, the shadows soft, and my body melted into the mattress like liquid. I couldn’t move. Not even if Gideon appeared right now.

Before I fell into a pleasure coma, I heard Wes whisper one last time.

“We’ll see.”

It was too much to hope that a really good orgasm would chase the bad dreams away. They found me anyway, picking up almost right where I left off, with a little variation. I didn’t remember falling asleep, but I remembered cold water. I remembered hands pulling me under, magic wrapping tight around my ribs, squeezing⁠—

I woke with a gasp, throat raw as if I’d been screaming. My heart still tried to escape my chest, and it actually hurt to feel it race that hard.

“Aven.”

Wes was still here; he hadn’t left my side. Even half-naked, he was a steady presence in the storm that was trying its best to destroy me. His hand gripped my wrist, and the ribbon around his own started to glow. I knew he felt my fear, and I didn’t need an anchor of my own to know he was worried.

“He’s here—” I choked. “He was—he saw⁠—”

“No,” he said, firmly. “You’re here. I’m here. He’s not.”

I clutched at the blankets, fingers curling like the soft cotton was the only thing keeping me from falling back into the dark. Wes didn’t tease. Didn’t joke. The ribbon between us visibly beat, like a heart, and warmth bloomed between us where our magic overlapped.

I broke my gaze from that ribbon and tilted my head up, still shaking, still wired. “You felt it,” I said. “Didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Like a spike. Like you were drowning.”

I shivered, and his hand moved up my back; constant and possessive in a way that made me feel safe.

“I hate that he can do this to you,” he added quietly.

I swallowed past the lump in my throat, but my voice still came out thick. “I hate that I’m scared.”

Wes looked at me, his frown stern, but not angry.

“You’re allowed to be.” His thumb brushed away a tear that escaped the corner of my eye. He leaned in, his cheek resting on top of my head, and I curled into his embrace.

The fear of my nightmare slowly eased. Wes’s warmth remained, and for the first time since I started practicing with my magic, I fell into the kind of sleep that didn’t leave me exhausted. The kind where my body wasn’t still on guard. It was the best sleep of my life. With a ghost.

With a friend.

With Wes holding me like I was so much more than his anchor.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Wes

The cold had teeth today. It pressed against the café windows as if it wanted in, frost sketching pale veins along the glass. The river wind carried it straight through town, and even inside I felt the ache of it—a memory more than a sensation, but close enough.

It was too chilly to practice; the old mill was a frozen tomb, and besides, Fenn was still getting rid of the last bit of magic he absorbed.

The ribbon at my wrist warmed faintly with Aven’s nerves as I followed her into the café, the bell chiming overhead. The place felt…pleased. Not loud about it. Just a subtle shift in the air, like a cat lifting its head to see who came in. It was always like that—aware, watchful, opinionated.

And protective of Aven in a way that made my shoulders ease the second the door closed behind us. Aven lingered inside the threshold, scarf still looped around her neck.