Chapter Thirty-Three

Their rain-soaked clothes are draped over the rocking chairs to dry by the fire, leaving Marigold and Lottie in their undergarments. This, of course, is not the first time that Marigold has been in a state of undress in front of Lottie.

But this time feels very different.

Marigold's heart pounds in her chest so much that it hurts, as if it is bruising her bones.

Lottie is lying next to her in the soft, warm bed. Her scent of vanilla and sandalwood tangles with that of fresh rain, and her red curls are spilling over the pillows, close enough to tickle Marigold's cheek. She breathes her in, savoring the warmth of her. The softness. Lottie Burke—the real, soft, vulnerable girl who only wants to be loved, even though she will not admit it.

What she would give in order to be able to give Lottie the thing she has always wanted. What she would give to be that girl, to belong to Lottie Burke in every way that one person can belong to another.

She would give anything.

"Is your heart beating really fast?" Lottie whispers.

"Yes," Marigold replies.

Lottie takes a sharp breath. "My heart is beating really fast, too."

Her hand drifts closer to Lottie. They breathe in time with each other, their bodies falling into the shared rhythm. Lightning flashes against the window, and Lottie shivers.

"Why are you so afraid of storms?" Marigold asks.

"Must we talk about it?"

"No. But I am here to listen if you need me."

She hesitates, then sighs. "It reminds me of when I was little. There was a period after the fire and before the orphanage when I was stuck on the streets. It would rain, and the rain would ruin everything. Whether it was a dirty piece of bread I could find in someone's trash, or a tattered blanket that was already barely staying together." She clutches the blankets on the bed and pulls them closer to her chin. "When it rained, I had nothing to protect myself and what few possessions I retained. Most of my worst memories are of the rain. And now, whenever it storms, I have to get out. I have to run and save myself. Otherwise, it feels like I'm drowning."

Marigold turns to look at Lottie, who is staring at the ceiling. "How old were you when your parents died?"

"I was six."

"I'm so sorry, Lottie. Did you ever learn the truth of them? Of who they were, or what caused the fire that took their lives?"

"No," she says sharply, closing her lips over the word before the sound fully escapes. Marigold goes rigid beside Lottie, too afraid of saying the wrong thing to continue. As if realizing her own harshness, Lottie sighs and turns to face her. Her brows soften apologetically.

"I do remember something. I remembered after I showed you my first tattoo. The arrow."

"Really?"

"Yes. I remember seeing that image in my home. All over the walls, sketched out like mad musings. My mother did them. When I think of the fire, I see those arrows on the wall, unscathed. Everything else around me, even my parents, became ash. Somehow, only the arrows and I survived."

Her blood runs cold as she listens to Lottie's memory. "I need to tell you something about that arrow."

Lottie props up slightly and leans in close to listen.

"It's not a random drawing. It's a rune of protection. It's all over my cottage, too."

"It's magic?"

She nods, and Lottie's jaw drops. "You recognized it when I showed it to you. I know you did. Why didn't you say anything?"

"Would you have believed me then if I told you it was magic? Or would you have called it mythcraft?"

Lottie sighs and lies back down, glaring at the ceiling once more. "So, what are you saying, then? That my mother was a witch like you?"

"No," she says quickly, then shrugs. "I don't know. I can't explain how she would have known about the protection rune, but I'm trying to figure it out. I've been reading all I can. I'm searching for answers for you."

"Don't. They are gone, and no amount of knowledge is going to bring them back. If you want to put those books to good use, find an answer that will break your curse."

"I've searched for that, too. All I want is to touch you without hurting you."

Lottie's hand moves gently against Marigold's thigh, up and down, waiting for her to reciprocate. Marigold pulls away from her under the sheets and turns over. She presses her cheek into the pillow, rage burning in her cheeks. It is breaking her, moment by moment, bone by bone, to know that loving Lottie and keeping her safe are two opposing forces. She has to pick one, and she already knows the answer.

