Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 83281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
“I…I…” I began, but I didn’t know what to say. The worst thing was, I felt exactly the same way. I wanted to be with him for life—there was no doubt in my mind we belonged together. But I couldn’t help remembering that Baba Yaga had warned me about having a Heartmate. She’d said that I would be safe from the family curse as long as I didn’t have one.
“It’s okay if you feel like it’s too soon to talk about anything permanent,” Rath said, misinterpreting my concern. “I just want you to know that when you’re ready, I’ll be here. I’m not going anywhere.” He stroked my cheek and looked into my eyes. “It might be too early to say this, Sarah, but I love you.”
I felt myself melting inside.
“I love you too,” I whispered and felt tears stinging my eyes.
“Are you okay, baby?” Rath looked at me with concern.
“Fine.” I swiped at my eyes and then pressed my face to his broad chest. “I’m just…I never expected to get to feel this with anyone. I’ve been lonely all my life and then you came along and…and…”
But I couldn’t finish because I was actually crying harder as emotions flooded me.
“Aww, baby…” Rath put his arms around me and held me close. I felt his big, warm hands caressing my back soothingly as he murmured in my ear that everything would be all right, that he loved me and he would protect me and take care of me.
Little did I know that a threat was coming that even the big Orc couldn’t protect me from…
CHAPTER THIRTY
So as I said, losing my virginity to Rath turned out to be a wonderful experience. I’ve heard so many women say their first time was awful or just not very good. But the big Orc was such a thoughtful and giving lover, sex with him was great every time.
I tried not to think about the family curse or the fact that Rath and I might be Heartmates, and I successfully ignored it until it was shoved in my face again a little while later.
It happened when I was searching through my Grandma’s Grimoire, looking for another recipe I hoped would impress Celia at The Lost Lamb. As I thumbed carefully through the pages of the ancient book, I noticed something I hadn’t seen before—at the very back there was a whole clump of pages that were stuck together.
I frowned as I teased gently at one of the pages, trying to pry it loose. What had happened here? Had someone been making a recipe with something sticky in it and accidentally glued this part of the book together? I didn’t know but I did know I wanted to see what was on those pages—they felt important somehow.
Taking the Grimoire down to the kitchen, I put the old-fashioned tea kettle on to boil. When it started to whistle and steam, I held the kettle and aimed it at the glued-together pages, carefully steaming them until they began to loosen and pull apart.
I sat at the kitchen table and carefully aired the pages. As I peeled them away from each other, I saw that they held a lot of writing. It wasn’t recipes or anything—it looked like someone had written almost a kind of story. Then, on one page, I saw something that gave me a shock—it was a drawing of a thin male face, twisted with anger. The eyes were pure evil—staring with malevolent hatred in a way that made my skin crawl.
“That’s it—that’s him!” I exclaimed, staring at the page. It was the face I had seen in my dreams—the same one I thought I saw when we spent the night in Baba Yaga’s hut. But who was he?
With trembling hands, I turned back to the beginning of the pages and began to read…
“Know then that we are Cursed. We, the female descendants of Mercy Pruitt who was the first witch of our line, have a Curse upon us and we shall not soon be rid of it,” the story began.
I read on, my eyes getting wider as my stomach twisted in knots. The story—which was written in a flowing, old-fashioned cursive handwriting and had capitals in odd places—was an account of my ancestors, dating back to the time of the Salem Witch trials. According to the story, my many-times-great Grandmother, Mercy Pruitt, was one of the women accused of witchcraft, not in Salem, but in another small town in the same area called Andover.
I frowned. I had read about the Salem Witch trials back in school—I had even done a report on them. But I hadn’t read about anything similar to the Salem trials happening in other towns.
I also didn’t remember seeing any mention of a woman named Mercy Pruitt or the villain in the story—a man who was described as a “Witch Finder” by the name of Milas James. But maybe that was because these trials had happened in a different town and the events hadn’t been as publicized as they had been in Salem.