“Son of a bitch,” Quin hissed. “I’m going to kill him.”
A loud knock echoed through the room as Caitrin shouted from the hallway. “What’s going on, Quinlan?”
“Get in here,” Quin returned.
Caitrin and Morrigan rushed inside and halted, scanning the changes Quin made to their spare bedroom. Then they shook their surprise away and hurried across the room.
“What happened?” Morrigan asked, kneeling on the other side of Layla, who burst into more tears.
“That piece of shit planted a nightmare in her head,” Quin fumed.
“What?” Layla blurted, whipping her gaze up.
“Who?” Caitrin asked. “Finley?”
“Who else?” Quin shot back.
Layla’s tearful eyes grew huge. “He was in my head?”
“We don’t know that,” Caitrin answered.
Quin locked his stormy stare on Caitrin. “
I
know.”
As Layla watched Quin’s stern profile, a flood of mixed emotions disoriented her head and heart. She remained hurt and confused, as well as violated and disgusted, and now she felt guilty and sad – heartbroken over the pain and danger she constantly inflicted on Quin.
Caitrin met Quin’s turbulent stare for several seconds, then looked at Layla. “Are you injured, sweetheart?”
“No,” she whispered.
“She fell out of bed,” Quin disagreed, “on her back. Then she hit her head on the baseboard.”
Layla touched the crown of her head, flinching when she found a tender knot.
“We’ll fix it,” Quin assured, reaching for the wound.
Without meaning to, she tilted away, and he flexed as his aura darkened. Tiny flecks of silver flashed in the depths of his black eyes. Then he looked away and swallowed. “Why don’t you let Morrigan heal you and help you wash up? I’m going to go get us clean clothes.”
Layla tried to answer, but choked on a lump as fresh tears flooded her lids – liquid remorse bursting from her seams.
Without looking at her or saying anything else, Quin stood and left the room, and Caitrin sighed as he turned to follow.
“Let’s get you in the tub,” Morrigan suggested, wrapping an arm around Layla’s back.
Layla dazedly got to her feet. Then she and Morrigan jolted as the word
fuck
echoed down the hall.
Layla’s eyebrows shot up, and Morrigan daintily cleared her throat. “Well, I do believe that’s the first time I’ve heard Quinlan say that.”
“Yeah?” Layla croaked, fighting more tears.
“Yes,” Morrigan answered, helping her into the bathroom. “But Quinlan’s done a lot of things this week I’ve never seen him do. Now, let’s get you healed and cleaned up. Vomit does
not
look lovely on you.”
“You need to calm down,” Caitrin demanded, following Quin downstairs.
“Every time,” Quin simmered. “Every time I move a step forward with her, I get pushed two steps back.”
He reached for the door, but Caitrin grabbed his bicep and spun him around. “Check your ego, Quinlan. This isn’t about you. This is about the safety of every person in this coven, especially my granddaughter.”
Quin steadied his raging lungs as he met Caitrin’s heated stare. “Everything I do is for your granddaughter, Caitrin. Every breath I take is hers to steal, and every thought that goes through my head is hers to star in. I’d slit my wrists if I thought it would provide her a lifetime of security – protection from the kind of shit that just happened up there, but it won’t, and I can’t help her if she won’t let me touch her.”
Caitrin stood silent for a few seconds, searching Quin’s eyes. Then he sighed and eased his grip. “Your grief is clear to me, and your anger is understandable. But we have a delicate situation here, and your rage threatens to shatter it. You can recover the progress lost between you and Layla. It’s not the end of the world. But if you push Finley too far, he has the knowledge and power to bring our world crashing down. Do you understand?”
“We can’t let him get away with this,” Quin argued. “He invaded Layla’s psyche, shattering the only dose of peace she gets from the avalanche of shit she’s dealing with. She should be up there sleeping, but because of him, she’s up there covered in vomit and bruises and drowning in sorrow. Is that okay with you?”
