Wickedly Yours

Part 12

As you drive down the dirt road, your phone buzzes again on the seat beside you. For a moment, you consider checking your messages. Part of you is curious—maybe it's Severus, maybe even Draco or Lucius, wondering where you are—but you quickly push the thought away. You're not ready for that yet. Not now.

You spot the familiar lights of a small pub up ahead, and a sudden wave of relief washes over you. It's tucked away enough that you're sure no one will recognize you. A drink sounds perfect right now—something to numb the anger, the confusion, the hurt. You need a distraction, and this place might just offer it.

The car slows as you pull into the gravel lot, turning around to face the road. You sit there for a moment, catching your breath. Quickly, you check your reflection in the rearview mirror.

The redness in your eyes from crying earlier is almost gone, but you take out a compact and redo your makeup anyway—something to make you look less vulnerable, more composed.

You apply a soft layer of concealer under your eyes, touch up your lipstick, and brush your fingers through your hair. By the time you're done, it's like you've transformed back into the version of yourself that can handle anything.

With a deep breath, you step out of the car and head inside the pub. The warm air hits you, filled with the smell of alcohol, wood, and faint cigarette smoke. It's not packed, which is exactly what you were hoping for. Just a few locals scattered around small tables, engrossed in their own conversations.

You slide onto a stool at the bar, the bartender glancing your way. "What'll it be?" he asks, wiping his hands on a towel.

"Whiskey. Neat," you reply without hesitation, surprising yourself with the firmness in your voice.

The bartender nods, turning to pour your drink. You take the moment to glance around the room, but no one seems to pay you any mind. Perfect. This is exactly what you need—anonymity, a moment to breathe without anyone expecting anything from you.

When your drink arrives, you take it in your hand, savoring the warmth of the glass before bringing it to your lips. The sharp burn of whiskey slides down your throat, settling in your chest like a temporary comfort. You sigh, feeling the warmth spread through you, calming your nerves just a little.

Finally, you take out your spellphone. It's been buzzing on and off for a while now, and you know you can't avoid it forever. You glance at the screen—several missed messages, a couple of them from Draco, and even one from Severus.

Your heart skips a beat at Severus' name on the screen, but you force yourself to check Draco's first. You scroll through his messages:

Draco: "Where did you go?"

Draco: "Are you alright?"

Draco: "Father's worried you're upset."

You roll your eyes at that last one. Of course Lucius is concerned. But it's Severus' message that you linger on. With a slight hesitance, you open it:

Severus: "Bea, we should talk. Please come see me when you can."

It's direct, typical of him, but there's something about the tone that makes your stomach twist. You're not ready for that conversation either—not yet. Not when you're still piecing together how you feel about the way he looked at you during dinner, how cold and distant he seemed despite everything that had happened between you both.

You sigh, scrolling back to Draco's messages. Before you can overthink it, you reply quickly:

You: "I'm fine. I just needed some air."