The Rose Witch - Chandelle LaVaun Page 0,47

mouth moving back toward mine—

“Chloe, if you can hear me I’m coming in, okay?” Rolland shouted through the door. “I’ve still got your extra key.”

I cursed.

Malachi sighed and pressed his forehead to mine. “Does he really have a key?”

“We were together a long time,” I said in a rush, like I needed to justify it to him. “If we just hide he won’t see us and he’ll leave.”

It was only then that I realized belatedly that the lights were on. I never left my lights on when I wasn’t home and I hadn’t been home in three days. Which meant Rolland had been here looking for me, probably today. Even if he left now he’d be back later. I couldn’t have him returning, not now that I knew I was a witch who attracted demons with my demon necklace.

The sound of metal against metal echoed through my foyer.

I tugged at Malachi’s shirt and started dragging him down the hallway with me. “Go in the back. In my room. GO.”

He nodded and hurried down the hall towards my room, the only room back there since my flat was tiny. He whistled and then Spot vanished from right in front of me. I shivered. That was going to take some getting used to still. But then my front door popped open a crack – I cursed and dove around the corner into my tiny little kitchen, then dropped to my knees to hide below the counter.

“Chloe?” Rolland’s voice was so much softer than Malachi’s. It sounded pre-pubescent in comparison. “Chloe? What’s that smell— why do you have a box of Manny’s bones? Chloe? I know you’re here, this box wasn’t a little while ago.”

Rubbish. So I was right, he had been in here. There were two options here. One, I could stay hidden and hope he just gave up and left. Or two, show myself and get rid of him. I would have preferred the former, but there weren’t many places to hide – especially not in my kitchen. And the last thing I wanted was for him to find a prince of hell in my bedroom. I needed him gone, which meant I had to go with the latter.

“Chlo—”

“You wanker,” I snarled and stood, only to find him on the other side of the counter from me.

He jerked back, his blue eyes wide. His shaggy blond hair looked like Shelly had been tugging at it all day. He licked his lips and swallowed, then thrust his hand out. A gold key perched between his fingers. “I’ve been watching for you to come back. I still have your key.”

I yanked my key from his slimy grip and then swatted his hand away. “Now you don’t. Piss off and forget I exist.” I wonder if there’s a spell for that?

His face fell. “Chloe, please. Can’t we just talk?”

“Talk? You want to talk? After I found Shelly bouncing on your balls this morning? Or did you think I forgot already? After all it’s been almost twenty-four hours already.”

“Oh, c’mon, Chloe. Give me a bloody break, would ya?” He whined like a toddler in a candy store.

“Why the bloody hell should I?” I shouted, infuriated by this wanker’s audacity. “You. Cheated.”

“I’ve been a good boyfriend for years—”

“And that will eat you up for the rest of your life.”

“I made a mistake. One mistake.” He pouted, actually bloody pouted with his lip all puffed out, and batted his eyelashes.

Am I living in a cartoon? I shook my head. “Brilliant, then you know why you’re dead to me.”

He gasped. “For one mistake?”

“First of all, you don’t regret cheating you regret getting caught. Secondly, I know you’ve been shagging Shelly since she arrived because she told me all about the bloke she was stuffin’ and then got real weird when I asked about meeting him. Thirdly, I hadn’t even cared enough to be suspicious which tells me I wasn’t really in this relationship anymore.” I grabbed my spare key and shoved it in the drawer beside me. “And fourthly, I made a mistake too…by staying with you this long when I should have shown you the door ages ago.”

“I was a good boyfriend,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Are you mad?” I frowned and shook my head. “You have done nothing but stress me out since our last year at uni. You never cared about my education, my career, or any of my needs. Keeping your dick in your pants is hardly the only qualifying factor to being a