Had Nicodemus Frost just told her everything would be okay? A low rumble echoed from the back of her throat that she rather imagined was mad laughter.
He lifted her as if she weighed nothing and carried her back into the front room where there were still candles burning. It reminded her of the memory of his younger self, carrying her ever so gallantly to his bed.
The apparatus gouged the tender corners of her mouth and she tasted her own blood, but it was better than the bitter ash of the stranger’s breath.
“Look at me, Esme. You can tilt your head up. It won’t engage the mechanism.”
She supposed he would know. He’d probably used thousands of these. Suddenly the idea of the Witchfinder’s hands on her wasn’t so hot. The taboo wasn’t as delicious. How many witches had he done this to? How many knew this terror, this pain, because of him?
But it didn’t matter currently, because of the Black Eros. Even now his proximity made her want. Tears welled and she fought against them, until it occurred to her she may as well let them fall. Nicodemus Frost wouldn’t care if she cried. She wasn’t showing him anything he hadn’t seen before—not when his hands maneuvered the Devil’s Bit so expertly. He was a master of pain, the great architect of suffering. Her miserable little tears would mean nothing to him. Not victory, not anything.
Esme blinked and two tears streaked silently down her cheeks.
He didn’t say anything else, just carefully adjusted gears on both sides of the thing until the tongs snapped free and it sprang from her mouth. Nicodemus caught the bit and placed it on the table, as if it were some kind of conversation piece.
“There now. Let’s see to those wounds.” He picked her up again and she was tempted to tell him it hadn’t been her legs that were injured. Except maybe it had. Everything hurt. Nicodemus deposited her on a countertop in the kitchen and brought a few candles in for light.
“Do you have healing potions?”
She was out of everything but energy transfer potion. There was no way in the Devil’s happy hell he’d consent to that. She shook her head, but he opened her cabinets anyway. And of course went right to the energy transfer. She was thankful she’d had product cards with instructions printed for all her clients. Esme didn’t think she’d be able to talk. The top clamp of the tongs had gone far enough down her throat to scratch her vocal cords. She was surprised she hadn’t vomited; only sheer adrenaline had kept her from gagging.
Esme reached into a drawer beneath the counter and pulled out one of the cards for the energy transfer potion and handed it to Frost. He’d have to kiss her to share his essence and she knew where that fit on his to-do list. To top it all off, they had to be touching for the next four hours.
“Drink.” He handed her the potion.
She did, not quite believing this was happening.
He tilted her chin up gently and carefully touched his lips to hers. It wasn’t a kiss, not really. Her lips were split and the corners of her mouth bleeding. But it was the softest, kindest touch she’d ever felt.
The tears welled again and this time she didn’t bother to fight them, they just spilled over onto her cheeks in fat drops, much like the rain still falling outside.
He picked her up again and carried her back to the bedroom, where he settled her against him on the bed. He was so strong, so vital. So powerful.
“It got too real for you, didn’t it, Esme?” The use of her name made everything worse. It would be better if he went back to calling her witch. He stroked her hair. “Because I knew exactly how to work the Devil’s Bit. You saw me for what I am. Finally. Not just a shadow who’s chasing you. You didn’t reconcile the man who touches you with the Witchfinder, did you? Not really.”
She shook her head.
“Now that you know, it should bring you comfort. At least for now.”
Esme looked up at him in question.
“Your kind has called me the boogeyman. Tell me—what have you to fear when the boogeyman watches over you? Sleep, little witch. When you awake, we’ll hunt him and take your magick back.”
Chapter Seven
Nicodemus Frost had a logical reason for his rage toward the witch who’d done this to Esme. It had fucked up his timeline for resurrecting Galatea. Now he’d have to hunt this asshole down and that could take days. Days he didn’t have with the Black Eros hanging over his head.
He had a choice to make. They could get Scar to reverse the spell or he could kill her, whichever was quickest. Either way, he’d have to trust that when he found Esme’s assailant, she’d still do as he asked, even without the Eros.
