Chapter 2 Luciu
Suggested Listening: Teenage Dirtbag by Wheatus
My witch wife is fucking gorgeous. I want her to wrap those tree-trunk thighs around my head and squeeze.
I’ve never had a fear-boner before, but there’s a first for everything.
I’m twice as glad that in my haste to get ready I grabbed the slacks my friend left at my place instead of my own.
They’re a size too big and hopefully help hide my half-hard dick.
Especially since I doubt her other partners are going to be okay with me showing up like this and inserting myself into their lives.
Not to mention, this whole situation seems super sketchy to me. Like, I’m pretty sure she has no idea what’s happened. And by the time I had any inkling of what the coven representative was doing? Far too fucking late for me.
These dudes are going to kill me. I just know it.
A witch in good standing with the coven saddled with me?
I’d kill me, too. She has no reason to help me.
So, I’m more than a little confused as to why I’m seated on the sofa alone in her living room with a cup of tea clutched between my shaking hands.
She’s clearly already got a few husbands, so why foist me onto her? What did I ever do to the coven?
Then again, none of the husbands I’ve seen are witches or warlocks, so maybe I’m here for the purpose of ensuring a witch baby?
Considering how little human DNA I have, it makes sense.
Most so-called “full-blooded” witches have more human in them than I do.
Tying me to her would also mean involving me with the coven without having to acknowledge me as a witch.
It’s a win-win for the coven, just how they like it. Fucking bastards.
Applying to the coven had been a whim. A hope, really.
As a mixed-background warlock, the witch community generally shuns me despite my successful business.
Seeing as the only human ancestor I have is several generations removed, I’m more pureblood than many witches currently enjoying full coven membership.
The real issue is my mother’s business. Or should I say, the family business?
The coven elders would hex themselves before willingly allowing me entry to the coven.
Mom did tell me not to get my hopes up. And I didn’t.
It was just a wild idea after another frustrating job.
A shot in the dark I didn’t expect would work out.
My real goal was to attach myself to the coven in a more official capacity.
Maybe as an associate member. Then the elders would at least have my back when my clients stiff me on part of my fee.
Associate membership is rare. Ultra-rare. Rarer than a unicorn fart in a jar, rare.
Most warlocks who are allowed membership do so through an arranged marriage.
Some covens are so close to being inbred that they have to bring in some warlocks.
The illustrious Neilan Council Coven isn’t as inbred as most. Back in some of the mid-1900 conflicts, they did enough kidnapping of other witches to bolster the bloodlines, but in another generation or two they’re fucked.
Everyone will be related to everyone else.
It’s not the best coven to be a member of.
They’re one of the older ones. The ones that still think the war is happening.
It’s mind-bogglingly stupid, but the ancient elders still run the show .
I should have known when they called there was some catch. I’ve always assumed that my sperm donor would see me and connect the dots at some point and I would be quietly disposed of. The general witch community has resented my family’s business since the first generation, even if it is a necessity.
I bounce my leg and stare into the fireplace as I contemplate what has to be my last day among the living.
The elder who summoned me and took the drop of blood wasn’t very forthcoming about the binding.
Only that it was very important I reach Gracie within the hour, and that sex was a requirement.
Eventually. Less of a clock on that one.
Sometime before the next full moon. If she kicks me out now, I’m not sure I’ll have the opportunity to put my affairs in order before I expire.
Expire.
What a strange way to view death.
I’m not ready. I have clients lined up. There’s the party I’m helping Mom with next month. My friends are grilling this weekend. And I won’t see any of it.
What a crap month this has been. First, the biggest job of my life goes tits up. My client ghosted me on payment after weeks of work. Now this?
Life isn’t fucking fair, but this seems quite cruel.
Here’s the embodiment of my dream woman: dark hair, an I’ll-crush-you stare, pouty lips, tits worthy of motorboating, thighs I want to smother me, and a thick ass.
Not to mention her style. And she’s probably going to be the reason I die.
