Chapter 17: The Wine's First Sip
The text came through at 7:42 in the morning, just as Katrina was pouring her second cup of coffee.
I can't stop thinking about you. Come over tonight. I'll make you dinner.
She stared at the screen for so long the coffee went cold in her hand. Her pulse hammered against her throat, a wild, traitorous thing that didn't care about caution or consequence. Every rational thought in her head screamed at her to wait—to play it cool, to not seem desperate, to prove she was a woman of the twenty-first century and not a lovesick teenager from 2017.
She waited exactly one hour and seven minutes, then typed: Okay.
Then she spent the next ten hours wishing she'd typed something wittier.
---
The day crawled.
Felicity commandeered the kitchen table for her research, spreading out maps and notes and three different textbooks, two of which had been written by her mother. She kept glancing at Katrina with a knowing look that made Katrina want to crawl out of her own skin.
"You're fidgeting," Felicity said, not looking up from her notes.
"I'm not fidgeting."
"You've reorganized the spice rack twice."
"Maybe I wanted the oregano next to the basil."
Felicity finally looked up, her blue eyes bright with amusement. "The oregano was fine where it was. You moved it to the other side of the kitchen, then moved it back. That's not organizing. That's nervous energy."
Katrina opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. There was no point. Felicity had grown up in a house with four younger siblings. She could read people like a book.
"I'm just..." Katrina started, then stopped. She didn't have words for what she was. Excited. Terrified. Hopeful. All of it tangled together in her chest like a knot she couldn't untie.
"Going on a date?" Felicity offered.
"Something like that."
"With Mark?"
Katrina's silence was answer enough.
Felicity set down her pen. "Good. You deserve something good."
The words hit harder than they should have. Katrina turned away, pretending to examine the contents of the refrigerator, and blinked rapidly until the stinging in her eyes subsided.
---
Calista appeared around noon, freshly showered and smelling of coconut and something faintly floral. She took one look at Katrina and raised a silver eyebrow.
"Hot date?"
"How does everyone know?"
"Because you're glowing," Calista said. "Literally. Your aura is doing this little sparkle thing. It's very cute."
Katrina touched her own cheek, as if she could feel it. "I don't—"
"Elf thing," Calista said, waving a hand. "You get used to it. But seriously—hot date?"
"Maybe."
"Wear the red dress."
"I was already planning to."
Calista grinned, and for a moment, she looked every bit the mischievous half-elf she was. "Good. Go get laid. You've earned it."
The bluntness made Katrina laugh despite herself. "You're terrible."
"I'm honest. There's a difference."
---
The sun began its slow descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink and deepening purple. Katrina stood in her room, the red dress laid out on the bed, and tried to remember how to breathe.
She hadn't felt this way in thirty years. Not since Emily. Not since the girl with the soft smile and the clever hands who had turned out to be something else entirely. She had spent three decades in a void where time had no meaning, and now she was standing in a beach house in Miami, getting ready for a date with a man she barely knew, and her heart was pounding like she was nineteen again.
You're being foolish, she told herself. You don't know him. He could be anyone.
But the memory of his mouth on hers, his hands on her hips, the way he'd looked at her—reverent, hungry, like she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen—it drowned out all the warnings.
She slipped into the dress. The fabric was cool against her skin, the fit perfect, the hem brushing the tops of her thighs. She left her hair down, dark waves cascading over her shoulders, and applied the barest hint of makeup—just enough to make her storm-grey eyes stand out.
Then she slipped out the back door, crossed the street, and knocked on Mark's door.
He opened it immediately, as if he'd been waiting just on the other side. His hair was still damp from a recent shower, curling slightly at the temples, and he was wearing a simple gray T-shirt and jeans that fit him far too well. His smile was wide and warm and made her stomach flip.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey."
Then his mouth was on hers, and there was no more room for words.
The kiss started soft—gentle, questioning, the kind of kiss that asked permission. But Katrina didn't want gentle. She pressed herself against him, her hands fisting in his shirt, and deepened the kiss into something hungry, something desperate, something that said I've been waiting all day for this.
Mark groaned against her mouth. His hands found her waist, then her hips, then the curve of her ass, and he pulled her tighter against him.
"Dinner," he murmured against her lips. "I was going to make dinner."
"Fuck dinner."
He laughed—a low, surprised sound—and then he was kissing her again, walking her backward through the house, past the kitchen where a pot of something simmered on the stove, past the dining table set for two with candles and wine glasses, until they reached the bedroom.
