“Keep touching me like that,” he mutters, pinning both of my wrists over my head with one of his big hands, and positioning himself at my slick entrance, “and I’ll blow this before we even get started.”
“Oh, I’m having a good time so far.”
“Just good?” He pushes inside of me and seats himself, pausing. “We can do much better than good, sweetheart.”
Before I can retort, he covers my lips with his again and starts to move, rendering me completely thoughtless.
All I can do is feel.
Him. Us.
And how this seems familiar.“Past lives,” Millie suggests the following morning. “That would explain it.”
I just finished telling her about the day before. Sex for hours. Sighs and laughter.
More orgasms than should be allowed in any twenty-four-hour period.
And how it all felt like we’d done it before.
“I don’t even know for sure if I believe in that.”
“I do,” Daphne says. “It’s written somewhere, isn’t it?”
I frown at my baby sister. “What, past lives? Like in a book? I mean, people have been telling fictional stories about it for ages.”
“No.” Daphne shakes her head impatiently. “It’s on the edge of my memory, but I swear we’ve seen it somewhere before.”
“The book,” Millie says, snapping her fingers. “Remember that old book we found when we were kids?”
“Oh, yeah. Where is that?” I ask, shocked when Millie shrugs. “What do you mean you don’t know?”
“Mama took it away from me when I was sixteen and refused to give it back. It was just a few weeks before we all moved out of there.”
“You never told us that,” Daphne says.
“I was afraid you’d get mad at me for getting caught,” Millie admits. “I don’t have it, guys.”
We look back and forth between us, dread settling in.
“We said we’d never go back there,” I remind them.
“That was before,” Daphne says. “We need that book. Grandma wrote it for us.”
Our grandmother was a witch, and she wrote a book of spells and prophecies and random magical knowledge that she hid in the house. We found it when I was about fifteen, and we all pored through every page.
We didn’t know Grandma practiced the craft.
No one ever told us.
Then again, our parents mostly ignored us.
“How are you able to make your potions?” I ask Millie.
“Lots of practice. I memorized most of them, and whenever I have a question, I just ask Miss Sophia and add it to my own grimoire.”
“I can’t believe you never told us.” I rub my stomach. It’s already full of butterflies—and not the exciting kind—at the idea of going back there.
That house almost killed us all once.
“We have to go together,” Daphne says.
“Mom won’t let us in,” I remind them. “She’s crazier than ever, and mean on top of it. She certainly won’t willfully give us that book.”
“It’s ours,” Millie says. “I never should have given it to her.”
“It’s not like you had a choice back then,” Daphne reminds her, patting her shoulder. “Sometimes, you got the worst of it.”
Millie is the spitting image of our mother. Tall and blond and absolutely beautiful. Once upon a time, our mom was, too.
Not anymore.
“We don’t necessarily need the book right this minute.”
My sisters stare back at me.
“Past lives, apparitions, evil things happening,” Daphne says, ticking off the items on her fingers. “Sure would be helpful to have a handbook right about now.”
“Okay, I get it.” I sigh deeply. “I don’t like it, but I get it.”
“When should we go?” Millie asks.
“Tomorrow.” I square my shoulders as if I’m preparing for war.
Because I am.
“I want to go with Cash. There’s strength in numbers, like he said.”
“Are you sure you want to show Cash where we grew up?” Daphne covers my hand. “It’s not pretty. No one would blame you if you wanted to keep him as far away from that as possible.”
“He won’t leave me because we grew up poor.” I shrug. “I don’t know how I know that, but I do. I’m not proud of where we grew up or how we did, but I’m proud of what we’ve accomplished since we got away from there. I think Cash would prefer to go with us than have us go alone.”
“She’s right,” Millie says. “He should go.”
“Tomorrow it is, then.”Chapter Nine“I was born with the devil in me. I could not help the fact that I was a murderer, no more than the poet can help the inspiration to sing.”- H. H. Holmes“You weren’t there!” He slaps her across the face, disgusted when she cries out in pain. “You think that hurts? You wait. Just wait, you little piece of shit.”
“Please,” she cries, begging. She’s beseeched him for days, pleaded with the monster to let her go. “I won’t tell anyone, mister. Honest. I just want to go home.”
“Shut up!” He hits her again. Rage is a beast roaring through him. It’s Tuesday. Brielle always works on Tuesday. She has Monday off, and that’s when he rests and plays with his toys.