Cleo could barely hear him. Her gaze locked on his neck and drifted down the lines of his shoulders and arms. Those hands, she bet those strong woodworker’s hands could do so much to her. She shivered, her pulse racing.
“Right,” Ian slapped the table and stood. “Hold tight.”
Her lust twisted into anger. How dare he talk to her like that? Like she was a child. She could leave. She didn’t have to stay here on his command. She hated that. Hated men, telling her what to do, how to behave. She wasn’t a doll for him to pose. She’d get him back for this.
Ian walked back into the room carrying a stupid necklace and a baggie full of herbs. His nostrils flared and he inhaled deeply.
“I’m not doing weed with you,” she sneered. “I’m leaving, too.”
“Just a cup of tea,” he coaxed. “Just one tea with me, and then you can go, okay?” He turned to start the kettle.
She didn’t want to. She wanted to fuck Ian and then slash his tires. She wanted to be in bed with him, rubbing all over that big body. Having those blunt fingers flip her around, slip into her.
He inhaled again. “Jesus,” he said quietly, his back to her.
She thought about winding her arms around his waist, pressing her breasts into his back. Cleo wanted to. She deserved this, right?
The necklace dropping around her throat startled her out of her thoughts. Cleo examined it. It looked like a TV shaman’s type of necklace. A thick strip of deep brown leather rolled tightly was barely visible under all of the claws hanging from it. The dark brown and black claws were huge, ranging from 2-4 inches, and the center claw easily five inches. They curved against her skin, the tips dully pushing against her skin under her shirt. They rattled as she turned towards Ian.
“What the…” she started as Ian pushed the mug into her hands.
“Trust me,” he said. She didn’t trust anyone, least of all herself. She hesitated.
“Trust me,” he said again, and thrust the mug again.
She took it hesitantly. It was too hot. It hadn’t steeped long, but it smelled strong and strange already. Not exactly terrible, but something close to it. It reminded her of the woods in the early autumn, when the summer was done. It smelled of mosses, the memory of heat, leaves about to turn, damp fur. She wrinkled her nose at that bit.
“Drink it,” he said. Cleo chafed under the command.
“This better not be psychedelics,” she warned. Ian’s serious look didn’t waver.
The first sip almost made her cough. It felt somehow huge in her mouth. She didn’t like it, and forced herself to swallow. She chugged it down gracelessly, wanting to finish it quickly. This was not an experience to savor. It coated her mouth, teeth, and peculiarly the back of her throat. It burned in its way down, partially from the temperature, and partially because… she wasn’t sure. It wasn’t spicy, but it was close. It opened her sinuses, cleared her mind.
Cleo slammed the mug on the counter.
“Done,” she gasped. She rested her head on her arms. The room spun, and she waited for the fun-house tilting in her brain to slow.
“How do you feel?” Ian asked after a few minutes of silence.
She felt… better. The room still spun a bit, but she felt better. How was she feeling better?
“Ian,” she asked, “why do you have magical mood stabilizers at your house?”
Chapter Ten
Cleo couldn’t read Ian’s expression. However, she wasn’t exactly clear-headed right now. Somewhere, she felt the curse distantly running behind her thoughts, but not pushing them anymore. She felt almost normal. The absence of the tide of feelings suddenly made her weak. She swayed a little in the chair.
Ian steadied her. His hands wrapped around her waist and she leaned forward, just a bit, to rest her forehead against his chest. They stayed like that, breathing, for a moment.
“Let’s lie you down,” Ian said. He looped an arm around her shoulders and guided her to the couch. She sat heavily against the arm of the couch. Ian sat at the other end, and Cleo tried not to feel rejected by that.
Ian frowned, and gestured at her feet. She swung them up into his lap, and he began to rub her feet. Cleo felt… she wasn’t sure. Cared for, maybe. She closed her eyes for a moment, and relaxed into the sensation. Cared for. Ian was caring for her. It was unexpectedly lovely.
She shook herself out of it. He was a nice guy. Nice guys helped women having magical breakdowns in their kitchens. It’s what nice guys did.
“What was in that tea?” she asked. She fingered the necklace, heavy against her chest. “And what is this?”
Ian looked at her feet like they held the answers. She dug her toe into his hand, not hard, but enough to press the point.
He sighed and gave her a small, sad smile.
“Would it be enough for me to say it will help for a while? Not forever, but for a while?
She snorted. “Not likely. I’ve been searching for a way to break this curse since I was sixteen. That’s nearly half my life. I’ve never found anything that worked. Nothing mitigated it, nothing slowed it, nothing helped. Nothing. I need to know about this. I need to know, Ian.”
He still avoided her gaze. She hated it when closed down like this, she realized. Hated it when this steady, kind man hunched down on himself. He was hurting too, she thought. Someone had hurt him and coldness came over her. Not like with the curse, no, this felt like the clean anger on behalf of another.
“Whatever you say will be okay,” she promised him. She even meant it. Oh, this was dangerous, trust. It made