The room was incredible. Holographic constellations shimmered across the walls, casting soft light over a bed that seemed to float in the center of the space. The air smelled like ozone and lavender and something underneath that was just Mark.
He pulled back just long enough to look at her. His eyes were dark, hungry, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.
"You're sure?" he asked.
The question—the kindness of it—made her heart ache. She reached for the hem of her dress and pulled it over her head in one fluid motion, tossing it aside. Her bra and panties followed, and then she stood before him, bare and unashamed.
"I'm sure," she said.
He made a sound—something between a groan and a prayer—and closed the distance between them.
His hands were trembling as they moved over her skin, tracing the curve of her waist, the swell of her hips, the softness of her stomach. He kissed her shoulder, her collarbone, the hollow of her throat, and each touch felt like worship.
"You're so beautiful," he whispered against her skin.
"So are you."
He pulled off his shirt, revealing a chest that was sculpted but not overly so—real, human, with a small scar near his left nipple that she wanted to ask about but didn't. Her fingers traced it anyway, and he shivered.
Then he pushed her gently onto the bed, and the world narrowed to just the two of them.
---
He started with his mouth.
Mark kissed his way down her body with a patience that bordered on torture. He spent long minutes on her breasts, his tongue circling her nipples until they were hard and aching, his teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp. He kissed the inside of her wrist, the crook of her elbow, the tender skin behind her knee.
By the time he reached her thighs, she was already trembling.
"Please," she breathed.
"Please what?"
The teasing note in his voice made her want to hit him and kiss him in equal measure. She settled for arching her hips toward his face.
"Please," she repeated. "I need your mouth."
He smiled—that devastating smile—and then he lowered his head and gave her exactly what she'd asked for.
His tongue was hot and wet and impossibly skilled. He licked up the length of her cunt, slow and deliberate, before circling her clit with a precision that made her vision blur. Her fingers twisted in the sheets, her back arched off the bed, and a moan tore from her throat.
"Fuck," she gasped. "Oh, fuck."
He responded by pushing two fingers inside her while his tongue continued its assault. The dual sensation—the stretch of his fingers, the wet heat of his mouth—was too much and not enough. She ground against his face, shameless, desperate, chasing the release that was building low in her belly.
"That's it," he murmured against her cunt. "Come for me, Katrina. Let me feel it."
The words—filthy and sweet and commanding—sent her over the edge. She came with a scream that she barely recognized as her own, her body convulsing, her vision whiting out.
Before she could catch her breath, Mark was moving, flipping her onto her stomach and pulling her hips up. She felt the head of his cock press against her entrance—thick, hot, impossibly hard—and then he was inside her.
"God," he groaned. "You feel so fucking good."
She couldn't respond. She could barely breathe. He was stretching her, filling her, and it was exactly what she needed.
He started slow, each thrust deliberate, hitting a spot deep inside her that made sparks dance behind her eyes. His hand fisted in her hair, pulling just enough to make it hurt, and the pain mixed with the pleasure until she couldn't tell them apart.
"Harder," she demanded.
He obliged.
The bed slammed against the wall with each thrust. The sound of skin against skin filled the room. Katrina's hands fisted in the sheets, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps, and she felt herself climbing toward the edge again.
"That's it," Mark growled. "Take it. Take all of it."
She came with a cry, her cunt clenching around his cock, and a moment later, she felt him shudder and spill inside her with a deep, guttural groan.
They collapsed together, gasping, sweaty, tangled.
---
But they weren't done.
After a few minutes of silence, Katrina rolled over and pushed him onto his back. His cock was still half-hard, glistening with their combined fluids, and the sight of it made her mouth water.
"My turn," she said.
She straddled him, positioning herself over his cock, and sank down in one slow, deliberate motion. They both moaned—her at the feeling of him filling her again, him at the tight heat of her cunt.
She rode him with a dancer's grace, her hips rolling in a rhythm that was entirely her own. His hands found her breasts, her hips, her ass, and he looked up at her with something that might have been awe.
"You're incredible," he breathed. "Fucking incredible."
She leaned forward, her hair falling around them like a curtain, and kissed him deeply as she moved. The angle changed, and suddenly he was hitting a spot that made her see stars.
"Fuck," she gasped against his mouth. "Right there. Don't stop."
He didn't.
She came again—third time, she'd lost count—and this time she felt him follow, his fingers digging into her hips as he emptied himself inside her with a shout.
They lay there afterward, a tangle of limbs and sweat and satisfaction, and Katrina felt something she hadn't felt in thirty years.