The problem was, as long as she was under the Eros, Esme’s compliance was a sure thing. It occurred to him he could just ask for her help. He’d saved her tonight. And he was going to get her magick back. Couldn’t he use that to gain her compliance instead?
But part of him still wanted to punish her for what she’d done to him, his brother. Their people. Another part whispered quietly that in this incarnation, she had no idea what she’d done. So punishing her was only hurting her. There was no lesson there.
He’d loved this soul once, so did he really want to give her pain for the sake of pain? The easy answer was yes, but it wasn’t the truth. This Esme had suffered. The Great Wheel, as she called it, had given her lessons to learn. Trials of her own.
He looked down at her nestled against him, his t-shirt fisted in her small hand as if to anchor him to her. She looked so small, so fragile. Innocent. Frost knew that was just his dick talking. There was nothing innocent about Esmerelda Payne.
The swelling on her face had begun to ebb, the cruel wounds around her mouth healing, the flesh slowly knitting together. It was quite something to know it was life force, his energy that healed her.
For the first time, he wondered if the universe had given her back to him. Not to punish, but to have. Maybe they were each other’s shots at redemption?
Then he swallowed the proverbial vomit that crept up the back of his throat. What fucking rot. Yet, he couldn’t deny the perfect trust with which she curled against him and exposed her weaknesses.
Nicodemus shouldn’t have been moved by her tears. He’d seen hundreds of witches cry. During his long existence, he’d seen much suffering in the world in general. One witch’s tears shouldn’t move him.
But they did. Each drop had been a razor blade to his insides—and Nicodemus had to accept that no matter what happened from here on out, he couldn’t kill her. Knowing that he’d be the cause of the light flickering out in her eyes was no longer an option.
He hated her a little for that too. Even though it wasn’t all on her. He’d sought out Scar Alder and he’d demanded the Black Eros. She’d told him the possible side effects, how it would change him, and he’d done it anyway.
This was paying the piper—that greedy bastard.
* * * * *
The storm had finally exhausted itself and the first lights of dawn streaking pink and orange through the sky were visible through the window. More than four hours had passed, and Nicodemus had been content just to lie in the quiet for a bit longer, to get right in his head.
But Esme’s assailant had a head start and they needed to find him to get her magick back.
He’d come to a decision. After she raised Galatea, he’d break the spell and leave her in peace.
“Wake up, little witch.” He bent close to whisper and noticed her hair smelled like roses. Her scents were seemingly at odds with each other, roses and honeysuckle, both sweet and rich, but on her it was right. Different than the Esme she’d been before, who’d smelled only of honeysuckle. He couldn’t help but wonder if that meant she was different too. Nicodemus found he wanted to believe that more than anything. He wanted a reason to support his decision to let her live. A reason that didn’t involve things the Black Eros made him feel.
Ah, but fuck. He wasn’t in the habit of lying to himself. Even after what Esme had done in her first incarnation, he knew he hadn’t stopped lovin
g her. There was a thin line between love and hate and he had one foot planted on both sides of that line.
Her dark eyes fluttered open. “Already?”
“Yes, already. It’s time to go.” He hadn’t stopped loving her. The thought echoed like gunfire.
She wiped the back of her hand across her face and blinked. “Who would have thought I’d go on a witch hunt?” Esme laughed weakly. “How will you find him? How do you even know who he is?”
“I pricked his skin with my nail. I have his blood, so I can find him anywhere. He’s heading west, so we need to get moving. Pack a bag but travel light. No makeup or nonsense.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” She untangled herself from him. “But soap…I can have soap, right?”
“Only unscented.”
“Fine. I can do that.” Esme dug a bag out of her closet and set it on the bed. It had obviously already been packed. “Frost…” she began.
“Yeah?” he replied, getting off the bed.
