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To Wednesday, the gaping trunk resting on the bed resembled an unearthed grave.
For a little over four months, Wednesday had tolerated, and then, with a quiet, treacherous hypocrisy, anticipated the riotous defilement of her bedchamber.
Enid’s presence, just as expected, had settled into the bones and marrow of the Addams estate like a sweet, persistent mold.
Discarded pastels draped across wrought-iron chairs, railings, and banisters. A bright cardigan had even found its way to the gargoyle corbels jutting over the roof. Fruity, floral wax melted lazily in wall sconces forged for tallow, drowning out the estate’s usual antiseptic, earthy chill. Stray bottles of nail polish sat abandoned wherever there was a surface to rest. And on the corner of the mahogany desk, right beside the iron frame of the typewriter, lay a violently yellow scrunchie, curled like an insolent, unapologetic gatecrasher.
Now, item by item, the room was being cleansed of its sweet parasite.
Wednesday sat behind her desk, her spine rigid against the black velvet backrest. Velvet, because she had surrendered to Enid’s vehement argument that comfort was an indispensable component of the creative process. Like a fool, she had caved. She had yielded simply because she thought it might secretly please Enid to see Wednesday resting against something Enid had chosen for her.
But now, they were not looking at each other.
Wednesday refused to turn her gaze toward the bed, unwilling to witness the open trunk. If given any choice in the matter, comfort remained entirely out of reach, even backed by velvet.
Her fingers hovered above the keys of her Underwood, motionless, suspended in the quiet between two slow thuds of her pulse.
She would not, to save her life, strike a key.
To type would provide a soundtrack to the theft, and Wednesday refused to compose the rhythm of her own undoing.
It was entirely unrelated to the reality that she could not assemble a single sentence of her novel. Or the sickening certainty that if she tried in the future, the cold, mechanical clatter would only pull her backward into this exact room, under this exact gloom. She would be immobilized all over again.
She would be undone all over again.
Across the floor, Enid folded a turquoise sweater with agonizing contemplation. The air in the bedroom hung heavy and low, thick with the damp static of an approaching storm.
“The sky is turning bruised,” Enid murmured, her back still turned. Her voice lacked its usual lilt. It was quiet, sanded down to a bare, smoky whisper. “It’s going to pour.”
“The barometric pressure has been plummeting since midday,” Wednesday replied without glancing away from the paper. Her voice was flat, level, and drained of blood. “A deluge is mathematically inevitable.”
Enid’s hands stalled over the turquoise wool.
“Right. Inevitable.”
Quiet settled back over them, gathering around their feet like ice water. They both remained silent, knowing any spoken word in that room would strike like an unsheathed blade, threatening a wound neither could bear.
When Enid crossed the floor to retrieve a pair of sandals from the adjoining bath, Wednesday dared a sideways glance without turning her neck.
Enid looked human.
Quiet. Gauzy. Terribly, sickeningly human.
That, in itself, was a quiet miracle that still made Wednesday’s ribs contract with a sharp, sickening ache.
Six months ago, Enid had not been human.
She had been a ruined thing, broken by the feral pull of the moon surge driving her alpha lineage, lost in the frozen boreal reaches of the Yukon, where the pines grew sideways under the weight of the gale.
Wednesday had spent twenty-two days tracking a ghost across the Canadian permafrost, trailing crushed fir needles, dried gore, and tufts of silver-blonde fur. She had slept in snow hollows with a silver dagger pressed flat against her sternum, brutally intercepting those hunting the beast for other ends, guided through the blinding white only by the lingering, faint tang of Enid’s citrus-cedar scent.
When Wednesday had finally cornered her, emaciated, snarling, trapped in the half-rotted carcass of an abandoned trapper's cabin, Enid hadn’t recognized her. She hadn’t looked human then.
She had torn a six-inch furrow through Wednesday’s shoulder before Wednesday could pin her to the frozen earth, slice her own palm open, and force an ancient Addams draught of wolfsbane, blood, and elder-pitch directly into the beast’s snarling jaws.
At her desk, Wednesday let out a breath that sounded almost like a scoff. She leaned back, pressing her left shoulder hard into the upholstery. She almost smiled.
Even cushioned by velvet, the ache was still there.
It had taken three agonizing weeks in a cloistered hospital room just to coax Enid’s skeleton into remembering how to be a girl again before Wednesday dared transport her across state lines, bringing her home to the Addams manor.