Peace.
---
The shower was a blur of soap and steam and slippery skin.
Mark's hands were everywhere—in her hair, on her breasts, between her legs—and she returned the favor with equal enthusiasm. She soaped his chest, his back, his cock, and watched his eyes darken with renewed desire.
"I want you again," he said, his voice rough.
"Then take me."
He pressed her against the tile wall, the cool porcelain a sharp contrast to the heat of their bodies, and slid inside her from behind. The angle was different—steeper, deeper—and she cried out as he fucked her with a fierce, desperate intensity.
The water pounded against them, steam filling the small space, and Katrina felt herself climbing toward oblivion for the fourth time that night. When she came, it was with a sob, her body shaking, her fingers scrabbling for purchase against the wet tile.
Mark followed a moment later, groaning her name like a prayer.
---
She dressed slowly, her body humming with a satisfied ache. Mark watched her from the bed, his hair still damp, his eyes soft.
"Thank you," he said.
"For what?"
"For tonight. For..." He paused, searching for words. "For being here."
She smiled. "Thank you for dinner."
They both laughed—the pot on the stove had long since burned dry.
"Rain check?" he offered.
"Definitely."
He walked her to the door, kissed her one last time, and then she was crossing the street, the cool night air a welcome relief against her flushed skin.
The night air hit her skin like a slap, cool and salt-tinged, and Katrina pulled Mark's jacket tighter around her shoulders. She hadn't realized she'd taken it until she was halfway across the street. The fabric still held his scent—cedar and something darker underneath, something that made her stomach flip even now, even after everything they'd done.
She was halfway up the walk when the front door of the safehouse opened behind her.
"Excuse me, dear?"
Katrina turned.
An old woman stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the warm glow of the interior. She was small and round, with silver hair pulled back in a neat bun and a face creased with smile lines. Her eyes were a pale, watery blue, and her cardigan was the kind of floral print that had gone out of style decades ago.
"I'm sorry to bother you," the woman said, her voice soft and quavering. "You must be Katrina. Mark's told me so much about you."
Katrina's guard didn't drop, but it softened. "You're—"
"Ruthie. Mark's aunt." The old woman stepped onto the porch, her movements slow and careful, like someone who'd spent decades navigating a body that no longer cooperated. "I'm visiting from Tampa. Just for a few days."
"Oh." Katrina shifted her weight, suddenly aware of how she must look—flushed, rumpled, wearing a dress that smelled like sex and a jacket that wasn't hers. "It's nice to meet you."
"You too, dear. Mark hasn't stopped talking about you." Ruthie smiled, and it was a kind smile, the kind that made you want to trust her. "He's been so happy lately. Happier than I've seen him in years."
The words landed somewhere soft in Katrina's chest. "He's been good for me too."
"I can tell." Ruthie reached into the pocket of her cardigan and produced a bottle of wine—dark glass, gold foil, a label Katrina didn't recognize. "I brought this for you. For you and your friends."
Katrina blinked. "You did?"
"A thank you gift." Ruthie pressed the bottle into her hands. "For making my nephew smile again. He's had a hard few years. It does my heart good to see him like this."
Katrina looked down at the bottle. The glass was cool against her palms, the label elegant and understated. It looked expensive.
"You didn't have to—"
"I wanted to." Ruthie patted her arm. "You're a sweet girl. I can tell. Don't let anyone tell you different."
Then she turned, slow and careful, and disappeared back into the safehouse, closing the door behind her with a soft click.
Katrina stood on the sidewalk for a long moment, the wine cradled against her chest. Something about the encounter felt off—too sudden, too convenient—but she couldn't pinpoint what. The old woman had been nothing but kind. And the gift was thoughtful.
She shook her head, dismissing the unease, and crossed the street to the beach house.
---
The lights were on downstairs, but the living room was empty. Katrina set the wine on the coffee table and listened. The house was quiet except for the distant sound of the ocean and the hum of the refrigerator.
"Mai?" she called.
"In here."
Katrina followed the voice to the kitchen. Mai was sprawled across the couch in the adjacent living space, her long legs stretched out, her dark hair fanned across a pillow. She was wearing nothing but an oversized T-shirt and a pair of running shorts, and she looked up when Katrina entered.
"Have fun?" Mai asked.
The question was innocent, but the smirk that accompanied it was not.
Katrina felt her cheeks flush. "It was fine."