“Of course not, but what would you have me do about it? We’ll never be able to prove he planted the dream, and pissing him off is the deadliest option we have. He knows too much and could take the information straight to Agro. We're talking about two of the deadliest wizards in the world, Quinlan. If they join forces, we'll have absolutely no hope of keeping Layla away from them.”
“Shit,” Quin breathed, looking at the ceiling as he rubbed his neck. “So what are we going to do when Finley gets tired of Layla's rejections and makes the move himself? What then? Are we fighting a losing battle?”
“I don't know,” Caitrin confessed, “but that doesn't mean we're going to stop fighting. We’ll maintain our precautions and endure. Maybe Finley isn't as set on getting Layla as we think. Maybe he’ll tire of her rejections and move on. That's the best we can hope for, because when it comes to Finley, our options are gone. Even running and hiding with her will do us no good at this point. He knows too much about her, and he's too powerful to evade, so for now, we must play his game.”
“No,” Quin refused, pulling his bicep free as he opened the door. “I’m not going to let him think it’s okay to plant nightmares in her head.”
Caitrin mumbled a few profanities. Then he caught up with Quin and accompanied him across the lawn. Halfway to Finley’s tent, Kemble walked outside. Then Serafin and Daleen joined the party.
As they drew closer to the small canvas shelter, Quin opened his mouth to call Finley’s name, but Kemble halted him with a firm hand to the chest. “Hang back, Son, and let Caitrin talk to him.”
Quin’s lungs deflated as he locked his fingers behind his head and paced. “As long as someone does it.”
“Does what?” Finley asked, emerging from the tent fully clothed.
Quin’s veins swelled with burning blood as he narrowed his gaze on the twice-bonded child, itching to beat the cocky smile off his face.
“Release your aura,” Quin demanded.
“Piss off,” Finley returned, tucking his hand in his pockets. “What’s with the lynch mob?”
Caitrin stepped between them, demanding Finley’s attention. “What do you expect when you plant nightmares in my granddaughter’s head?”
“Layla had a nightmare? That’s a shame.”
“You’re a lousy liar,” Quin challenged.
“Nightmares are usually manifestations of our waking fears,” Finley noted. “What was Layla’s about?”
“You know what it was about,” Quin simmered. “You created it.”
“What’s all over you?” Finley asked.
“Last night’s supper,” Quin answered. “While you were down here playing head games, she was losing her stomach. Does that make you feel powerful? Making witches vomit and cry?”
Finley’s nostrils flared as his pompous gaze narrowed. “And why was she crying, Quin?”
The pointed comment was an admission of guilt in Quin’s book, and his control snapped like never before. For the first time in his life, he was unable to keep his cool and deal with his emotions calmly and with a steady hand.
Without warning, he launched toward his target, but Kemble managed to intercept him, and a crunch echoed across the lawn as they crashed to the ground.
“Shield,” Serafin shouted.
Quin pushed his dad off him and looked up, watching Daleen and Serafin cast a combined shield, which stretched north to south in front of Finley.
“Are you protecting me?” Finley laughed. “Or Quin?”
“We struggle daily to keep the peace,” Caitrin countered, “in every facet of our lives, and you’re not helping. If you honestly care for Layla, show some respect for her coven, release your aura, and at least try to gain our trust.”
“Hey,” Finley returned, holding up his hands, “I’m not the one who snapped. Put your dog on a leash.”
Glaring through the hazy barrier, Quin shrugged his dad away and pushed himself to his feet. “I don’t need to see your aura to know you did this. You’re playing mind games because you’re not man enough to touch a woman without them, but I’ll make sure your cowardly efforts are wasted. Whether or not Layla wants me is irrelevant. What matters is she doesn’t – want – you. You make her sick.”
He spit at the shield then turned away, angrier than he’d been before the worthless confrontation.
“So it was
I
who made her sick,” Finley taunted.
Quin didn’t bite, but he shouted over his shoulder as he headed for his parents’ house. “Stay out of her head!”
“Or what?” Finley challenged.
Quin halted, wishing he had something to break in his clenched fists. “I’ll kill you,” he answered. Then he climbed the steps to the porch and walked inside.