“I know last night was because you still need me for Galatea, but I wanted to thank you anyway. So, thanks.”
Again, he was at war with himself. Part of him wanted to confirm that was the only reason he’d done it, but another part, small though it was, wanted to promise he’d never let anyone hurt her like that again.
Neither thing was acceptable to him, so all he did was nod in acknowledgement.
“Meet me outside in five.”
He went out to his car. They’d have to go by the garage first so he could pick up his Wrangler. He kept it stored away from his estate because he didn’t like to have all his assets in one place. The Wrangler was good for off-roading and pretty much anything they might throw at it. It was also packed with his hunting gear.
Esme joined him shortly after. They didn’t speak on the drive and, once inside the garage, he went to the space he rented and changed into a pair of fatigues, a clean t-shirt and some all-terrain boots. Minutes later, they were on the highway heading down I-70 West.
* * * * *
They drove for ten hours, a good hour after Nicodemus sensed their target had settled in for the night, and he finally decided to stop at a gas station in the small town of Briar Ridge, Colorado.
“Thank the Goddess, Frost. I’ve had to pee for two hours.”
“You could have said something.”
“I didn’t want to be difficult.” She slid out of the Jeep and scurried inside.
He preferred to stay off the grid when hunting, so he followed her inside and paid cash before filling the tank and the reserve tank.
Once back on the road, he said, “I think we’re going to stop for the night. There’s a park not too far from here where we can camp out.”
“I’m starving.”
“Me too.” But for more than just food. His cock had been hard the entire drive. Nicodemus half wished he could break the fucking thing off and be done with it. He didn’t feel like he was in control of anything anymore.
His brain was so distracted with thoughts of Esme that he drove to the park on automatic. He’d spent time here years before, so he knew the area well. When he found the place he wanted, he stopped the Jeep and turned off the engine.
Something had changed between them. Or maybe that was just in his head because he’d made the choice to stop blaming this current incarnation. The space between them was suddenly thick with tension and the silence stretched on.
“Frost,” she said finally, “I don’t want you to touch me again.”
“You know that under the Black Eros, despite our best intentions, Esme, it will happen.”
“You seem to be able to control yourself just fine. I’m the one who can’t. But starting now, I will. Since my magick is gone, the spell I put on you should be broken. We can find relief on our own.”
He didn’t want to get off on his own. He didn’t want her finding release on her own either. The very idea seemed foreign to him and so wrong. “No, Esme.”
“Goddess, don’t do this to me! Please. I can’t—”
“Because I’m the Witchfinder?” As much as he’d wanted to hurt her before, to make her pay for what she’d done, he never would have forced her. Then he realized what a fucking lie that was. He’d cast the Black Eros. That took all her choice away.
“No. It should be, but it’s not.” She pursed her lips and looked up at the sky, as if the answers were scrawled there. Esme kept shaking her head, her pert ponytail bobbing with the movement.
“Then why?”
“Because it’s not the same for you. If we were both so caught up in the curse, it would be one thing, but you’re using it as a weapon. You don’t need a weapon against me, Frost. I’ve already broken. I said I’d try to contact Galatea and if she wants to come back, I’ll bring her through. What else do you need from me?”
“You,” he said simply. And he knew it was true. He couldn’t get enough of her.
“I’m sorry for whatever I did previously, when I was her. I know you’re still going to kill me. You don’t have to make it hurt. You said it wouldn’t hurt if I did what you wanted.”
“I don’t want to hurt you, little witch. I want to make you feel good.” His cock twitched just thinking about the way she looked when she came.
“Yeah, you want to make me come, make me bare all my secrets, my vulnerability, and you want to remain unscathed. So far you’ve done a wonderful job. You’ve done everything you set out to do. My flesh recognizes you, responds to you on a cellular level. All I can think about is how you touch me, how I want you to touch me and when you might touch me again. And I know this feeling is nothing more than something you’ve engineered to get your way. Well, you’ve got it. So just stop. Please.” It sounded like she almost choked on the last word.