"Fine?" Mai sat up, her dark eyes glittering with amusement. "You've been gone four hours. You're wearing his jacket. Your hair looks like you've been electrocuted. That's not 'fine.' That's 'I got thoroughly fucked and I liked it.'"
"Mai!"
"What? I'm right, aren't I?"
Katrina grabbed a throw pillow and launched it at Mai's head. Mai caught it, laughing, and tossed it back.
"Okay, okay. I'll stop." She stretched, her spine arching like a cat's. "But seriously. Good for you. You deserve it."
The words—so similar to what Felicity had said earlier—made Katrina's throat tighten. She turned away, pretending to examine the contents of the refrigerator. "Where is everyone?"
"Beach." Mai gestured vaguely toward the patio door. "Mandy and Felicity went down to look at the stars. Calista went with them. Something about needing to feel the sand between her toes."
"And you stayed?"
"I was waiting for you." Mai's eyes dropped to the coffee table, where the bottle of wine still sat. "What's that?"
Katrina glanced at the bottle. "Mark's aunt. She's visiting from Tampa. She wanted to thank me for making him happy."
Mai's eyebrows rose. "His aunt?"
"Ruthie. She's... sweet. A little old-fashioned. Cardigans and floral prints."
"Sounds harmless." Mai stood, stretching again. "Want to open it?"
But Katrina was already shaking her head. "Shower first. I'll be back down."
She left the wine on the table and headed upstairs, suddenly desperate for hot water and soap and a few minutes alone with her thoughts. The encounter with Ruthie still nagged at her—something about the old woman's eyes, maybe, or the way she'd appeared exactly when Katrina was leaving.
She pushed the feeling aside. You're being paranoid. Not everyone is a threat.
---
Behind her, Mai picked up the bottle of wine.
She turned it over in her hands. The label was cream-colored, the lettering gold, the design elegant in a way that suggested money. Real money. The kind of wine that cost more than she made in a month.
Mai's curiosity got the better of her. It always did.
She found a corkscrew in the kitchen drawer, worked the cork free with practiced ease—her mother had taught her how to open wine before she'd taught her how to drive—and poured a small amount into a coffee mug. The liquid was dark, almost black, and it smelled like cherries and something darker underneath.
She took a sip.
It was delicious. Sweeter than she expected, but not cloying. Smooth. Warm. It tasted like the kind of thing you'd drink on a cold night in front of a fire, wrapped in a blanket, with someone you loved.
She took another sip.
Then another.
Her will dissolved like sugar in water.
The sensation was sudden and total—one moment she was Mai, adventurous and unafraid, thinking about how she'd tease Katrina about the hickeys on her neck; the next she was something else, something that looked like Mai but thought like a puppet.
Serve Evelyn Shaw.
The command was crystalline. Absolute. It wasn't a suggestion or an impulse. It was a fact, as undeniable as gravity.
Her first task: get Mandy and Felicity to try the wine.
Mai set the mug down. Her movements were smooth, unhurried, utterly natural. She felt no panic, no resistance. The command simply was, and she would fulfill it.
She poured three glasses.
---
The patio door slid open at half past ten.
Mandy came in first, her shaggy brown hair windblown and craggy, her feet bare and dusted with sand. Felicity followed, her blonde hair escaping from a messy bun, her cheeks pink from the salt air. Calista brought up the rear, her silver hair luminous in the dim light, her golden eyes reflecting the glow of the kitchen.
Mai was waiting for them.
"Hey," she said, her smile easy and bright. "How was the beach?"
"Cold," Mandy said. "But pretty."
"You missed a good date story," Felicity added. She flopped onto the couch, her limbs sprawling. "Katrina got laid."
"She did?" Mai's expression didn't flicker. "Good for her."
"We brought back seashells," Calista said, holding up a handful of white and pink fragments. "For my collection."
"Wonderful." Mai gestured to the coffee table, where three glasses of dark red wine sat waiting. "Mark's aunt sent over wine. You should try it."
Mandy froze.
It was subtle—just a slight hesitation in her step, a flicker of something behind her eyes. She'd learned to be suspicious of gifts from strangers. She'd learned that the hard way, in a warehouse in Chicago, with a knife at her throat and a madwoman monologuing about power.
"Aunt?" she repeated.
"Ruthie. She's visiting from Tampa." Mai picked up her own glass—she'd poured the wine from the bottle into the three glasses, but she had her own mug, already half-empty. "It's good. Sweet. You'll like it."
Felicity reached for a glass.
Mandy caught her wrist. "Wait."
"What?"