Wednesday had stayed through every brutal percussion of reshaping bone, every delirious howl that rattled the leaded glass, wiping the salt and fever from Enid’s temples with quiet, dreadful patience.
And now, Enid stood against the windowpane, whole. Her ribs were knit. Her lethal claws had retreated beneath neat, glossy coats of bubblegum-pink enamel. Her skin was warm, radiant, and entirely out of reach.
“My brother will be at the gate at five,” Enid said at last.
The sentence fell into the stillness like a flat stone dropped into deep water. Detached. Dull, spoken with the casual, hollow apathy of someone delivering an eviction notice or canceling a summer trip out of quiet exhaustion.
“He would be the only werewolf in your lineage who possesses an understanding of punctuality,” Wednesday replied smoothly, her voice a cool blade drawn through dark silk. “Your father was meant to retrieve you a fortnight ago.”
Enid did not turn around. But Wednesday tracked the sudden tension that seized her shoulders, the muscles bunching taut beneath the washed-out pink cotton of her shirt as she stared through the glass. Outside, the New Jersey afternoon had surrendered entirely, curdling into a suffocating, slate-gray bruise.
‘Did I offend her?’ Wednesday wondered in the cold solitude of her own thoughts.
Most likely, Enid was quietly resentful of her father’s incompetence, infuriated by the mechanical failure that had stranded her here, forcing her to undo her suitcases and endure thirteen redundant, suffocating extra days under Wednesday’s roof.
Beyond the glass, a low gale began to weave through the cemetery pines, churning their boughs until they hissed like surf against the headstones.
“Yeah. Well,” Enid muttered, her voice small, sanded down by the rising draft. “Dad’s useless with an engine. Took him two weeks just to figure out what was smoking under the hood.”
She reached down and lifted a pair of thick, lavender wool socks from the mattress. She stared down at the fleece as if she had forgotten the purpose of thread, her fingers sinking into the soft pile.
Her mind flashed with painful clarity to the rainy afternoon Wednesday had dropped a box containing twelve pairs of them onto her lap, all spun in absurd, silly hues, staring down her nose and muttering, “You will cease depleting my black silk hosiery, Enid. It is an untenable domestic offense.”
Now, Enid bunched them in her fist and shoved them violently into the corner of the trunk.
‘Say something,’ Enid pleaded inwardly, the silence pounding against her temples like a slow, deafening kick-drum. ‘Just tell me you need to see another full moon pass. Tell me my wolf-fever and control might relapse if you are not there to control the beast. Tell me you’ll die of boredom without someone here to annoy you. Give me one wretched, miserable, depressing, irrelevant reason. Tell me you need me to bring your coffee in the morning. To hand you the book at the tallest shelf of the library. Give me one reason why you’d want me to stay, Wednesday, and I will strike a match right here. I will burn this trunk into your antique rug, and I will watch the smoke take it, just to see if it amuses you.’
Wednesday’s gaze drifted from the violent gesture, fixing itself on the carriage of the Underwood.
‘She cannot bear another hour in this gloom,’ Wednesday reasoned, her chest cold and cavernous as a long-abandoned family crypt. ‘If she wished to remain, she would simply refuse to board the vehicle. She is a creature of unabashed noise and unapologetic territorial claims. Her silence is a quiet demand for liberation. I dragged her from the wilderness by force, but I will not make this house her secondary cage.’
A sudden, heavy slap of water struck the windowpane, wet and jarring against the leaded glass.
Then came another, slower and thicker, dragging a long gray tear down the pane and breaking the fragile skin of their silence.
Enid reached toward the vanity, her hand hovering over a small, painstakingly detailed figure. A miniature wolf Wednesday had carved out of black walnut during the third week of Enid’s convalescence, whittled during those endless, feverish nights when Enid’s fingers had trembled too violently to steady a cup of tea.
“Should I take this?” Enid asked, her voice hushed and fragile against the muted rhythm of rain gathering on the glass. “Or do you want to keep it?”
Wednesday did not lift her eyes from the keys.
“I am intimately acquainted with lupine skeletal anatomy,” she answered, her tone smooth and level. “I have no need for an aide-mémoire. Do with it what you will.”
Enid’s fingers curled inward, leaving the carved wood untouched on the dark, reflective grain of the mahogany.
“Right… anatomical study,” Enid murmured, the sharp edge of a canine grazing her lower lip. “God forbid you ever admit you made something simply to be kind.”
