Heather kicked open the gate to her mother’s garden and swallowed the urge to cry. Her mom was sitting on a stone bench in the middle of a jungle of flowers and ferns and bushes. She was humming and as Heather watched her, new flowers pushed through the dark soil towards the last evening beams of sunlight.
“Mom?” Heather took a breath to calm her temper, and quietly approached her mom’s small form. Patrice Pritchett. She had almost-black hair that she kept wound back in a bun to keep it out of her way as she worked in her garden. She had a green thumb that would make botanists the world over envious. There were things in her garden that, literally, should not grow in this climate. She could grow anything, and she made the best tea. A cup of her tea, a hug, and a song, and everything might feel alright again.
“Oh, Heather…” Her mom’s voice had that same dreamy quality she always had. Like she wasn’t really aware of her surroundings. Those blue eyes turned to her and she reached out. Nothing like going back to your mom when your day had taken a nosedive. Heather slid down to sit on the ground next to her feet. Instantly, Patrice was brushing fingers through her hair like she had when Heather was little. “I’m sorry my sweet girl.”
“I guess you’ve heard?” Heather kept her eyes on the garden, which should be sleeping under snow; but somehow the snow never stuck in her mother’s yard. It was only an illusion spell cast by one of her aunts that kept the neighbors from calling the news, or, you know, bringing back burning people at the stake. It wasn’t her fault though. Her mom couldn’t control it.
“Carol called me. Marguerite is the one who started all of it, and I’m terribly sorry. I should have never—” Her mom stopped talking and continued trailing her fingers through her hair.
“What, mom?” She looked up at her and she smiled wistfully.
“I never should have given more daughters to Herja.” Her mom didn’t even stutter as she openly wished that she’d never had her, or her sisters, but what made Heather gasp was the use of that psycho-bitch’s name. Out loud. Unless you wanted to summon her, you never used her name. Heather tensed, looking around the garden as if the monster would suddenly appear, trample the flowers, and destroy them both for the insult of calling her name without a sacrifice.
But, nothing happened.
Heather sighed in relief. “Mom, you can’t just—”
“Have you chosen him yet?” Her mother cut her off, but she was staring at a flower that was growing impossibly large to her right, the petals seeming to reach for her hand at the edge of the bench.
“No. I haven’t chosen anyone yet. Theresa found a speed dating thing downtown tomorrow night, I guess I’m just going to pick one then.” Heather rested her head against her mother’s knee, trying so hard to seek the comfort she’d obviously craved when she’d unconsciously found herself in front of her childhood home after driving around.
“You’re going to be different after. You’re going to change. Just like Katherine. Just like Bonnie. My sweet girl, my sweet Heather, will be gone.” The flower that had been growing steadily suddenly collapsed under its weight, the stem snapping. The grass beneath them, which was impossibly lush and green for February in Massachusetts, began to recede fast. Leaving only the cold, dark soil behind. A circle of barren earth was spreading out from her mother at an insane rate.
The earth giveth, and the earth taketh away. And Patrice Pritchett controlled it all.
“Mom, it’s okay. I won’t be different. I won’t be like Bonnie or Katy.” Heather jumped when a branch snapped off an apple tree a few yards behind her and smacked into the earth, the leaves withering and falling off like watching Summer change to Autumn change to Winter in fast forward. “Mom! Stop!” Heather grabbed her face and made her look at her. Brown eyes into electric blue, glowing like the blue was on fire, unearthly power trapped inside a tiny body. Too much power. It smelled like the air after a lightning strike. Scalded and traumatized.
Patrice held a seriously terrifying power when one considered what she could do with it. She could end world hunger, or, she could kill the planet, depending upon her mood and the amount of energy she wanted to pour into it. The world was lucky her mom didn’t try.
The backyard garden was her only oasis because she had a bad habit of literally leaving a trail of flowers when she walked around the city. Impossible to explain, impossible to keep track of and destroy evidence in a world of security cameras and smart phones and YouTube. Not enough illusions and memory wipes in the entire Pritchett family to keep up with it. So her mom was cursed to stay in her house, and in the garden, and as long as she was happy it was a beautiful, peaceful place. But when she got upset…
Desolation. Death. Decay.
