The Bound Witch

by Ivy Asher

  Rogan kisses me on the shoulder as I work to dry my hair, and disappears into the bedroom to get ready for bed. I scrunch up my curls, staring at myself in the mirror, and start fretting about the tether. What if it doesn’t come back? What if every time one of us dies, it damages our connection? I used to want it gone more than anything, but now that it seems to be, the loss feels so much bigger than I ever thought it could.

  I abandon my pensive reflection and flick off the lights in the bathroom. Stepping into the master, I find Rogan sitting on the end of the large bed, staring out of the wall of windows at the moon and the incredible expanse of stars. The view is breathtaking, but his eyes are far away, and I can tell he’s not really seeing what’s in front of him, but lost in something else.

  My heart lurches at the deep and profound sadness I see etched in his face. I remind myself that he practically runs himself ragged caring for everyone around him and making sure they’re okay. But who does he let in to take care of him?

  Today, he lost his friend, the safety of his home, his brother died, and then so did I. He had to open himself up to Riggs and Viv, which I know couldn’t have been easy, after all the years he and Elon have spent watching their back and protecting their secret at all costs. And yet, he walked into the bathroom and cleaned me up, offered me the words I needed to hear, brought me the comfort I needed to feel, all while he was quietly breaking inside.

  I move to him, and when he registers my presence, he tucks his sorrow back inside himself, ready to give me whatever I may need. I watch the change in his features and his demeanor, the moment he switches from focusing on himself to focusing on me. It makes my heart swell with love and appreciation for how incredibly selfless and loyal he is, but at the same time, I hurt at knowing he never puts himself first...ever.

  He looks up at me, his warm calloused hands palming the backs of my thighs while I run my palms over his shoulders. He smiles sweetly at me and then closes his eyes, relishing my touch. His thumb plays with the hem of the fluffy towel I’ve wrapped around myself, and he leans forward and rests his forehead against my chest. He breathes me in as he rubs soothing lines with his fingertips up and down the backs of my legs.

  I trace the scar on his face and massage his temples and neck to help ease the tension that’s been collecting for far too long there. I feel him start to relax, and then he sits back and pulls me into his lap. The dark gray towel climbs up my thighs as I straddle him, and he brushes my wet curls from my face as I look down at the gorgeous man I get to call my own.

  Damn, my lucky stars do good work.

  Rogan looks up at me, and I swear he’s thinking the same thing as he coaxes my lips down to his. Flames move through me like every cell in my body is nothing more than kindling for passion and pleasure. I moan into his mouth as our kiss grows deeper, and then I realize that the heat moving through me isn’t just metaphorical, but a very real and tangible forest fire in my veins.

  I gasp and pull back, but by the time the questions form in my eyes, the heat starts to dissipate, and a knowing smile quirks at the corners of Rogan’s lips.

  “What was that?” I ask breathily, my head suddenly clearer and my senses sharper.

  “I burned the alcohol out of your system. I didn’t want you to spend tomorrow hungover and feeling like shit, and I’d like to spend tonight between your thighs.”

  I full on swoon at that mouth, a blush crawling into my cheeks as I feel him harden beneath me. I smile down at him, and then I kiss him deeply, willing to give him anything and everything he needs. His hands untuck the towel around me, pulling it slowly from my body and then flinging it to the floor. I pull Rogan’s shirt off, noticing that he also cleaned up and changed at some point in the night, probably when Tad and I were getting plastered in the bathroom.

  His skin feels like heaven against mine, and he runs his huge hands up my back as he wraps his arms around me, pulling me impossibly closer against him. Our kiss turns frenzied, and his hands explore my naked body with wild abandon. His tongue teases mine, flicking and thrusting against mine in a promising show of what his cock will soon be doing inside of me.

  I whimper as desperate need builds higher and higher between us, and all at once I need more. It’s as though my hands can’t get enough of him. My mouth and senses can’t consume him as fast as they need to. I have all of him all over me, and I still need more.