“I do not traffic in kindness, Enid. Sentimentality is a defect of the intellect,” Wednesday recited, the cadence clinical, cold, and entirely hollowed out of the blood that was currently deafening her ears. The raw, sickening humiliation of having whittled the keepsake for Enid, only to watch it casually dismissed on the dresser, forced her ancestral defenses to snap shut like iron gates. “You are returning to San Francisco. You have a pack that has concluded its period of mourning, a mother orchestrating your reintroduction to society, and a dormitory awaiting you in the spring. Packing superfluous timber will only add surplus weight to your luggage. Leave it where it sits. It is for the best.”
“Surplus weight…”
Enid turned around then, her blue eyes flashing with a sudden, violent spark of amber. Her wolf had always lived closer to the surface since Canada, and right now, the beast was clawing at the back of her throat.
“Is that all I’ve been for the last five months, Wednesday? Surplus weight?”
“Do not distort my lexicon to satisfy your appetite for melodrama.”
“I’m not distorting anything!” Enid took two rapid steps across the floor, her lavender wool socks muffling her footfalls, making her glide through the gloom like an apparition. “You think I haven't noticed what you've been doing for weeks? Ever since your mother and Grandmama confirmed my shift had stabilized and my lungs were fully recovered, you’ve treated me like an eviction notice with a pulse. Interrogating me about pack elders… you even packed my toiletries before I woke up this morning.”
“I was merely attempting to ensure an orderly transition,” Wednesday replied, rising slowly from her desk. She kept her chin high, her day eyes like two polished discs of obsidian, betraying nothing. “I presumed you would be eager to escape a damp, cold mausoleum populated by undead and return to your natural habitat of fluorescent lighting and commercial pop music.”
“You presumed?!” Enid let out a harsh, cracked laugh that sounded torn from her throat. “You never presume anything, Wednesday! You calculate! You deduce! You scheme! But you don’t presume. And you certainly didn't ask me. Not once.”
Wednesday pressed the inside of her cheek against her molars until she tasted iron. She had no reason to ask. She had stood in the shadow of the doorway weeks ago, listening to Enid whisper into the receiver with Yoko after the first quiet lunar turn, talking about ordinary days, about missing the brightness of a life unburdened by ancient curses.
“I did not realize my permission was required for you to resume your life,” Wednesday countered quietly, her words chilled to the bone.
“I didn't want to resume it!” Enid shouted, the sound cracking the stillness and rattling the delicate glass apothecary vials on the shelves behind the desk. “I wanted…”
The amber fire in her irises flickered out, drowned in a sudden, helpless wash of pale blue. Her chest rose and fell in ragged tremors, the rest of the thought suffocating before it could reach the air.
Wednesday felt the breath snag in her throat, the room tilting faintly on its axis.
“You wanted what, Enid?”
Enid stared at her. At the pale, unyielding mask of Wednesday’s face, at the immaculate black braids, at the hands tucked neatly, defensively, behind Wednesday’s back. And suddenly, the sheer, exhausting weight of Wednesday’s impenetrable pride broke something inside her.
“Nothing,” Enid whispered, her voice dropping into a ruin of hurt that hit Wednesday harder than any blade ever could. And she had been stabbed. Multiple times. “You’re right. Orderly transition or whatever… I’ll just wait outside for my brother. I’m suffocating in this room.”
Wednesday’s brow twitched in a faint, involuntary furrow.
It wasn’t time yet.
She knew to the second.
She had just checked the clock precisely one minute and forty-seven seconds ago.
She was still owed two hours of Enid’s presence.
Two hours she had no right to demand, but was selfishly, desperately ready to bleed for.
Enid didn’t reach for a coat or cast a parting glance at the open trunk. She snatched her sneakers from beside the threshold, wrenched the heavy bedroom door open with enough lupine force to splinter the antique brass latch, and vanished down the dim gallery corridor.
Wednesday didn’t have to wonder if Enid had fled the manor; two floors below, the front door slammed shut, reverberating through the floorboards like a muffled thunderclap.
She remained standing in the center of her room. Their room.
The silence that rushed in to fill Enid’s absence was not the peaceful, productive solitude she had cultivated for seventeen years. It was an absolute zero. A vacuum that sucked the air directly out of her lungs.
Her gaze drifted to the little walnut wolf, then across the dark mahogany toward the corner of the desk.
