help her to her feet and saw blood on her hand. Squatting, he pulled off his sunglasses and reached out to hold her wrist. The blood wasn’t coming from her palm. His gaze locked with surprised, light green eyes. “You came for help with a curse.”
It wasn’t a question, but she nodded. Her wrist felt so damned delicate in his hand, it raised a masculine, protective urge that had little to do with his usual need to break a strong curse. Her eyes stood out, the color of peridot, sharp and fresh against the beauty of her pale skin tone. The woman looked vaguely familiar.
She shifted and winced again. “Can you help with curses?”
“Yes.” He slid his sunglasses back on. “But the person who placed it should remove it.”
She bit her lip. “He died.”
“Well then, guess I’ll have to do what I can. May I?” He let go of her wrist and gestured at her shirt, where blood was soaking the side now at an alarming rate. When she nodded, he gently lifted the hem, revealing a four-inch gash and torn stitches. He touched the feverish, red skin around the wound and grimaced. “How did you get this?”
“A wall, rebar, and the curse.”
“You know what kind of curse?”
She shook her head, long red hair sliding over her shoulders. “My grandmother believes it’s a coffin hex and that Rattrap buried it someplace we’ll never find.” She bit her lip. “But I think maybe it was something more.”
Pryor briefly closed his eyes. She wasn’t the first victim to come to his home from Rattrap Rousalard. She wouldn’t be the last. The old asshole had tapped into potent magic and cursed anyone and everything that got in his way. It had taken he and his brothers days to break one of Rattrap’s generational spells the year before. “It would be better if you came when my brothers were home. The three of us together could work a more powerful reversal spell.” He lowered her shirt and gently tugged on her hands to pull her to her feet. “Old Rousalard cursed lots of things, so no, you’ll probably never find out what it was. Could have been a cherry pit. He was warped.”
“When do you expect your brothers?” She squinted at him, ran her gaze down his chest. Again.
Pryor hadn’t missed her first thorough look and damn, if he didn’t concentrate, his body would start to react. “About a week. But let’s bandage up your back while we talk. I’m Pryor Bernaux, by the way.”
She walked beside him, keeping her gaze on the ground—probably watching for more roots. He could have told her there weren’t any. There hadn’t even been the one she’d tripped over, as of yesterday. “Elita Raisonne.” She stopped and stared up at him. “Does that change your mind on the help?”
“Raisonne, eh?” That was why she looked familiar. He’d met her grandmother, Ninette, once in a Piggly Wiggly. One didn’t easily forget that woman. He started to grin, then remembered that Elita’s mother and aunt had both died in freak accidents. Hell, the Raisonne curse was legend around these parts. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure he could break it, even with his brothers’ help. “I’ll call Mercer and Wyatt and tell them to wrap up their work early and head back. I can drive you home, call when they arrive.”
“Will they come when they hear who I am?”
“Why wouldn’t they?”
She halted mid-stride, her pretty face tightening in confusion. “The brothers before you apparently tried to help my family once. It did lessen the curse for a time.”
Pryor tilted his head, squinted at her. “But it didn’t break it? Interesting.” He’d always heard rumors about the Raisonne curse, remembered hearing his father talk about it when he was a kid. He had, in fact, wondered why the women had never approached them. “We’ll try again then.”
Elita pressed her hand against her back. “Thank you. I really am sorry to just show up like this. The suggestion to come here and the ride with Tooter happened kind of fast. I
It wasn’t a question, but she nodded. Her wrist felt so damned delicate in his hand, it raised a masculine, protective urge that had little to do with his usual need to break a strong curse. Her eyes stood out, the color of peridot, sharp and fresh against the beauty of her pale skin tone. The woman looked vaguely familiar.
She shifted and winced again. “Can you help with curses?”
“Yes.” He slid his sunglasses back on. “But the person who placed it should remove it.”
She bit her lip. “He died.”
“Well then, guess I’ll have to do what I can. May I?” He let go of her wrist and gestured at her shirt, where blood was soaking the side now at an alarming rate. When she nodded, he gently lifted the hem, revealing a four-inch gash and torn stitches. He touched the feverish, red skin around the wound and grimaced. “How did you get this?”
“A wall, rebar, and the curse.”
“You know what kind of curse?”
She shook her head, long red hair sliding over her shoulders. “My grandmother believes it’s a coffin hex and that Rattrap buried it someplace we’ll never find.” She bit her lip. “But I think maybe it was something more.”
Pryor briefly closed his eyes. She wasn’t the first victim to come to his home from Rattrap Rousalard. She wouldn’t be the last. The old asshole had tapped into potent magic and cursed anyone and everything that got in his way. It had taken he and his brothers days to break one of Rattrap’s generational spells the year before. “It would be better if you came when my brothers were home. The three of us together could work a more powerful reversal spell.” He lowered her shirt and gently tugged on her hands to pull her to her feet. “Old Rousalard cursed lots of things, so no, you’ll probably never find out what it was. Could have been a cherry pit. He was warped.”
“When do you expect your brothers?” She squinted at him, ran her gaze down his chest. Again.
Pryor hadn’t missed her first thorough look and damn, if he didn’t concentrate, his body would start to react. “About a week. But let’s bandage up your back while we talk. I’m Pryor Bernaux, by the way.”
She walked beside him, keeping her gaze on the ground—probably watching for more roots. He could have told her there weren’t any. There hadn’t even been the one she’d tripped over, as of yesterday. “Elita Raisonne.” She stopped and stared up at him. “Does that change your mind on the help?”
“Raisonne, eh?” That was why she looked familiar. He’d met her grandmother, Ninette, once in a Piggly Wiggly. One didn’t easily forget that woman. He started to grin, then remembered that Elita’s mother and aunt had both died in freak accidents. Hell, the Raisonne curse was legend around these parts. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure he could break it, even with his brothers’ help. “I’ll call Mercer and Wyatt and tell them to wrap up their work early and head back. I can drive you home, call when they arrive.”
“Will they come when they hear who I am?”
“Why wouldn’t they?”
She halted mid-stride, her pretty face tightening in confusion. “The brothers before you apparently tried to help my family once. It did lessen the curse for a time.”
Pryor tilted his head, squinted at her. “But it didn’t break it? Interesting.” He’d always heard rumors about the Raisonne curse, remembered hearing his father talk about it when he was a kid. He had, in fact, wondered why the women had never approached them. “We’ll try again then.”
Elita pressed her hand against her back. “Thank you. I really am sorry to just show up like this. The suggestion to come here and the ride with Tooter happened kind of fast. I
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