Dazed and emotionally exhausted, Layla sat in a warm bath, staring at the wall while Morrigan healed the bump on her head and washed the vomit from her hair.
“There you go. All rinsed.”
Layla hugged her thighs to her chest and rested her chin on soapy knees. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Morrigan returned, summoning handfuls of water to Layla’s shoulders, “but it’s my pleasure. I can’t count how many times I’ve dreamed about bathing you.”
Layla swallowed a lump, battling an endless supply of tears. “This isn’t quite what you envisioned, is it?”
“No, but it remains precious to me.” She pulled a dark curl from Layla’s cheek and tucked it behind her ear. “I wish there was more I could do, sweetie. I know you’re hurting right now.”
Layla squeezed her eyes shut, her chest tight and burning as her tears merged with bathwater. “I feel like a burden, Grandma, like a plague on everyone around me.”
“No,” Morrigan whispered, wrapping Layla’s shoulders in a hug, “it’s not like that.”
“It feels like that.”
“I understand why, because I carry the burden as well. We brought you into this situation, and it’s been nothing but hard on you. This entire coven feels the guilt and sorrow, but that’s why we have to stick together.”
“But you can’t, because of me. Half the coven has been wounded and chased from their homes because of me. How am I supposed to live with that?”
“I’ll tell you how.”
Layla’s sobs paused as she found her grandma’s peach gaze. “How?”
“You stop to smell the roses,” Morrigan answered, “and when you find one that makes you really happy, you hold on to it for dear life.”
“What if you can’t hold on to it?”
“You hold on to the memory of it. Then it will stay in your bouquet.”
“My bouquet?”
“Yeah,” Morrigan confirmed, reaching for a towel. “Everyone needs a bouquet. Here, dry off while we figure out yours.”
Layla took the towel and stood, and Morrigan walked to the vanity as she went on. “What makes you happy?”
“You,” Layla answered, carefully stepping from the tub.
Morrigan smiled as she grabbed a comb. “I love that, because you’re the highlight of my bouquet. You’re tucked in there with your mom and grandpa, and it will always be that way, in this life and the next. So what else makes you happy?”
Layla stared at the mirror, watching her grandma comb her hair the way her adopted mom used to. “Katherine made me happy.”
“Then you should keep her memory in your bouquet, for reference when life gets you down, a reminder of what makes it worth living. What else?”
“The coven.”
“Our coven is amazing,” Morrigan agreed, “but be more specific.”
“Alana,” Layla answered. “She makes me very happy.”
“Ooh, Alana makes a beautiful rose. Keep going.”
Layla bowed her head and fidgeted with the plush towel. “Quin.”
Halting the comb halfway down a curl, Morrigan swept her gaze over Layla’s aura. “That one’s different from the others,” she concluded. “It’s bigger and brighter yet shrouded in fears deeper than death.” She paused and withdrew the comb. “You’re hesitant to add that one to your bouquet.”
“It seems the world is working against us,” Layla whispered, “or maybe it’s just working against me.”
Morrigan propped a hand on her hip and wiggled the comb. “That’s when you tell the world to go to hell and tighten your grip.”
“Yeah?”
“Well yeah. You can’t let the world take your flowers.”
“What if the flower wants to leave?”
Morrigan tossed the comb aside and grabbed something else off the vanity, holding it behind her back as she faced Layla. “We fear losing most what we love most, but you can’t let that fear stop you from smelling the roses and collecting your bouquet. That would be the biggest loss of all.” She stepped closer, taking Layla’s cheek in one hand as she kissed her forehead. “It was just a dream, sweetie. Quinlan loves you. I see it every time I look at him. And when Quinlan loves something, he sticks with it.”
“I’m bad for him,” Layla whispered.
“No,” Morrigan disagreed. “You’re the highlight of his bouquet, and he shares the same fears you do.” She brought her other hand around, passing over a large t-shirt. “He brought this for you, and he’s waiting in the bedroom.”