Page 75 of A Lady’s Guide to Witchcraft

She beamed, smug and uncaring as to what that said about her character. Haven preferred haughty. Confident. But she had smugness. “I did.”

“You’d make a decent Iron Crow.”

“Thank you. I think?”

The twists of decorated silver and the iridescent pearls looked so innocuous, just sitting in her palm.

“Now we just need to find the other half,” he said.

“As to that…”

Ethan lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You’ve been keeping secrets.” Censure and warning and something close to pride were in his eyes. Also something that promised consequences. Punishment.

It wasn’t just Ethan watching her so intently, but also Dragon. The Iron Crow who had killed three warlocks last year alone, according to rumors he’d neither denied nor confirmed. But she could easily believe it. He was dark as the waves, the lulling song of the tides, the sudden undercurrent that pulled you under. The line between water that saved you from dying of thirst and water that drowned you was very thin indeed.

She found she did not mind it at all.

She rather liked it, actually.

And by the way his eyes narrowed consideringly, he knew full well. “Tell me,” he commanded.

If it had been over anything less important, she would have pushed back just to see the line of his jaw clench. To see his eyes flare. To feel that delicious thrill, half warning, half anticipation.

Instead, she rose to her feet and led him to the kitchen. Matthias was in the tearoom, convincing customers to try his croquembouche. The windows were open to birdsong and the familiar tinkling of the teacup wind chimes. The fire had died down but the wall was still warm as Briar wedged her finger under a loose brick near the top of the hearth.

She pulled out the other half of the amulet triumphantly.

Ethan cursed, softly, admiringly. “You really do have everyone fooled, don’t you? Serving tea and pink-frosted cakes with daisies in your hair.”

She couldn’t stop a small smile at that. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

He was behind her now, crowding into her, breath against her ear. His mouth brushed her hair. “I see you, little thorn.” It was a warning, a promise.

She swayed backward against his heat, couldn’t help herself. A rush of desire tingled through her. She had to clear her throat before speaking. “Only the moonstone is missing.”

“How did you find this?”

“I followed the white roses.”

“Clever little green witch.” He sounded impressed but also implacable. He reached up, closing his fingers around the base of her throat. Her breath stuttered. Heat bloomed up her thighs. “You kept this from me.”

“I…”

His grip tightened, just a little. Just enough. “Do you really want to make it worse by lying to me, sweetheart?” he asked softly.

“But…”

“And then you put yourself in danger again, just now, in the village.” He clicked his tongue in lazy recrimination. “I know I was clear about that.”

“I needed—”

“You needed?” His other hand slipped lower, dragging her skirts up. His knuckles brushed her quim. She whimpered, already so sensitive it made her feel a little drunk. “I know what you need, sweetheart.”

He stroked her, lightly, teasingly. Slowly, as though an entire tearoom was not just on the other side of the wall, chatting politely, asking for more cucumber-watercress on biscuits. As though someone could not walk by the window. As though none of that mattered because he had her pinned against his chest, his for the claiming.

“Don’t I?” he asked.

She tried to chase his hand, but he still had her throat in his grip. His erection pressed against her and she pushed back, wanting to touch him. Needing to touch him. To be touched.