His hand edged to the side of my throat, and his thumb brushed my jaw. “We were . . . romantic.”

“Yes.”

“Then why are you frightened?”

I clutched his wrist to prevent his thumb from moving to my lips. Every instinct in my body raged against me. Every instinct craved his touch. Not like this. “Because this isn’t real. You’ll wake up with a throbbing headache in a couple of hours, and you’ll want to kill me all over again.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m a witch.”

“You’re a witch.” He repeated the words slowly, languidly, and I couldn’t help it—I leaned into his palm. “And I know you.” When he swayed on his feet, my own hands shot to his waist, steadying him. He leaned down to bury his nose in my hair and inhaled deeply. “I’ve never been drunk before.”

“I know.”

“You know me.”

“I do.”

“Truth or dare.”

“Truth.”

His fingertips traced my scar, and he leaned lower, brushing his nose along the curve of my neck and shoulder. “Why do you have roses on your throat?”

I clung to him helplessly. “My mother disfigured me with hate. Coco transformed me with hope.”

He paused then, drawing back slightly to look at me. A nameless emotion shadowed his gaze as it flicked from my scar to my lips. “Why do you smell so sweet?”

Though pressure built behind my eyes, I ignored it, hoisting one of his arms over my shoulders. He would collapse soon. Clumsy with alcohol, his movements lacked their typical grace—lacked even basic coordination—and he continued to sway on his feet. Fervently, I prayed he wouldn’t remember any of this tomorrow. I shouldn’t have let him drink so much. Pain spiked through my right temple. I shouldn’t have drunk so much. With slow, heavy footsteps, I lugged him across the room toward the bed. “What do I smell like, Reid?”

His head fell upon my shoulder. “Like a dream.” When I deposited him carefully beside Beau—his entire leg spilling free from the mattress—his hand caught my own and lingered there, even after his eyes had fluttered shut. “You smell like a dream.”

The Hangover

Reid

I felt as if I’d been hit by a runaway horse.

Our own horses shifted nervously in the alley behind the inn, snorting and stamping their feet. I gripped their reins tighter. Dull pain throbbed behind my eyes. When my stomach rose suddenly, I turned away from them, clenching my eyes against the weak morning light. “Never again,” I promised them bitterly.

I would never imbibe another ounce of liquor for as long as I lived.

The horse nearest me lifted his tail and defecated in response.