Spellbound - Cara Lynn Shultz [97]
“Emma, you’ve been hanging out with Angelique too much.” He chuckled, kissing the top of my head.
“I have not!” I stamped my foot—then yelped. In my frustration, I’d forgotten all about the sprain. But I was annoyed; curses and doomed soul mates are okay, but me inheriting a little witchy power is oh-so-funny?
Brendan took a steadying breath and eyed me. “I think you’re just a little overwhelmed by everything we’ve learned, and you’ve been pretty persecuted this week. So of course you’d think that—it does feel like the Salem Witch Trials at Vince A.”
“I don’t think I’m a witch because of that,” I retorted. “I think I’m a witch because, well…Angelique sensed it about me. And she’s been right about everything else. And I did make the wind blow by doing a spell in her room.” I explained as hastily as I could what had transpired at Angelique’s house, but Brendan still looked skeptical.
“Something happened when Angelique the mega-witch was in the room. That was probably her, not you,” Brendan said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“No, it was me,” I protested.
“Look, Emma, we can talk about this later. How badly does your ankle hurt?” He changed the subject and poured more water on my hands.
“Why will you believe everything else but you won’t believe this?”
“Let’s just talk about it later.” Brendan ignored my question, examining my hands. I pulled them back.
“No, tell me, Brendan!” I snapped, angry. “You’re the one who keeps saying, ‘No secrets.’”
“Because maybe you were right the first time,” he shouted, and I flinched. “Maybe I do want to believe that, just for a little while, we’re normal. I spent every single moment since Friday night reading books about this curse—the same story over and over again.”
He ran his fingers through his ink-black locks, his voice getting more agitated with each word. “I read my great-great-grandfather Robert’s journals—and what he went through when he lost Constance. I saw a glimpse of what I might go through. What I could lose. So maybe I enjoyed just being with you today, where it wasn’t about dooming you to an early grave, or dooming you to be talked about at school, or pulling you back from a crazy cabdriver that almost killed you, or uncovering that you’re a witch or I’m a—I don’t know, a demon or something. Maybe I am, since I seem to cause you nothing but pain.”
I stepped back, the hurt evident all over my face. “Oh, and this isn’t hard for me, either?”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t.”
“I didn’t ask for any of this, Brendan.” I folded my arms bitterly, ignoring the pain in my palms. “It’s my life that’s the one at stake here, not yours.”
He was instantly contrite. “Emma, I was wrong. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.” He reached out to take my hands but I pulled them back.
“Just leave me alone,” I mumbled, summoning the resolve to walk away. I didn’t know if it was my unwillingness to leave his side—or my lack of desire to walk fifty blocks on a sprained ankle—but I couldn’t move just yet.
“I’m really sorry, Emma,” Brendan whispered. “I’ll be stronger, I promise.”
I wanted so badly to hold a grudge, to stay stubborn and remain mad at him. It would have been easier. But his green eyes were sadder than I’d ever seen, and they melted my resolve to stay angry. And this time when he reached out for me, I let him hold me.
“If I’m not jumping in to protect you, I’m apologizing to you,” he muttered, stroking my hair as it fell down my back. “I never screw things up this badly.”
“You’re not screwing anything up.” I tried to alleviate his guilt. “Look, this is more complicated than anything either one of us has ever known. It’s not like there’s a manual for this.”
“It’s just that I’d never be able to forgive myself if something happened to you.” He held me even more tightly, his arms strong around my shoulders. I rested my face against the rough wool of his black peacoat. I swore I could hear his heart beat through the layers.
“It’s just that—Emma, I love you,” Brendan said, his lips moving softly against my hair. “Can I say