Is this what Heather would be like when she claimed her power? So changed by what she would be capable of that she would have to keep herself hidden away? To be calm and placid all the time so she didn’t destroy the fucking planet?
For a moment as she pleaded she saw something else in her mother’s eyes. Not the sweet woman who made chamomile and mint tea on a whim, not the woman who could sing like an angel, not the woman who made you feel like the most precious thing in the world. Right now she was devastation, the embodiment of Herja’s power.
“Mom?” Heather knew she was crying, her cheeks burning in the cold and the acidic quality of the magic in the air. “Please, mom. Calm down? Come on. Please?”
It took a solid minute, but the electric crackle finally began to fade. Her mom blinked, shook her head, and stared out at the homage to death her garden had become. Wilted flowers, limp ferns, naked trees and bushes, piles of dead leaves, empty earth where the grass had receded. “Oh.” Her mom took a shaky breath. “I’m sorry. I guess I lost control. I— I just don’t want to lose you. Heather, my sweet girl, I never wanted to lose you, I never wanted any of this for you.”
“Patrice?” Michael’s voice came from the patio door, strong and clear. Thank God he came outside. Michael was a good man with the good fortune of meeting her mother long after she had completed her rite and had three daughters with strangers. He had faced the reality of a world with magic with a strange calm, and had told Patrice, and Heather, and her sisters, that he had no plans to run.
And he hadn’t.
Not when Katy had claimed her power and started moving shit around the house with her mind, not when Bonnie had gained control over the elements and could shake the earth during a teenage temper tantrum, or cause the fireplace to send a pillar of fire out the top of the chimney. Not even when her mom would have an episode and reduce half the block to barren earth, only to have it come back a day later like it had never happened. And it was his eternal calm that centered her mom. Heather stood up to give them space as Michael wrapped his arms around his wife, whispering soothing words. A moment later new grass pierced the cold earth under her mom’s feet. It spread out slowly, creeping across the dark soil, and Heather finally breathed a sigh of relief.
She should have known not to come here and burden her mom with this.
She was fragile. No one was supposed to upset her.
Heather was a selfish, stupid, idiot.
“I’m going to go. I — I love you, mom.” Her mom glanced up at her, once again far off and faded in her expression. The garden was waking up, but her mom was going back to sleep.
“Good night, sweet girl.”
“Night, Heather. Will we see you again soon?” Michael’s words sounded normal, but his eyes as they found hers showed the concern. The fear that she would change like Katy had changed. Like Bonnie had changed. The fear that she would be like every other Pritchett woman when the power rose up.
It was good that he was afraid.
“Sure thing. Dinner next Sunday?” Heather brushed the dirt off her jeans, and he nodded once. His arms still protectively wrapped around her mom as if he could hold her together by sheer will.
“That sounds great. Take care.” He turned back to whispering to her mom, and she took her leave of them. Heading
back out the stone path, shutting the gate gently before leaning back against it and looking up at the moon.
Would she be vicious like Katy when she claimed her magic? Power hungry like Bonnie? Unstable and fragile like her mother?
Heather thumped her head back against the wood of the gate. Her mom was right to be worried. Michael was right to be afraid.
Hell, Heather was terrified.
Chapter Two
It was probably the fear of facing what the rite could do to her, or more likely just the complete desperation for normalcy that had her knocking on Rick’s door at two o’clock in the morning. The first knocks hadn’t roused him and she thought she might leave, but she tried once more. The third time her knuckles rapped on the wood she heard the sound of the deadbolt turning.
“Who is— Heather?” Rick was all messy dark hair, his voice deep with sleep. A shadow of facial hair covered his cheeks, and his mouth tilted up at the edge as his eyes focused on her.
“Hi,” she mumbled, completely self-conscious about waking him up like a crazy person.