“Go back to being the Witchfinder. Be the demon who follows me in shadow. Hurt me so I don’t feel this other pain.” She folded her hands over her heart.
He reached out and titled her face toward his.
“Stop being so damned gentle!” She tried to strike him but he caught her wrist.
“Then kiss me, Esmerelda.”
“No. You’re as manipulative as the Devil and could sell a bag of sand to a Bedouin.”
He brushed his lips against hers anyway and she melted instantly, like he knew she would. But he felt no victory, no joy. He wanted her to melt for him, the man. Not for the fantasy she had of him, not because he’d trained her body to want him, and certainly not because of the Black Eros.
Nicodemus deepened the kiss, tracing her lips with his tongue, pushing into the hot, wet cavern of her mouth—tasting her. He hauled her over the console so she straddled him in the driver’s seat.
“This is just another trick to get what you want,” she whispered against his mouth. “And I can’t fight you.”
“Don’t you want what I want?” He tugged on her ponytail to tilt her head back so he could kiss her neck. “It’ll be so good, Esme.”
“It’s always good,” she murmured.
He knew what she needed. She needed to know he wanted her. That he craved this for more than just gaining power over her. Nicodemus moved his hands down to her hips and anchored her close while he ground his cock against her sex.
“Say yes to this, Esme.”
“Goddess, Frost. YES.”
They spilled from the Jeep to the grass, fumbling with each other’s clothes. He entered her with little preamble, but she was slick and ready for him and he buried his cock to the hilt. Then he froze, just glorying in the feel of her pussy sheathing him.
“If you stop now—”
“I’m not stopping, you just feel so fucking good.”
She tightened her legs around his waist and dug her nails into his shoulders. “Fuck me, Frost.”
He’d denied himself the feel of a woman for so long. She clenched around him, tugging him deeper. Nicodemus sought her mouth again, kissing her hard. She responded to the urgency of his lips, his tongue, mimicking his movements, thrusting her h
ips forward to meet his. Esme clung so tightly, as if she were afraid he’d stop, and he didn’t blame her. Everything logical screamed at him to stop, that this was the road to his own destruction, but he couldn’t. Not now.
She’d been right about this thing between them, there was no turning back.
He drilled into her and nothing had ever felt so right. Not even the first time all those years ago. Nicodemus was lost in the scent of her, the feel of her, everything about Esme Payne.
“I’m flying…don’t let me go,” she whispered in his ear.
“Never.”
His cock surged but he wasn’t ready. He wanted it to last, to experience every sensation to the fullest.
“Don’t hold back from me, Frost. We’ve got all night for you to practice your control,” she hissed.
“I don’t want it to be over,” he confessed.
“It doesn’t have to be.” Esme arched up to kiss him then opened her eyes to meet his stare. “Come for me, Nic.”
His hips jerked in answer to her command, his body as trained to give her pleasure as hers was to receive it. His cock surged and swelled, that knot of need deep in his gut exploding outward with such force he didn’t know if it was pleasure or pain. Every sensory receptor in his skin came alive like the embers of a new fire and he shuddered with the onslaught of sensation.
Looking into her eyes while he came was almost too much, and he suddenly understood why she’d said she didn’t want him to touch her again. How bare he felt, how vulnerable. It was too intimate, but Frost kept his eyes open nonetheless. Even as he spilled into her, he knew it was more than just his seed. It was his essence, his manna, what made him Nicodemus Frost.
She kissed him again, softly, tenderly—things he’d never wanted from her—as the swell of ecstasy subsided. And he returned those kisses, murmuring things in her ear. He’d lost his control; he’d come first and at her command, just as she’d wanted. Just as she’d needed. And he couldn’t find it in himself to be sorry.
Nicodemus reached between them but she stopped him. “No. You just have to let me win this one, Nic.”
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