  I reach down into his sweats and palm his thick cock. Swallowing down his moans and grunts like they’re my favorite meal, I stroke him once and then twice before pulling him free of his pants. I lift up on my knees and have him lined up with me in less time than it takes for him to groan my name, the plea in it clear.

  I drop down onto him, throwing my head back on a throaty moan so he can hear just how good he feels inside of me. Inch by delicious inch, he fills me up until he’s all I ever want to feel. I kiss him deeply as our hips meet, letting him taste just how much I love and admire everything he is, and he drinks me down like I’m water in the desert.

  “I need you, Lennox,” he begs, his tone revealing everything he’s not saying.

  Our tether is still closed, but I can sense his need to lose himself in something good, even if it’s just for the night. The drive to get lost in pleasure and happiness in order to combat all the horrible, brutal emotions of the day is written all over his face. I can feel it in his hands, in the urgent way he clings to me. It’s in the critical pull of his mouth and needy thrust of his hips. It’s as though the way we feel when we come together chases all the shadows away for a while. He needs that reprieve as much as he needs his next breath.

  So I rock my hips forward, rise up, and give it to him, again and again.

  My breasts bounce against his chest as I ride him roughly. There’s no holding back, no teasing or drawing it out. I’m going to fuck him until the darkness in his gaze makes way for the light again. Until the ache in his chest feels less insurmountable. I’m going to cry out his name as many times as he needs to hear that he’s not alone and never will be again. I’m going to kiss him until all he can taste is my love, and then I’m going to hold him while he breaks, because I know it’s coming.

  I breathe him in, reveling in the soft pants of yes he gasps against the skin of my throat as I work my pussy up and down his cock. He doesn’t push for control, needing me to take whatever I want from him at my own pace and in my own time. The thing is, I want everything.

  I twist in his arms, climbing off of him for a second until my back is against his chest. I line him up with me again and drop down his thick shaft in a reverse cowgirl position. I lift up and then force him inside of me deeper as I reach for his hands and bring them up to my breasts. He sucks on my neck, pinching and kneading my nipples, and I reach down and circle my clit with my fingers as I bounce on Rogan’s dick. Warm tingles start to move through my body toward my core, and I moan at the building orgasm.

  “Fuck, you feel so good,” he growls in my ear, moving my hand from my clit and replacing it with his own.

  I twist my head so I can capture his mouth, and he rescues my tired thighs by thrusting into me at the pace I set. I lean back into him, loving how well he knows my body already, and he grunts as my inner walls begin to tighten as my orgasm draws even nearer. He starts to rub my clit faster, and all it takes is a couple of seconds and I’m exploding around him, his name filling the room as I ride out my bliss.

  He cups my pussy with one hand and my boob with the other and then thrusts into me hard, quickly finding his own release. Heat moves in waves throughout my body, and I know it’s Rogan drawing out the cloud of pleasure I’m floating in. It’s like a massage from the inside out, and it feels so good I can’t even talk. I morph into human Jell-O and just melt all over him.

  We stay like that for a while, just holding each other, quiet and floating in the peace our bodies just created. He runs a hand absently up and down my arm, and all too soon I begin to feel reality and all of its burdens starting to creep back
in. I get up, pulling him with me to clean up in the bathroom. We’re quiet as we wipe down and wash up; however, this silence feels different. We’re not wading in euphoria and relaxation like we were on the bed, what wraps around us right now feels heavier. We seem to be watching each other in the mirror like we’re both checking for cracks that need to be repaired. I dry my hands on a towel and turn to look at him leaning against the vanity.

  I smile softly, leaning in to steal one more kiss before conceding to my body’s need for sleep. But when I steal his bottom lip between my own and he threads his fingers into my damp curls, he brushes past my new scar, and his entire body freezes. Our kiss stills and his lips pull away as he examines the scar with the pad of a finger, his eyes now fixed on mine. I watch it build in him like we’re moving in slow motion. One minute, he’s fighting to stay with me in this happy place we’re trying to build against all odds, and the next, anguish crashes through him so quickly that it steals both of our breaths away.

