“Okay, okay, I’ll check on her. How bad?” she asked, lifting her chin toward the treatment room.

Against his will, Jonah saw inside, watched the woman he hadn’t worked up the guts to ask for a serious date look at the clock, and called it.

“Bad” was all he said, escaping before Rachel came out to tell the wife that her husband was dead.

* * *

Across the East River, in a loft in Chelsea, Lana Bingham cried out, soaring on the long, rolling orgasm. As cry slid to moan and moan to sigh, her fingers unclenched from the bedsheets, lifting so she could wrap her arms around Max as he came.

She sighed again, a woman replete and loose and content with her lover’s weight on her, his heart still drumming its mad beat against hers. She ran her fingers, lazily now, through his dark hair. He probably needed a trim, but she liked when it had some length, when she could twine the ends around her finger.

Six months since they’d moved in together, she thought, and it only got better.

In the quiet aftermath, she closed her eyes, sighed yet again.

Then cried out as something, something wild and wonderful, burst through her, in her, over her. Stronger than the orgasm, deeper, and with a ferocious mix of pleasure and shock she’d never be able to describe. Like light exploding, a lightning strike to her center, a flaming arrow to her heart that flashed through all of her. She all but felt her blood glow.

On her, still inside her, Max’s body jerked. She heard his breath catch even as, for an instant, he hardened again.

Then it all quieted, smoothed, soothed to no more than a glimmer behind her eyes until even that faded.

Max pushed up on his elbows, looked down at her in the light of a dozen flickering candles. “What was that?”

A little dazed yet, she blew out a long breath. “I don’t know. The world’s biggest postcoital aftershock?”

He laughed, lowered his head to brush his lips to hers. “I think we’re going to have to buy another bottle of that new wine we opened.”

“Let’s go for a case. Wow.” Under him she stretched, lifting her arms up and back. “I feel amazing.”

“And look the same. My pretty, pretty witch.”

Now she laughed. She knew—as he did—she was a dabbler at best. And was perfectly happy to stay one, to try her hand at little charms and candle rituals, to observe the holidays.

Since meeting Max Fallon at a winter solstice festival, and falling for him—hard—before Ostara, she’d made some attempt to work more seriously on the Craft.

But she didn’t have the spark and, to be honest, knew few who did. Most—try pretty much all—she knew or met at festivals, rituals, meetings, ranked as dabblers, just as she did. And some were just a little crazy by her gauge. Others were way too obsessed.

Some might even hit dangerous, if they actually had power.

Then, oh yes, then, there was Max.

He had that spark. Hadn’t he lit the bedroom candles with his breath—something that always aroused her? And if he really focused, he could levitate small things.

Once he’d floated a full cup of coffee across the kitchen and set it down right on the counter in front of her.

Amazing.

And he loved her. That was the kind of magick that mattered to Lana above all else.

He kissed her again, rolled off. And picked up an unlit candle.

Lana rolled her eyes, gave an exaggerated groan.

“You always do better when you’re relaxed.” He did a slow scan of her body. “You look relaxed.”

She lay comfortably naked, her arms behind her head, her long butterscotch hair spread over the pillow. Her bottom-heavy lips full, curved.

“If I were any more relaxed, I’d be unconscious.”

“So give it a try.” He took her hand, kissed her fingers. “Focus. The light’s in you.”

She wanted it to be, because he did. And because she hated disappointing him, she sat up, shook back her hair.

“Okay.”

Preparing herself, she closed her eyes, leveled her breathing. She tried, as he’d tried to teach her, to draw up the light he believed she held.

Oddly, she thought she felt something stir inside her and, surprised by it, opened her eyes, released a breath.

The wick shot light.

She gaped at it while he grinned.

“Look at you!” he said, with pride.

“I— But I didn’t even…” She had managed to bring a few candles to flame, after a couple minutes of fierce concentration. “I wasn’t even ready to start, and … You did it.”

Amused, and secretly a little relieved, she poked a finger into his chest. “Trying to boost my confidence?”

“I didn’t.” He laid his free hand on her bare knee. “I wouldn’t do that, and I’ll never lie to you. That was all you, Lana.”

“But I … You really didn’t? And you didn’t, I don’t know, give me some sort of boost?”

“All you. Try it again.” He blew out the candle, and this time put it in her hands.

Nervous now, she closed her eyes—more to calm herself than anything. But when she thought of the candle, of lighting it, she felt that rising inside her. When she opened her eyes and simply thought of the flame, the flame appeared.

“Oh, oh God.” Her eyes, a bright summer blue, reflected the candlelight. “I really did it.”

“What did you feel?”

“It was … like something lifting inside me. Lifting up, spreading out, I don’t know exactly. But, Max, it felt natural. Not a big flash and boom. Just like, well, breathing. And still, you know, a little spooky. Let’s keep it between just us, okay?”

She looked at him through the light.

She saw the pride and the interest on that handsome, poetic face, with the edgy cheekbones under the scruff, as he’d worked through the day without shaving.

She saw both in his eyes, pure gray in candlelight.

“Don’t write about it or anything. At least not until we’re sure it’s not a fluke, a just-this-one-time thing.”

“A door opened inside you, Lana. I saw it in your eyes, just as I saw the potential for it in your eyes the first time we met. Even before I loved you, I saw it. But if you want it to stay between us, it does.”

“Good.” She rose, stepped over to place her candle with his. A symbol, she thought, of their unity. She turned, candlelight swaying behind her. “I love you, Max. That’s my light.”

He stood, lithe as a cat, gathered her close. “I can’t imagine what my life would be without you in it. Want more wine?”

She tipped her head back. “Is that a euphemism?”

He smiled, kissed her. “I’m thinking wine, and we order in because I’m starving. Then we’ll see about euphemisms.”

“I’m in for all of that. I can cook.”

“You certainly can, but you did that all day. You’ve got the night off. We talked about going out—”

“I’d rather stay in. With you.” Much rather, she realized.

“Great. What are you in the mood for?”

“Surprise me,” she said, turning to pick up the black pants and T-shirt she’d worn under her chef’s coat—sous chef to be exact—he’d stripped off her when she’d come home from the restaurant.

“Two double shifts this week, so I’ll be happy to stay home, eat something—anything—somebody else cooked.”

“Done.” He pulled on the jeans and dark sweater he’d worn to work—writing in his office in the loft. “I’ll open the wine, and surprise you with the rest.”

“I’ll be right out,” she promised, going to the closet.

When she’d moved in with Max, she’d tried to limit her space to half the closet, but … She loved clothes, adored fashion—and since she spent so much of her time in a white tunic and black pants, indulged herself outside of work.

Casual, she thought, could still be pretty, even a little romantic for an evening at home. She chose a navy dress with swirls of red that would float a bit just below her knees. And she could come up with her own surprise—some sexy underwear—for when they got to the euphemism part of the night.