“Hi.” He let the door fall open and leaned against the doorframe. He was shirtless, and his tanned skin caught the light from the street. Hello, six pack. This was exactly what she needed. “What brings you here in the middle of the night?”
“I thought you might want company.” Heather realized as she stood there that her outfit wasn’t exactly what she would normally show up at Rick’s door in. A big coat over a plain top, jeans, and boots. Her hair was probably a mess, and she’d been crying off and on for the last several hours, so she knew she looked like shit, but Rick’s laugh sent a buzz over her skin anyway.
“Your company? You know I’m always open to that.” His dark eyes were trailing down her, and she wished it were spring so she could have at least been in a short dress. “But I thought you couldn’t see me anymore.” Rick’s voice was a playful purr and her decision solidified in her brain.
“I need a distraction. Are you going to invite me in?” She matched his cocky tone and was rewarded with another low chuckle as he backed away from the door and waved an arm towards the dark interior.
“You seem to be feeling a little bossy to be standing at my door, Heather.” He shut it behind her and a thrill ran down her spine.
“Maybe you should punish me then.” Dropping her messenger bag on the table by his door she started to pull off her coat and scarf. Rick just crossed his arms to watch.
“Is that what you want, pretty girl? You came here to be punished?” He was waking up fast. Nothing like a willing woman delivering herself to your doorstep to smooth over a late night wake-up call.
“I came here to be distracted. Think you could help me out?” Heather dumped the coat and scarf on the floor and was about to kick off her boots when Rick leaned forward to hold her shoulders lightly.
“You already said that. Tell me what you’re distracting yourself from. Is it another guy?” Rick’s eyebrow ticked up and she fought the urge to roll her eyes at the irony of his jealousy. He really did not want to be in Mr. Yet-To-Be-Named’s shoes.
“Kind of. I have something to do in a couple of days, and I’m not going to be the same after. I just want a dose of normalcy before then.” Heather reached for his flannel pajama pants, tugging at the waist before he grabbed her hands to stop her.
“You came to me for normalcy?” He laughed. “What on earth do you have planned with this other guy?”
“Do you want to talk, or do you want to go to your room?” Heather pulled her hands back from his and tore her top off over her head. His eyes dropped to her chest and the groan that slipped out of him was answer enough.
“So, you want to play, pretty girl?” Rick’s thumbs traced the waist of her jeans until they found the button and he popped it open, lowering the zipper.
“Yes, sir.” Just fucking distract me already. Heather matched his hands and in moments she’d kicked her boots off, and he’d yanked her jeans down. She tugged at his pajamas until they slid off his hips and pooled on the floor, then his mouth was on hers and it was good. His lips were warm, the scrape of his stubble against her face was a welcome texture. Real, and male, and safe. She’d known calling him ‘sir’ would kick the night off. Rick was perfectly uncomplicated. He’d never wanted something serious, hadn’t freaked out when she’d told him she was done, and wasn’t holding it over her head for showing up again two months later. His hands were behind her thighs as he lifted her, her legs wrapping around his waist. Heather pushed her hands into his hair, holding on to the kiss, pouring herself into every distraction his firm body against hers could provide.
“Remember your safe word, Heather?” Rick walked down the hall with her before pressing her against the wall of his bedroom, his hands finally free to run down her sides and back up to unhook her bra and toss it somewhere.
“Are you still using yellow and red?” Her voice was breathy as his lips traced across her collarbone, his hands cupping and molding her breasts against his palms.
“Yes. Good girl for remembering.” Rick held her face, his mouth a mischievous grin. “Are you sure you want to be here?” Why was he such a good guy? She didn’t deserve him. She didn’t deserve his concern. But she was going to take advantage of his willingness anyway. His cock was hard against the core of her, the thin fabric of her underwear the last infuriating barrier between them.
“Yes, Rick, sir, I’m sure.” To make her point she rolled her hips against him and their mutual moans finally sealed the deal. He slid her down his front and kissed her again, pushing her back hard against the wall until she felt every inch of him.
