37. Sloan

CHAPTER 37

Sloan

F ucking Hecate. Did I seriously tell her that I liked her? What am I, seven?

It's only been a heartbeat since she put that out there, but it feels like three lifetimes as she waits for Daisy to say something, anything, back. She sits there, smiling and emanating beauty from her pores, looking relaxed and not at all like Sloan didn't drop a boiling cauldron at her feet, overflowing with everything Sloan feels but doesn't have the guts to say.

Daisy's hand reaches out, landing softly on Sloan's arm, instantly quieting the bubbling doubt in her mind. "I like you too, Sloan."

Air whooshes out of her in relief. "You do?"

"Yes, princess. I thought that was pretty clear?"

"Evidently, not." Her body fills with something akin to happiness as she soaks in that Daisy likes her too. Perhaps she is a seven-year-old, after all.

"Well, I don't generally sleep with people I don't like," Daisy clarifies.

Oh. That happiness she was feeling? It deflates. Daisy likes her, but not in the same way. No. She likes her in the sense that she can tolerate spending time with her and accepts Sloan's head between her legs. But she doesn't like like her. She doesn't care for her in the same way.

"Right. Okay. That makes sense," Sloan says, fighting the building current, seeking to break free and leak all over. "Do you need me to do anything here? Do I need to follow up with anyone?" she asks, changing the subject.

Daisy pauses as she catches up to the sudden track change. "No. No, I think we are good. I have a meeting with Nips & Nibbles tomorrow, the final food truck vendor, then we have a meeting on Friday with The Dandelion to go over final numbers and any miscellaneous details. We will need to be there the morning of arrival to make sure everything is set up as it should be."

"Okay. Well, I have to head back to the office…"

Daisy checks the time on her phone. It's almost seven p.m. "Really?"

"Yeah. We have an important meeting tomorrow, and I need to review the files one last time," Sloan lies.

"Oh."

Sloan rises from the table, looking down at Daisy, wondering where she went wrong. How did she get herself into this position? "Text me if anything else comes up," she says quietly, backing out of the room before turning and leaving some of herself behind.

* * *

She shouldn't have left. She knows this. Knows it would have been better to stay and at least clarify what she meant. But knowing that Daisy only sees her as a good lay was too much. It tore her insides to strips, leaving welts where she thought Daisy was building a home. Becoming a part of her being. Nestling deep inside.

Instead, Daisy wormed her way in and festered, leaving nothing but pain behind.

Is this what Daisy felt all those years ago? Was this the level of pain that I caused her by not stopping Franny and Gwen?

She sees Lachlan in the back of her mind, rolling out his jump-to-conclusions mat and telling her she's overreacting, but she can't stop it. She can't stop the track that her mind is on. No matter how much she wants to believe otherwise, her brain reinforces the belief that Daisy will never want her the same way.

Her stomach twists and burns, threatening to bring up what little is in it. Maybe this is why she stayed away from others, never allowing herself to get close. It was an act of protection so that she didn't have to feel like her heart was being burned from her chest while also sinking into her stomach.

It's so much easier to be distant. Cold. Unfeeling.

Sloan enters her office and stops in her tracks when she realizes she's not the only one in the room.

"Hello, my girl," her mother says. It's late. Well past office hours. No one should be here, let alone her mother.

"Hi," Sloan says tentatively. "What are you doing behind my desk?" Sloan takes the three steps needed to reach her desk and moves to the side, hoping it signals her mother to move out of her space. Her private space.

"Oh, I was just looking for a file." She doesn't move. Rather, she gazes up at Sloan, almost challenging her daughter to question her.

Sloan comes from a long line of strong witches. Witches who, for centuries, have had to push back against influence and power to get ahead. Despite her reputation as a cold-blooded witch, Sloan has, at heart, always been more of a pacifist, not wanting to rock the cauldron too much, fearing the consequences. But here, with her mother invading her private space, she calls on that strength and does exactly what her mother challenges her to do.

