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Chapter Twenty-Two

When Briar touched the space between her breasts and gave a choked gasp, Ethan knew exactly why.

He wanted to run his tongue where her fingers touched, but he also knew that was not why she had gasped.

Not yet, anyway.

“Ethan,” she said, and there was smug satisfaction that she had used his name, uncorrected.

He needed to hear her moan it. Scream it.

Soon.

Although he had a feeling she was about to scream it in a much-less-enjoyable manner. His little poison berry. God, what she did to him. The things he wanted to do to her.

“The amulet is gone.”

He could have feigned innocence. She would have believed him. But it did not suit his purpose. It had nothing to do with not wanting to lie to her. Not wanting her to be upset in any way, for any length of time. Ever. It was the long con, as he had told Godric. He needed to get his crew home. He had promises to keep, the kind that would come for more than just himself if they were broken.

Even if he had considered staying put a little longer for the first time in his life.

He had never cared for gardens or garden walls, tea in pink cups, rose petals in his honey. Not until now. Not until Briar.

But it made no difference. Not in the end.

“I have it,” he said calmly, pulling the loops of silver and pearls from his pocket.

Briar stilled, her eyes going wide. She looked betrayed. “You stole it?”

He twirled the pieces once just to watch the temper flare in her gray eyes. Magnificent. How anyone confused her for a mild-mannered spinster was beyond him. “I did,” he confirmed lazily.

“When did you even—” She stopped. “In the kitchen!” Accusation made her voice husky, her cheeks pink.

Delicious.

Distracting.

She poked him in the chest, hard enough to bruise. It made him want to grin, but he thought it might make her combust.

“I never agreed to exchange orgasms for amulets!” she exclaimed hotly.

He shook his head in mock outrage. “The things you say, Miss Foxglove.”

“Mr. Swansea.”

His eyes narrowed. He was a great deal less amused now. “Briar.”

“Give them back.”

“They are safer with me.”

Her own eyes narrowed so quickly she probably gave herself a headache. “Give them back, now.”

“Convince me,” he said, echoing his words in the kitchen when she’d come apart on his fingers. The way she had whimpered, the soft gasp of lust when his hand closed around her throat.

“How about I witch a rash on your—”

She was clearly not reliving the moment alongside with him.