“Get on the bed. Face down. And take off the underwear unless you want me cutting them off you.” Rick was smiling as he said it, but his voice was pure Dominant. He really was her favorite. The calm eye of the epic shitstorm her life was all the time. Heather slid the underwear down as he walked to his closet, giving her an incredible view of his firm ass, the muscles of his back shifting under his skin as he opened the door. She took a deep breath as she climbed on the bed and lay down on her stomach. His bed smelled so good. Lingering cologne, his laundry detergent, and the smell of him. Dark, and masculine, and rich.
“So you’ve been a bad girl, Heather?” His voice did strange things to her stomach. That edge in his tone promising exactly what she’d come for.
“You could say that.” She glanced over at him, seeing the narrow paddle in his strong hands. That was going to sting.
“Want to confess?” Rick raised an eyebrow at her, his voice still deep and serious, but his mouth was always on the brink of a smile. He never made her nervous, never pushed her too far. He was perfect — and perfectly off-limits if she wanted him to live to see thirty-five.
So why the fuck are you here with him, Heather?
Of course, her brain asked the most important question, and it was because she was selfish. Fucking selfish. Just like Theresa had said. And this would be the last time, the last time, she promised herself. “Just trust me. I’m not a good girl. Sir.”
“Alright, Heather. I’m not one to turn down a hot sub in my bed, even if it is after two AM.” He chuckled, and she put her face down into his sheets. “Want to pick a number?”
“Not really, I just want to feel it tomorrow.” Her voice was muffled against the bed, but his laugh wasn’t.
“God, Heather, you’re in a dark mood. Let me see what I can do to improve it.” Rick’s voice got closer and she felt the bed dip under his weight. His hand brushed up her neck, pushing her hair out of the way as he turned her face towards his. He kissed her again, nipping her lip before his tongue found hers. A moan slipped out of her and she pushed herself up onto her elbows, his fingers tightening to hold her to him. He leaned over her further and she went to turn, but he pulled back. A hard swat to her ass with his hand made her yelp. “Did I say to break position?”
“No, sir.” Heather bit her lip to keep from smiling. It was hard to stay in the mindset when he kep
t switching between normal conversation and Dom-Rick mode.
“Then maybe you should get back into it.” He watched her as she shifted back onto her stomach, burying her face in the sheets again, her arms by her head. “Spread your legs, pretty girl. I want to watch that pussy get wet.”
Heat thrummed through her at his words, and she moved her knees farther apart. The crack of the paddle across her ass caught her by surprise and she gasped into the bed.
“Wider, Heather. You know better.” Ah, he was finally done trying to get her to really talk to him. He was ready to play. Thank God. Heather spread her legs farther apart and she felt soft nylon straps go around her ankle and then tighten. She knew from when they’d been together they were tethered under the bed, and a moment later both her legs were bound far apart. He left her wrists alone; it wasn’t as if she could go anywhere now. “Safe word if you need to, pretty girl.”
She nodded, unable to speak now that he was all dominant. Her voice always left her when he was like this, fully in control. It was so much easier to just let go and nod. The second crack of the paddle had her squirming, her legs testing the bonds at her ankles, and the third came down before the sting had settled. “Fuck,” she hissed between her teeth.
Heat was rising in her skin between the sharp stings, and Rick picked up a rhythm that made it hard to guess when and where the next strike would land. Heather’s fists stayed clenched in the sheets, her face pressed into the bed as her body jerked with each sharp swat. Ass, thighs, left cheek, right cheek, sit spot.
“Fuck, fuck fuck…” She’d lost count when he paused and stepped closer, and she slowly became aware of the whimpering moans she’d been making for the last few minutes. His hand was cool as he traced over the welts on her ass, and then his fingers slid between her legs and found their mark. She groaned and lifted her hips off the bed, wordlessly pleading for more. Yes, please. He teased her, his touch light as he parted her lips and traced the wetness there. Heather whimpered, fighting the urge to just beg for him. When she begged he traditionally dragged it out longer.
Deviant Attraction: A Dark and Dirty Boxset Page 22