A Little Bite of Magic Goes a Long Way (BxB)

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[[ Author's Note ~ This book features Ben and Matt from the Ari and Soren trilogy, but it can be read as a stand-alone. It takes place between the end of Hecate's Gift and the beginning of Lethe's Kiss. ]]

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*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: ๓คtt *✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:

My favorite coffee mug slipped from my hands and fell, shattering against the tiled floor and splashing hot, heavily creamed coffee over my trainers and up the legs of my brand-new white jeans.

I stared at the broken shards in shock as they came to rest in a scattered pattern, the pool of coffee spreading outward across the floor.

My vision blurred with tears, but it wasn't the loss of the mug that made me cry.

"Why?" I asked, looked up at my husband of one year, where he stood with bags in hand, ready to call it quits.

Ben looked stricken, his face pale and his dark hair damp with sweat, but he set his mouth in a determined line and fixed me with a hard, brown-eyed stare.

"You know why, Matt," he said. "And I know it's at least as much my fault as it is yours, but... I've had enough. I just can't live like this anymore."

"Ben..."

I took a step towards him, hands outstretched, knowing how desperate and pathetic I appeared.

He shook his head. "I'm sorry. Just give me some time to think, okay? I just... I need some space."

"Some... some space?" My voice went high, and I covered my mouth to stifle the sound, continuing in a hoarse whisper I hope conveyed the depth of my hurt. "Are you serious right now?"

Our anniversary—our first anniversary—was in a week, and he needed space?

"Matt, please. I'm sorry."

I took a breath, my eyes meeting his across the space of our recently renovated antique countertop, and between the tick of the cursed clocks in the hallway and the quiet moan of the thing that possessed the drain, I realized that I believed him.

He was sorry.

He was sorry we'd moved moved into a charming (if haunted) old Victorian, inhabited by a sweet (though possibly murderous) old poltergeist named Pete.

Ben's opinions in parenthesis.

He was also sorry I'd quit my soul-numbing (if well-paying) job as a public relations specialist and embarked on my lifelong dream of opening Santa Marina's very first 'dog café' (already a financial burden and possibly a failed experiment).

Finally, I was beginning to suspect he was sorry he'd married me.

"Fine." I said, struggling (and failing) to sound reasonable and calm. "Go and... find some space. I don't care. But I swear to all the gods, Ben—you come back here with your priorities in order, or... or don't come back at all!"

He looked suitably hurt by this—enough to make me want to soften my tone—but then he shook his head and shifted his grip on his bags.

"Matt, I love you," he said. "I love you so much it hurts, sometimes. It's just..." He stopped and blinked back tears of his own—crocodile tears, as far as I'm concerned. "I don't think I'm made for all this. Not the way you are. Magick, ghosts—whatever the fuck just happened. I just need to get away for a bit. From you."

"Fine," I said again, feeling hot tears spill down my cheeks. I knew it was my fault—all my fault—and yet it was easier to blame him for leaving me like this. "Fine. Go."

He looked like he wanted to come to me—to take me in his arms, to kiss me and forgive me, and tell me he loved me anyway.

Instead, he picked up his bags and left.

He fucking left.

He walked out the door, down the rain-dampened path to the street, got in his stupid old Prius, and left.

He left me standing in a puddle of coffee, with my heart in as many pieces as my favorite mug.

I'm an idiot, I know.

I'm a bit high-strung, a little silly, and very excitable. I'm romantic to the point of excess, and live with my head in the rainbow-colored clouds.

But Ben knew all that, and he loved me anyway.

He loved the way I laughed until I cried, and how I'd set the kitchen on fire sometimes when I tried daring new recipes.

He loved that I'd always choose a cheesy rom-com over the latest action flick, and that I'd eat the icing off the cake left in the fridge.

He loved that I'd put on old vinyls on rainy afternoons and force him to slow-dance with me, and that I actually made the rose-petal bath scene from Queen of the Damned come to life last Valentine's Day.

But he didn't love that I was learning basic witchcraft from his ex-boyfriend's godmother, and that my favorite dog in the world was actually an ancient monster. 

He also didn't love that our resident poltergeist tried to kill me two weeks ago, and that now I could see ghosts as a result. 

Most of all, he didn't love that I'd tried to put a spell on him, and that—to my own surprise (and subsequent dismay)—it had actually worked.

Ari was always telling me that magick had a price. As usual, I hadn't listened. 

And now it had cost me everything.