Wednesday’s hands, usually steady enough to perform a trepanation ina rolling carriage, began to tremble, hovering uselessly over the bright yellow intruder.
‘I have fulfilled my obligation,’ she repeated in her mind, reciting the cold mantra she had whispered to the dark every night while waiting for Enid's fever to break. ‘The debt is paid, and we return to our separate paths.’
Even without touching it, the bright yellow fleece felt like an open brand against her skin. She had taken her allergy medication hours ago; it was the lie that was poisoning her.
Lies. All of them. Wicked, cowardly… cowardly lies.
She had not tracked a phantom through the Canadian wilderness out of obligation. She hadn’t ditched her uncle when he insisted on having her retreat during a particular heavy blizzard because of obligation.
She had not spent three sleepless days kneeling on the cold flagstones before Grandmama Addams, bartering with ancestral shades and offering her own blood to the dark, because of a ledger.
She had done it because the thought of a world where Enid Sinclair did not exist, where she couldn’t make her come back to her… where that stupid, blinding, intolerable light was permanently extinguished, was a torture more grotesque than anything the Spanish inquisition had ever conceived.
And now, she had let her walk out the door because she was too terrified to say the only words that matter.
Stay.
Stay with me.
Stay, or take me with you.
Wednesday didn’t stop to lace her boots or reach for an umbrella. She broke into a dead, reckless sprint.
She flew down the grand stone staircase, clearing the bottom three steps in a single leap, ignoring Thing, who scuttled frantically across the banister, tapping out frantic warnings in Morse code. She tore through the foyer and gave a quick nod to Lurch, who somehow had already been with the door held open for her, hurling herself then out into the storm.
The sky had split wide open.
It was not mere rain but a biblical deluge, a violent curtain of gray water that battered the earth and turned the gravel drive into a churning river of mud. The wind screamed through the ancient pines, bowing their dark boughs until they groaned like the hulls of sinking ships.
Wednesday hit the drive at full speed.
Within three strides, the freezing downpour had drenched her black chambray shirt, plastering the thin linen to her ribs and whipping her loose bangs into her eyes. The cold bit into her skin, sharp as broken glass, but she barely felt it. Her vision was married to the gray expanse of the winding road ahead.
The estate drive curved sharply down the hill, cutting through a corridor of weeping, moss-draped pines that leaned over the pavement like crooked sentinels. The mist hung heavy between the trunks, swallowing the horizon in a suffocating wall of damp fog.
Wednesday ran until the air in her chest felt like lye, her boots splashing through deep, muddy puddles that dragged her at her ankles.
“Enid!”
Her voice tore through the mist, raw and unspooling, only to be swallowed beneath the slow, deafening beauty of the downpour.
She rounded the final bend of the long, private lane, where the gravel gave way to the cracked black asphalt of the perimeter road.
There, fifty yards ahead, a solitary gas-turned-electric streetlamp burned against the encroaching night. Its iron head buzzed with a dull, wet hum, casting a circle of bruised, golden light over the drowning road.
Directly beneath the amber halo, a solitary figure stood still.
Enid was soaked to the bone. Her washed-out pink shirt was weighed down by gallons of freezing water, clinging to her skin like a second shadow. Her blonde hair, stripped of its bright pink and blue highlights by the gloom, hung in sodden, dark ropes around her pale face.
Though her steps had likely been directed toward the main gates, she now remained motionless under the streetlamp, her head cast backward to meet the downpour as her shoulders shuddered in violent, ragged spasms.
Wednesday slowed her pace, her heavy boots coming down hard against the flooded asphalt. The water rose to her ankles, rippling under the yellow glare of the lamp like molten copper.
“Enid!”
Enid whipped around.
When she saw Wednesday standing there, braids coming undone in dark, wet tendrils, coatless, drenched, looking more unhinged and wild than she had ever appeared, Enid’s expression crumpled from pure heartbreak into furious disbelief.
“Are you insane?!” Enid screamed over the thunder, her voice cracking as she threw her arms wide against the rain. “What are you doing out here?! Go back inside!”
“You forgot your coat!” Wednesday shouted back, closing the distance between them with long, desperate strides. “The temperature has plummeted twelve degrees! Your pulmonary system cannot withstand another bout of pleural effusion!”
“I don’t care about my lungs!” Enid took three furious steps forward, meeting Wednesday in the dead center of the amber pool. The rain fell between them like a beaded curtain, shimmering gold under the buzzing bulb. “Why did you follow me?! Why can’t you just let me leave?!”