I just hope she’ll let me text Mom so she knows not to blame my wife.
Wife.
Moon above, I wish.
I lean forward and gulp the tea while I wait. Despite the absurdity of the situation, Gracie has been hospitable. I wouldn’t call it warm and welcoming, but she’s not angry, and she hasn’t told me to fuck off. Yet. Though who knows what she’ll say after chatting with her husbands?
They excused themselves to another room. No doubt to decide what the hell they’re going to do with me. Maybe they’re deciding how they’ll use my remains in some spell. At least I’ll be useful even in death?
I know a few guys who have applied for coven membership and were assigned a wife.
The wives were almost always a few decades older.
It was pretty obvious from the outside that someone wanted a boy toy and not a functioning family member.
Still, the benefits of being connected to the coven—any coven—could make the arrangement worthwhile.
I’d thought so, too.
When I pulled up, I’d been hoping for a cheerful older woman with a few cats, a cranky familiar, and some non-violent husbands.
I fully expected this fictional wife to have children my age.
It’s not entirely uncommon for the women in the coven to take on a young warlock husband for the fun of it.
The guys I know who have stepped into that role have very mixed feedback about their experiences.
The benefits are balanced by equal negatives. But I knew the score when I applied.
So, when Gracie opened the front door, and I got a look at her?
Fucking hell.
I’ve always liked a woman with curves and softness.
There’s probably some deep psychological reason behind my preferences I really don’t want to dig into too much.
I don’t fault Mom for the way she raised me.
On the contrary, I think I’m a kinder, more open-minded person for it.
Maybe that’s why I went into this arrangement so blindly?
I can’t help but hope for something good.
Her eyes. Goddess, I’m a sucker for big, brown eyes.
And the way Gracie stared straight through me?
I felt like I’d been speared through the chest with my heart shot clean through from one look.
She’s got this confidence to her that I like.
Yet when she looked up at me and said something about hoping I didn’t betray her trust, her eyes went all soft and doe-like.
Scrambled my entire brain. I’d have cut off my own dick if she’d asked me in that moment, and I rather like it attached.
It’s almost cruel to think about what a dream this situation is, yet there’s no way they’ll allow me to be part of this family.
She’s got two fae boyfriends! For all I know, they’re her mates.
And the fae are incredibly protective of mates.
Then there’s the big guy, and I have no idea what he is or why there was literal fire coming off his head, but he’s powerful.
I just pray he’s some sort of djinn or fire spirit and not a demon.
Please not a demon.
I hear a door open down the hall and a small army of footsteps.
The first person to emerge is the fierce-looking fae that wasn’t present at the door earlier.
He has dark brown, almost jet black skin and a menacing glare.
He stalks over to stand in front of the fire, glaring at me while he crosses his arms over his chest. He looks a lot like the other fae guy I did see, but hadn’t paid much attention to.
I’d been too overwhelmed and honestly captivated by Gracie that the others were sort of a blur.
But now that I’ve got a good look at him?
“I…” I point at him. The hair is different. Well, gone to be precise, but still. “I know you…”
His plush lips purse a bit, and he takes a deep breath.
“Puck?” Gracie snaps.
He glances at her, and a muscle at the corner of his jaw twitches while his eyes go soft. Almost pleading. It’s no mystery who is in charge here. Fuck, she’s perfect. “I didn’t know. I don’t know who he is, but I vaguely recall seeing him somewhere.”
“You had a place in the Amdal building,” I blurt out.
It’s a job I am still quite proud of, even if some of the residents weren’t happy to have me at the time.
“I was brought in to redo the security. They had to call you in because they somehow missed informing you of when I’d be working in your place. You weren’t happy about it.”
Puck nods slowly as his gaze travels over me from head to toe, no doubt assessing everything about me. Fuck. I should have worn nicer shoes instead of my Converse. “You were efficient, quick, and did impressive work. I wasn’t easy to deal with, but you were professional and weren’t intrusive.”