Page 52 of Our Covenant

She bites down on her bottom lip, the impending orgasm gripping my fingers.

“Fox, I⁠—”

“Tell me that I’m your worst enemy while you ride my hand and make a mess in my lap.” My fingers inch higher inside of her, hitting the spot that pushes her closer to the edge.

“I fucking . . . hate . . . you.” She clutches the hair at the base of my neck, the sting making me hiss.

That admission shouldn’t tickle my spine but nonetheless, my dick jerks in my pants. My muscles loosen and she takes what she needs with a gritted, “I fucking hate you.”

The straining squeeze of her cunt grips my fingers, and as her hips slow to a hard grind, I come. I come in my damn briefs like I’m in high school again. But when the intense sensation slows, something else takes over. A pulling in my gut that feels oddly familiar.

It’s when her muscles start to ease that I realize where I’ve felt this before. But it can’t be possible. Not unwillingly and certainly not without Thorne, Asher, or Maddox present. Tiny pinpricks of magic filter through my bones and muscles and well at the barrier of my skin; it welds itself to the woman on top of me. As soon as the realization comes, the draw is gone like it never happened.

Her body slacks against mine and for one blissful minute, she catches her breath in the comfort of my chest. But as expected, she comes out of the fog and gets to her feet. After she puts a few steps of space between us, she fixes her shirt. I take mental inventory and don’t feel any less energy flowing through me. If anything, it’s more excited than before.

She clears her throat, smoothing down the back of her hair and reaching for the necklace that Thorne took last night. Her finger rubs over the vacant spot, but it must not bring her the same relief because she quickly adjusts her posture, tucking her hands behind her back. I wait for her to verbally berate me or call this all a mistake, but she just stares at me. Our chests rise and fall in tandem like we’ve just run a marathon.

“I’ll bring lunch up to your room in an hour.” It’s the dismissal she wants, and she turns on her heels to scurry out of the study.

I listen for her footsteps overhead before getting up to assess the stain at the crotch of my sweatpants.

Thank every old and new god that Thorne and Maddox aren’t here.

24

THORNE

Maddox and I spent four grueling hours answering emails, getting ahead on reports, and deep cleaning not only our workstations, but our manager’s. The grunt work of interns, even ones with magical abilities, was never-ending. To ensure our overseers didn’t come looking for us during our school break, Maddox and I both put enchantments on our desks that would deter anyone from overloading us with work that had a time crunch. Simply, the one trying to delegate to us would find the sudden and unexplained motivation to do the work themselves.

The charms won’t last long, and it’ll be a tossup whether the universe will see our taskmastering as a shortcut or essential to keeping our nonmagical lives separate from our budding careers. But, being abnormally productive around the manor wouldn't be the worst punishment. Our solarium could use a deep clean. Not that we have time to think about what the future holds as we get closer to the Morey estate.

Edmund Morey resides in a gated community several miles from the legacy manor. The same community that more than half the coven lives in these days, including my family. Unlike Fox and Asher, I still have three younger siblings at home. Not that I actually know my younger brother and sisters. We were given different roles, different destinies to keep the Bishop line thriving.

Several generations ago, our lineage almost went extinct. Ever since, there’s been pressure to procreate quickly and often. My mother was young when she went from sacrifice to wife. She was freshly twenty when I was born, and my parents are always quick to remind me that they not only expect me to uphold the mantle of legacy, but that it is far past time for me to settle down and produce my own heir for the cycle to continue.

The Moreys are more lenient on Asher’s timeline, as long as the four of us continue to provide their family with their rightful share of magic from each harvest. Edmund Morey values power and prestige. When Asher’s abilities presented at the tender age of thirteen, no one was more prideful than Edmund. It didn’t matter that I was able to command fire only two months later or that Maddox’s father was torturing him every night just to prove that the Elwells’ heir was just as worthy as the Moreys’.

Pulling into the Moreys’ driveway now, I can’t decide whom I hate the most. Edmund or Clayton Elwell. The pissing contest didn’t stop at their sons. Edmund’s home is twice as large as Clayton’s. The sprawling estate sits on ten acres, complete with champion show horses and a garden that the Barefoot Contessa would envy.

I shift into park and turn in my seat to face Maddox, who has been silent the entire drive. “Ready?”

“I hate this house,” Mads answers, staring out the window at the bright white exterior. “He paints the grass and trees.”

I lean down and peer out the window to strips of grass lining the walkway to the front door. If it weren’t for the cloud cover, you’d swear it was the middle of summer. The sickly bright green shines against the white sandstone inlay, not a single blade out of place.

“It’ll be quick. He knows the harvests haven’t been great in the last few months. We’ll give him a sip and promise more after the next.”

“The next?” Maddox’s head swings back to me, a far-off, glassy look in his eyes.

“Harvest. We have a few weeks until then. It’ll just have to be enough. He can’t argue,” I assure him.

“Right.” He opens the door and steps out onto the gravel.

Taking one last solidifying breath, I open my own door and step outside. The chill in the air doesn’t compare to what we’re about to step into. I raise my fist and knock once. The door flies open and we are welcomed inside before the maid runs off to alert Edmund that his own personal magical batteries have arrived.

My hand dips into my pocket for the unknownth time to the gold locket. My thumb rubs over the etching on the back then flips it over to feel the touch-smoothed adornment. We need to get this over with as soon as possible. My stomach knots at the idea of Fox and Asher being home with Elsbeth. The two of them can handle her trying to escape, but what if that isn’t her plan?

We step farther inside, and the house is more of a museum than a home. While our ritual space carries the protection of our ancestors from each legacy line, Edmund has only warded his home against the outside world. So when permitted, his halls are stalked by creatures that would give any living soul nightmares. The twelve-foot canvases that meet us in the entry depict images of the family’s history. On the right is a full portrait of Sarah Morey and her family after she was exonerated. Three figures stand proudly in front of a small home that was torn down ages ago, the land long since developed into suburban homes.