Enid didn’t call out the obvious, that Wednesday held no coat in her empty hands, that she had chased her into the deluge with nothing to protect her own skin. But Wednesday felt the hollow fracture of her own excuse anyway, swerving immediately to keep her walls from caving in.
“Because you are walking in the wrong direction!” Wednesday shouted, stopping mere inches from her. She was panting, steam billowing from her parted lips into the freezing air. Water streamed down the sharp planes of her cheekbones, dripping steadily from the tip of her chin. “The perimeter gates lie half a mile north! You are wandering aimlessly through a deluge like an errant ghost!”
“I was waiting for my brother!”
“Your brother’s truck cannot cross the lower bridge when the creek rises!” Wednesday countered, the words tight and sharp. “And he will not arrive for at least another two hours!”
“Then I’ll walk!” Enid shouted, tears finally spilling over her lower lids, hot and invisible against the freezing rain on her cheeks. “I’ll walk all the way to the town line! I’ll walk back to California if I have to! Anything is better than standing in a house where I’m not wanted… where you just look right through me!”
‘She would rather walk across the continent than endure another hour beside you.’
“I have never looked through you!” Wednesday’s voice erupted, a deafening explosion of raw, jagged intensity that cut through the roar of the swaying trees and silenced her own intrusive thoughts.
Enid flinched, stepping back, but Wednesday refused to surrender the space. She stepped forward, her soaked boots sloshing through the current, closing the distance until the wet cotton of their shirts brushed, their chests rising and falling against each other.
“You think I want you to go?” Wednesday’s voice was shaking now, a terrifying, unprecedented tremor that stripped away every scrap of her carefully constructed armor. “You truly believe I spent five months tending to you, listening to your breathing in the dark to ensure your heart did not falter, because I was anxious to return you to a pack of suburban hypocrites who abandoned you the moment your wolf proved inconvenient?”
“You handed me plane options and train schedules!” Enid cried, her fists bunching in the fabric of her own soaked shirt. “You bought me a trunk! You wouldn’t even look at me this morning!”
“Because I would beg!” Wednesday shot back, her words cutting through the rain with brutal, agonizing clarity. “I knew that if I looked at you… I knew I would beg you to stay…”
The storm seemed to pause. The wind whipped a sheet of spray across their faces, but Enid remained frozen, her blue eyes wide, searching Wednesday’s dark, drenched gaze.
“You… what?”
Wednesday swallowed, the movement of her throat tight and visible in the yellow glare of the lamp. Her dark eyes were fever-bright, stripped of all irony, all cruelty, and all defense.
“I am an Addams,” Wednesday said, each word wrenched from her chest like an iron nail. “We do not experience affection moderately. We do not love with caution. When we attach, it is a ruinous, all-consuming necrosis of the soul. For five months, I have watched you occupy my home, my room, my thoughts… and I realized that if you chose to stay merely out of gratitude or pity, or the lingering trauma of what happened in the snow, it would destroy me.”
She reached up, her pale, freezing fingers trembling as they hovered near Enid’s jaw before finally pressing flat against the warm, wet skin of Enid’s cheek.
“I gave you those options because I wanted you to possess your freedom,” Wednesday rasped, her thumb tracing the faint silver seam of a fading scar near Enid’s ear. “I needed you to choose. And when you packed your trunk the first time... I assumed you had chosen the sun. I would never keep you caged in the dark against your will.”
Enid stood entirely motionless under the burning streetlamp, water cascading over her eyelashes, her mouth slightly parted as the confession settled deep into her bones.
“You…” Enid whispered, her voice catching in the rain. “You absolute idiot.”
Wednesday blinked, genuine bewilderment cutting through her pallor.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You brilliant, terrifying, utterly blind idiot.” Enid let out a breathless, half-sobbed laugh as her wet hands rose to cup Wednesday’s jaw and the nape of her neck. Her touch was firm, burning hot, unmistakably lupine even in its restraint. “You thought I stayed because of gratitude? Wednesday, I didn’t lose my mind in Canada because of the moon. I lost it because after Nevermore, after Isaac, I thought I had lost you… that I wouldn’t be able to turn back. I thought I was just some loud, annoying roommate you’d tolerate until you found someone more morbid to talk to.”
Enid leaned in closer, her forehead almost brushing Wednesday’s, their breath mingling in a quiet, white plume against the dark.