"Bullshit." Cecilia's eyes glow with fire as Sloan steps toward her. "You're looking for something. What are you hoping to find in my desk?"

"Darling, please," her mother responds, rolling her eyes at what she likely sees as theatrics. "You are worried about nothing. I merely came in to see how things were going with that scab you've been saddled with."

Sloan blinks.

Cecilia snorts. "What? You know she's useless. Always has been, and always will be. Her family has been nothing but trouble." She stands, removing herself from Sloan's desk, slithering around the space like poison as she makes her way to the bookshelf along the side wall. "You know, I heard through the grapevine that her parents have now had to have their memories wiped because they didn't learn their lesson the first time. Can you imagine? Being so absorbed in your own failings that you can't even see when you've been given a hand up?"

Has her mother always been this vile? She says all this as if she's simply giving her order at a restaurant—cold and removed. As if she's not talking about people in the community who have been punished, severely at that, and whose child continues to reap the consequences of actions she had no hand in.

"‘Given a hand up'? How is being banished and your child left to fend for herself being given a hand up?" Sloan says, aghast.

"They were removed from a society they harmed. That is their own fault. They were also allowed to continue existing elsewhere, given a chance to redeem themselves. They chose to spit on us all by not doing so. As for that child ," her mother says, practically spitting out the word "child" as though it is a curse in itself, "she had every opportunity to prove she was more than what her family name said. Instead, she attached herself to Petra Rose and coasted on someone else's ability. She's nothing more than a leech, and if you aren't careful, she will do the exact same to you, sucking every bit of power and influence from you that she can to make herself look good."

Sloan's magic thrums under her skin, sparking and eager for release as her anger rises. A bolt of silver power lurches from Sloan's hand, hitting the floor an inch from her mother's foot. Her mother turns and grins at her. She fucking grins.

"Ah. I thought so," she says, amused.

"You thought what?" Sloan asks, her jaw clenched as though she is biting at every word.

"You've grown attached to the scab—" her mother starts, but Sloan cuts her off.

"Stop calling her that."

Her mother tilts her head, assessing Sloan. Reading the tension in her shoulders, the defensive stance, and how her fingers twirl threads of magic between them waiting to be unleashed. "Why? It's what she is. A dried-up wound that needs to flake off and be gone."

Sloan's hand rises, the current held in it becoming increasingly electrified. "One more nasty word about Daisy, and I will send you out of here wishing you had never come in. You think we are so much better than she is? That she is undeserving of care and compassion? I've spent my whole life looking down on her and so many others because of you. You made me think that because our last name is Wilks, it means something."

"It means everything ," her mother says vehemently. Sloan fires another spark at her mother, singeing the fabric on her shoulder. Her mother's eyes widen in shock. "You hit me!"

"No, I grazed you. Next time, I will hit you," Sloan says, making sure her mother sees the truth in her eyes. "As for our name, I have never been more ashamed to be a Wilks than I am now. I have always hated the expectations of being in this family, and you've shown me what being a Wilks truly means."

Crossing her arms across her chest, her mother responds like a petulant child, saying, "Oh, and what is that?"

"That appearances mean more than actions, and frankly, I'm tired of trying to live up to it all. I'm tired of holding myself in and burying anything that makes me happy because a Wilks would never let others see it. You're so afraid to let others see your joy, fearing that they may use it against you, that you've completely forgotten how to have any. Instead, you make yourself out to be so much better than everyone else when you're lonely, sad, and, well, boring." Sloan picks up the files she needs from her desk and walks back to the door. "I would rather spend a lifetime trying to make up for all the horrible things I did to Daisy, proving to her that I am worthy of her kindness, than spend another day trying to show everyone how great it is to be a Wilks. I will close out any outstanding client deals, but that's it. I quit."

Sloan turns on her heel and leaves. Standing outside her car, she heaves a few deep breaths, not believing she just did that but not in the least sorry. It's time she found her own path—one that will help her find her way to Daisy.