  He slams a hand to his mouth as though it alone has the power to fight back the sobs, but the tears breach his eyes anyway, and when they do, it shatters the rest of his resolve. Rogan crumbles to the ground, and I go with him, catching his fall and wrapping him up in my legs and arms and my love.

  Wild pain-filled sobs pour out of him, and my own tears drip down my face as I try to hold the man I love together despite the world’s best efforts to tear him apart. A shroud of mourning and grief wraps around us on the bathroom floor, and I feel him shake against me as he cries. A torrent of torment wracks his body, and it’s all I can do to hold him while it takes its toll.

  I feel him grieve his friend, his brother, his life, me, and lastly I feel him mourn for himself. So much has been taken from him. He works so hard to rebuild time and time again, and no matter what he does, someone is there to try to steal it all away. It breaks my fucking heart to know what he’s gone through, and as I sit there and watch Rogan finally break, I silently promise him and me...never again.

  He will get the peace and happiness he deserves, and I don’t care what I have to do, I’m going to make sure no one ever fucks with him and the people he loves again.

  18

  I pull the huge cream cable knit sweater over my head.

  Omg, yes, it’s even softer than it looks.

  I reach for the thick socks I found while snooping through the drawers in the closet and pull them on over the dark blue leggings I found hung up on one side of the closet. Rogan bought me clothes, which is super adorable. He’ll probably be annoyed that I’m still wearing his sweater despite the fact that he bought me clothes, but maybe he should stop buying such soft tops, and then I wouldn’t have to steal them.

  Really, he only has himself to blame.

  I rub the sleeve of the sweater against my cheek and sigh. This thing could be made of baby unicorns, and I wouldn’t be mad at it—that’s how incredible it feels. I tiptoe out of the closet and smile at Rogan, who’s still completely passed out. I tried to get all snuggly with him this morning, pressing my booty into him as I stretched, but he must have been even more exhausted than I realized, because his dick certainly woke up, but the rest of him didn’t.

  I kiss the top of his head, not able to help myself, and sneak out of the door. I didn’t get to see too much of the house yesterday between my tears and the wine-hazed trip to the bathroom floor, but the bright interior and the huge windows letting in sunlight and birdsong feel amazing. Especially after the horrid fucking day that was yesterday.

  I make it down to the kitchen and immediately start hunting for coffee. I find the mugs, the creamer, coffee beans, and all the other frilly fixings for fancy coffee, but where the hell is the machine? I spin around as though the sudden movement is the key to magically revealing the coffee maker, but all it does is teach me that these socks are perfect for sliding around.

  My inner ten-year-old is stoked.

  “It’s built into the wall there, just next to the fridge,” a deep voice states out of nowhere. Completely caught off guard, I scream, turn, and in a self-defense move I’m not proud of, I chuck my mug in the direction of the voice.

  Shit.

  Rogan’s cousin, Cohen, catches the cup in midair like this is a usual occurrence for him, and heat crawls up my neck at my completely ridiculous overreaction.

  “Moon shits, you scared me,” I pant as I press a hand to my chest and bend over to try and calm my fight-or-flight response.

  “Moon shits?” he questions on a chuckle.

  “It’s totally a thing,” I reassure him as I catch my breath.

  “I’ve been sitting here the whole time,” he points out from the kitchen table that’s perfectly well lit, and obvious, and providing no excuses for why I didn’t notice him sitting there when I walked in.

  This dude must think I’m a psycho. First, I have an emotional breakdown in front of him, and now I attempt to assault him because I’m apparently a wee bit jumpy.

  “Are you okay?” I ask him, pointing to the mug. “I’m so sorry,” I offer as he strides closer to hand me back my cup.

  “Hey, I’ll take a flying mug over you crushing my bones or something instead,” he teases, and I turn an even darker shade of red.

  I mean, it’s good I didn’t attack him with magic, but what does it say about me that I didn’t even think to use it at all? I internally facepalm.

  “I’m Cohen, by the way. We didn’t get a chance to meet yesterday,” he politely tells me, offering me his forearm for a witchy shake hello.