"I don't know." Mandy's brow furrowed. She looked at Mai—really looked at her—and something cold settled in her gut. "Mai, are you okay?"
"Of course." Mai smiled. It was a perfect smile. Too perfect. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"You're just..." Mandy hesitated. "You seem off."
"I'm fine." Mai pushed the glasses closer. "Try the wine. Really. It's delicious."
Felicity reached again. Her fingers brushed the stem of the glass.
Then Huy walked through the front door.
---
The priestess moved like shadow, like dust, like something older than memory. She'd been out—walking the beach, communing with the moon, doing whatever it was she did—and now she stood in the doorway, her dark eyes fixed on the scene before her.
Time seemed to stop.
Huy saw Felicity's hand on the glass. Saw Mai's too-bright smile. Saw Mandy's furrowed brow, Calista's confusion, the three glasses of dark red wine waiting like poisoned promises.
Her voice, when it came, was not loud. It didn't need to be.
"No."
She crossed the room in three strides and struck the glass from Felicity's hand.
The wine arced through the air, dark and glittering, and splattered across the hardwood floor. The glass shattered. Felicity gasped, stumbling back, her hand stinging where Huy's palm had connected.
Everyone stared.
Mai screamed.
The sound was raw, primal, nothing like the easy laughter that had filled the room moments before. She lunged toward the spilled wine, her hands reaching, her face contorted with something that looked like grief.
"We have to drink it!" she shouted. "The wine is good! The wine is good, you have to drink it, you have to—"
Calista grabbed her.
The half-elf's arms wrapped around Mai's torso, pinning her in place. Mai thrashed, her strength surprising, her voice rising into something that wasn't quite human.
"Let me go! They have to drink it! She said—she said—"
Mandy moved on instinct. She grabbed the bottle and the remaining two glasses, her hands shaking, and dumped everything down the kitchen sink. The wine swirled and vanished, dark red against white porcelain.
"No!" Mai shrieked. "No, no, no, we have to—"
Huy raised her hand.
She spoke a word—not English, not any language the others recognized—and somehow it cut through the chaos. The sounds of struggle faded; the panicked flailing slowed. Mai's eyes rolled back, and her body went limp in Calista's arms.
Huy lowered her hand.
"She sleeps," the priestess said quietly. "It will take time to cleanse her."
The room was silent except for the crash of waves outside and the ragged breathing of four women who had no idea how close they'd come to disaster.
Katrina appeared at the top of the stairs.
She'd heard the commotion—the scream, the shattering glass—but it wasn't until she reached the bottom step that the scene came into focus. Mai unconscious in Calista's arms. Huy standing like a statue, her dark eyes burning. Mandy at the sink, her hands still trembling. Felicity on the floor, staring at the shattered glass and the wine-stained floorboards like she'd seen a ghost.
And on the coffee table, the bottle. The wine Aunt Ruthie had given her.
The wine that had done this.
"What..." Katrina's voice faltered. "What happened?"
Mandy turned. Her face was pale, her expression unreadable. "Your date's aunt sent us wine."
"She—" Katrina's stomach dropped. "She said it was a gift. She said—"
"She said a lot of things, apparently." Mandy's voice was flat. "What she didn't say was that it's cursed. Or poisoned. Or whatever the fuck this is."
Katrina's legs gave out. She sank onto the bottom step, her hands gripping the banister, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
She thought of Ruthie's smile. Her kind eyes. The way she'd pressed the bottle into Katrina's hands like it was nothing.
I wanted to. You're a sweet girl.
The old woman had lied. The old woman had used her. The old woman had taken something good—something real—and turned it into a weapon.
And Mark. Mark had let her leave with that bottle. He'd kissed her goodbye and watched her cross the street, and he hadn't said a word.
Didn't warn her. Didn't warn anyone.
Tears spilled down her cheeks. She didn't try to stop them.
Felicity rose from the floor and crossed to her, kneeling on the step below. She didn't say anything. She just wrapped her arms around Katrina and held on.
Mandy followed. Then Calista, after laying Mai gently on the couch.
They held her between them, a cocoon of warmth and grief, while Huy stood watch and the ocean crashed against the shore.
Katrina cried.
She cried for Mai, who was lying on the couch because of her. She cried for herself, for being stupid enough to trust a stranger. She cried for Mark, for the lie she was only now beginning to understand.
And underneath the grief, something else began to grow.
Rage.
Cold and sharp and steady.
Evelyn Shaw had taken everything from her once. She wasn't going to do it again.