Lottie moves closer, touching her lips to Marigold's ear. "I have another theory to test."

The warmth of Lottie's voice sends waves of insatiable desire through her body. Her intuition pulls her closer. Her heart thunders in her chest; her lips tremble as she fights to control herself against the strength of her desires. "Tell me."

"Do you touch yourself, Witch? Do you let your fingers roam over those aching parts of you when you're all alone?"

She nods slowly, and Lottie grins. "Show me."

Marigold's eyes widen. Clearing her throat, she says, "Lottie, I cannot—"

The woman throws the covers off herself and moves to the end of the bed. In the subtle glow of the candle, Lottie looks positively inhuman in the best way. She could be made of stars.

"I'll show you how I touch myself if you do the same."

Marigold can hardly breathe as Lottie leans back, parting her legs and cupping her breast with one hand. Her eyes flutter closed. "I'll imagine that this is your hand. You're trailing your fingers down my body. You're tracing my tattoos. I can feel your breath against my skin."

Marigold is throbbing with need, aching for touch. Her own hand moves underneath the covers. She drags her nails across herself until she reaches down between her legs and moans.

"Show me," Lottie says.

She obeys, tossing the covers to the floor and parting her legs. The cold air meets her wet center. A low moan hums in the back of Lottie's throat.

"Good girl. Pretend your hand is mine. Tell me what you would have me do to you," Lottie says, circling the apex of her thighs.

Heart racing, Marigold says, "I would beg you to tease me like this." She rubs along the inside of her thigh, skimming the seam of her center as she moves to the other thigh. "And you would have me shaking before you finally gave in." Her hand settles in between her legs and two fingers dip into herself. Lottie echoes, moving her own hand to her center and moaning at her touch.

"Say my name."

She moves her fingers in and out, whimpering, "Lottie."

Lottie leans back farther, taking her other hand to her breast and pinching her nipple. "I love my name in your mouth, Marigold."

"I love…" she says, stopping herself. She won't say it. She will not ruin this moment with a love confession that will not be returned.

"I love imagining your mouth on me," she says instead.

"Mhmmm," Lottie moans, sitting up and staring at Marigold's center.

She pulls out her fingers, watching them glisten in the candlelight.

"I bet you taste so sweet. Like honey," Lottie says.

Marigold brings her own fingers up to her mouth, tasting herself. She smirks as Lottie's moan turns into a growl. Her fingers move back between her thighs and circle the most sensitive spot. Her entire body is buzzing. Every inch of her skin feels so sensitive, like the slightest touch could send her over the edge.

"Lottie…" she whimpers.

"Yes, Marigold. Say my name. Say it," she commands, thrusting her fingers in and out of herself.

Pleasure rips through her entire body, forcing her to fold in on herself so that she can hold on to this feeling for as long as she can. She imagines that she is moaning Lottie's name into her mouth, gripping Lottie's wrist and keeping her hand in that perfect spot until the end of time. Every muscle in her body starts to let go of the tension that she has carried for so long. She is completely weightless and undone. Her eyes close as she sinks into the aftermath of such immense bliss.

This can be enough. Lottie doesn't have to love her. She can love Lottie enough for the both of them if they can keep doing this every night. This is all she needs.

Fighting for air, she says, "Lottie?"

She doesn't respond, but if Marigold does not say what she is feeling at this very moment, she will lose all her courage. "I think," she continues, "I think I love you. You don't have to say anything. I know you don't feel the same. But I'm too weak to keep myself from saying it right now."

Lottie says nothing.

"I'm sorry. Did I ruin the moment for us? I'm so sorry."

Again, she says nothing. Marigold opens her eyes and pulls herself up.

Lottie lies on the edge of the bed, unmoving.

Marigold crawls over to her and grabs her by the chin, tilting her head toward the light.

Her eyes are open, but her stare is vacant. Blood streams from her nose all the way down to her neck. Her chest is still. No breath, no pulse.

Lottie is dead.

The curse killed her.