  His green eyes are a dark olive, and his skin has a stunning golden undertone. His hair is ash brown, but in the light, I see sun-kissed blond streaks running through it. His beard is shorter this morning than I remember it being. I stare at him for a beat, trying to figure out where I know him from, as his face is strangely familiar. It hits me as I reach for his arm for the traditional witch greeting of grabbing forearms. He’s the boy I saw with Rogan in that weird flashback I experienced when we were trying to break that jinx on Tad.

  I grab his arm, ready to offer him my name in return, when a tingling sensation moves from him to me. It’s as though someone is tickling me with the fuzzy seeds of a dandelion. I chalk it up to static electricity until a familiar face pokes her white, glowing head from around his back, and my eyes widen with shock as I yank my hand back.

  What the hell?

  I’m pretty sure Osteomancers aren’t supposed to see ghosts so freely. That kind of thing is more for the Soul Witches. Which means seeing one is already not normal. The fact that I’ve seen two is downright strange, but seeing the same ghost twice...that feels like a haunting, and ain’t nobody got time for that. Especially not me. There is way too much on my plate to add a clingy ghost to the list of my problems.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask the glowy specter, who offers me a warm smile. Or it would be warm if she were still alive. Diem looks exactly like she did the first time I saw her. Her golden blonde hair is straight and falls almost to the small of her back. Her blue eyes are hopeful, and she’s wearing all black, which makes me think she was either into the goth scene or more than likely killed at night while she was spying, or meeting someone, or something along those lines.

  Diem appeared when I did a reading for her best friend, Colby, back at Order headquarters when I was being kept there for my own safety. It dawns on me that maybe something’s wrong with Colby and that’s why Diem is here.

  “What’s going on? Is everything okay?” I press, concern settling in my bones.

  Cohen’s green-eyed gaze looks bewildered, and he tracks my stare and looks behind him. “Are...are you talking to me?” he asks, eyeing me like I’ve officially lost it.

  I’m confused by the question, and embarrassingly it takes me a little too long to figure out what he’s asking.

  Crap. He can’t see the ghost. Yep, I’m definitely racking up some great first impressions with this guy.

  “Sorry, she took me by surprise. I’m talking to a g
host, not you. Don’t worry, we’ve met before, which is why I’m a little stunned to be seeing her again so soon,” I announce, shooting Diem a look that says you better not be haunting me.

  Cohen spins, like he expects to find something behind his back, but there’s nothing there, because he can’t see her.

  “She’s actually next to you now,” I point out awkwardly.

  He side-eyes the space next to him, inching away from it a little before he warily stammers, “Uhh...oh...okay. H-how can you see ghosts? I thought you were an Osteomancer, right?”

  Oh yeah, he definitely thinks I’m crazy. He’s going to tell Rogan to run just as soon as he sees him. Jokes on him though; Rogan already knows.

  “I am an Osteomancer. I don’t usually see ghosts, so far I’ve seen this one...twice, but I think that had more to do with the reading I did for her friend than my strange abilities to see souls,” I reassure him, but I can see he’s not at all reassured.

  I cringe and look back at Diem. “Is Colby okay?” I ask her, and she smiles at me before turning her attention back to Cohen. She looks him up and down like the snack he is, and I’m not really sure what to do about that. I’m tempted to tell him that he’s currently being checked out by a specter, but judging by the wide eyes and the baby steps he keeps taking from where he thinks the ghost is, I think he may have already hit his limit for weird shit today.

  I turn back to Diem.

  Okay. Why do I suddenly feel like I’m in an episode of Lassie, only instead of a dog, I’m talking to a ghost? Did Colby fall down the well, girl?

  “Are you here about Colby at all, Diem?” I ask, trying to narrow down the reason for her sudden visit.

  “What did you just say?” Cohen asks me, his voice suddenly flat and menacing as he takes a step closer.

  I blanch at his tone. “I asked the ghost, Diem, if she’s here about her best friend. That’s who she was with the first time I saw her,” I tell him, unease skittering through me at the intense look that’s suddenly in his eyes.