“You saved me, but I survived out there before you came,” she whispered, the words trembling with a fierce, quiet gravity. “My wolf survived those woods and the hunters because whenever she wanted to give up and let the frost take us, I could smell the ink on your hands. I could hear your voice in my head telling me I was being absurdly dramatic. I didn’t spend all these months recovering at your place because I was trapped. I stayed because it is the only place on this earth where I feel like home.”
Wednesday’s hand on Enid’s cheek tightened, her fingers tangling into the wet hair at Enid’s temple.
“Enid…”
“I don’t want the sun, Wednesday,” Enid said, her voice steady now, cutting straight through the slow drumming of the deluge. “I have enough warmth for both of us. I want the mausoleum. I want the damp cold and the nightshade. I want the sound of your keys clattering at three in the morning, your morbid cello, and your ridiculous black clothes. I want you. I have been completely, humiliatingly in love with you since the hour I transformed under the blood moon.”
A long beat hung suspended between them, cradled only by the rhythmic, heavy hiss of the storm pooling around their ankles.
“How dreadfully conventional,” Wednesday murmured, her dark eyes glittering as they dropped to Enid’s lips. “You have subjected me to enough vapid cinema to know you are describing a cliché. The outcast and the beast. The sun and the moon. A Southern Gothic romance sealed in the middle of a storm. It is derivative. Painfully predictable. A kiss beneath the rain… how thoroughly mediocre.”
A faint, tear-stained smile touched Enid’s mouth, her hands sliding down to grip Wednesday’s soaked collar, feeling the fevered pulse running through Wednesday's throat.
“Do you hate it?”
“Desperately,” Wednesday whispered against her mouth, closing the final inch between them. “I will never forgive you for this.”
She pulled her down.
The collision was fierce, slow, and devastatingly hungry, stripped of all calculation and reserve.
Wednesday kissed Enid with a vicious, starved desperation, stripped clean of any calculation, scheme, or measured intent, driven purely by an instinct like a creature gasping for air, drawn to the very essence of Enid Sinclair. Her fingers dug hard into the rain-soaked hair at the nape of Enid’s neck, anchoring herself in an almost desperate act of reverence.
Enid let out a shuddering gasp against her mouth, wrapping both arms around Wednesday’s waist and hauling her flush against her chest, lifting her nearly off the flooded blacktop as their soaked clothes crushed together.
The freezing air fell away.
The rain beat down on their heads, running into their mouths, tasting of petrichor, salt, and heat, but where their skin touched, it burned like sulfur.
Wednesday felt Enid’s claws extend, piercing the fabric of her shirt with a desperate, possessive force. Though she had always welcomed the promise of a scar, for the very first time, she welcomed the devotion tied to it.
When Enid finally drew back to let the cold air reach their lungs, she rested her forehead against Wednesday’s, both of them breathing in sync beneath the humming halo of the lamp.
“Can I tell my brother to turn around now?” Enid whispered, her voice quiet and ragged, her eyes staying closed as she refused to loosen her hold.
“Your brother’s truck,” Wednesday whispered, her thumb brushing over Enid’s swollen, bruised lips, “will find the county bridge entirely impassable.”
A low, wolfish vibration rumbled in Enid’s chest, bubbling into a quiet chuckle against Wednesday’s neck.
“Pugsley?”
“I oversaw the detonation coordinates at midnight,” Wednesday replied without a flicker of remorse in her dark gaze. “Much like I instructed Uncle Fester to sabotage your father's carburetor a fortnight ago.”
Enid threw her head back, laughing into the teeth of the pouring rain, a sound so bright and vibrant it seemed to scatter the shadows between the weeping pines.
“You liar…” Enid said softly, her blue eyes shining with warmth, entirely devoid of bite. “Didn't you just say you wanted to let me choose?”
Wednesday’s brow knitted slightly, the faintest flush tinting the pale bone of her cheeks.
“I am not a liar… I am a hypocrite. There is a profound distinction,” she argued, her voice dropping into a defensive murmur. “It was merely an insurance policy... in the event that your judgment proved catastrophically flawed.”
“Always a contingency plan, uh?” Enid breathed softly against her lips.
She didn't let Wednesday offer another defense. Enid tilted her chin and claimed her mouth once more, slow and deep, a quiet, rain-soaked promise that Wednesday would always, endlessly, be her choice.
The only right choice.