Handsome Mischief This Way Comes

1. Milo

CHAPTER ONE

milo

…and one very, very sexy Chimera.

“You’d better watch your step, or you’ll put your foot through another jack-o’-lantern,” Grievance said after catching Milo sneaking glances at him.

“I wouldn’t have to keep looking if you’d stop wearing that damn vest.”

Milo didn’t even pretend to be subtle as he admired the way the sleeveless black denim vest hugged Grievance’s broad shoulders, leaving powerful, sun-bronzed arms completely exposed to the crisp autumn air.

Several necklaces rested against his chest, layered chains of gold and darkened silver, each one a treasure Grievance had collected and grown ridiculously fond of.

Rings adorned several of his fingers, while a mismatched collection of bracelets circled his wrists—leather, metal, beads, and charms all jostling softly together.

Even his long hair was adorned, pulled back with a delicate golden chain, an opal dangling beside his ear.

All of it only accented the lean muscle that shifted effortlessly as he carried three heavy wooden crates tucked beneath one arm as though they weighed no more than a basket of apples.

The dark tattoos winding across his chest and shoulders had changed again today, taking on the diamond pattern of hydra scales that made him look as though he wore living armor.

Combined with the scar that cut from the corner of his mouth toward his jaw, the look should have been intimidating. Monstrous.

Instead, it made Milo’s mouth water, his eyes continuing to dart appreciatively over Grievance instead of watching where the hells he was going.

Milo shook his head. “It’s officially cold enough for you to put on a real shirt. I’m hiding that vest until summer—aah!”

Milo went pitching forward as his shoe caught the edge of a loose cobblestone. Grievance’s free arm shot out on instinct, catching him around the waist without so much as wobbling the three crates balanced in his other arm.

“Thanks,” Milo muttered.

The words had barely left his mouth before something fuzzy repeatedly smacked him across the temple.

“Nestmaker walks like frightened gazelle!”

His hidden companion readjusted himself atop Milo’s head, eight little legs searching for purchase among his curls. Milo supposed most people would find the sensation of a spider nestling into their hair unnerving, but he was so used to it by now that he barely noticed.

One got used to a lot of things when they lived with a bright blue, grossly enlarged, talking jumping spider.

Pip poked his four-eyed head out from beneath Milo’s pointed hat just long enough to bap him squarely on the forehead with a fuzzy, indignant little leg.

“Walk normal! Use brain!”

Milo sighed, straightening his hat, which only earned another muffled protest from beneath the brim.

“I do not walk like a gazelle,” Milo mumbled.

“Nestmaker walks like baby goat that hasn’t found its legs. Old enough to know better.”

Milo grumbled low enough that the sassy little opinion-haver under his hat didn’t hear.

Milo Jean Pembrooke was twenty-seven and had long since accepted that his lean frame wasn’t suddenly going to sprout muscles.

He was built for long hours bent over cauldrons and reading books by the fireplace, not hauling crates through town.

And yeah, fine, he could admit that he had a less-than-smooth gait when he walked.

But he didn’t feel like the awkward, knobby-kneed Healer Witch he’d been just a year ago.

Today, Milo felt particularly sharp, dressed in his full healer’s uniform, which lent him an air of confidence he didn’t always feel.

The navy coat fit his lean frame, tailored neatly with polished brass clasps.

Beneath it peeked the crisp collar of a cream shirt, while a pointed witch’s hat sat proudly atop copper-brown curls that refused to stay tucked beneath the brim.

Freckles dusted the bridge of his nose, and his bright green eyes—usually focused on herbs, potions, or whoever needed healing—were once again hopelessly fixed on the impossibly sexy man walking beside him.

“Nestmaker dumb around handsome monster,” Pip argued from somewhere inside the hat. “Maybe monster put on shirt.”

“Yeah, how about it… monster?” Milo stretched the last word just to see what would happen.

It had the desired effect. Grievance looked over, and his warm brown eyes softened before tiny flecks of peridot caught the autumn sunlight, glowing with wanting lust.

“Careful, my mate,” he rumbled. “There is still plenty of time to turn around. I’d like to finish what I started this morning.”

Heat flooded Milo’s face like hot caramel over a red apple. He cleared his throat far too loudly.

Their mornings usually followed the same comfortable rhythm. Shower. Coffee. Preparing the day’s potions for delivery.

Except…

Something about the crisp autumn air had left Grievance particularly affectionate lately. Every excuse became a reason to steal another kiss, wrap an arm around Milo’s waist, or pull him close until they were both laughing and their delivery schedule ruined.

Not that Milo was complaining. Truthfully…

he’d felt it too. The change in season. October always made the magic in Pumpkin Hollow glow brighter.

Every spell carried a little extra spark, every enchanted lantern glowed a little warmer, and every MythFolk seemed just a touch more vibrant than the rest of the year.

But Grievance…

Grievance wasn’t MythFolk at all.

He wasn’t human.

He wasn’t MythBeast.

He was a Chimera—a creature that existed somewhere outside those neat little categories, capable of taking nearly any shape he desired.

Or rather—

Any shape Milo desired.

Over the past year, Milo learned a lot about Chimeras.

First, Chimeras did not have control over their forms. They took on the shape that tied them to a family unit, which they called a Veya. Their bond to a Veya grounded them in a single form until that family no longer needed them.

But the moment Grievance came into Milo’s life—the moment they had taken each other as mates—Grievance’s magic changed. As though brought on by his need to do anything, be anything to provide and protect his mate, Grievance could now take any form he chose at will.

Over the past year, he’d become remarkably skilled at discovering exactly which form made Milo’s heart race the fastest.

And somehow, despite living with the man for nearly thirteen months and sharing a bed, a shower, and entirely too many scandalously distracting mornings… Milo still hadn’t developed any immunity whatsoever.

“You are staring again,” Grievance said while at the same time moving his hair to expose more of that chiseled jawline.

Asshole. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Maybe I’m assessing for signs of hypothermia since you’re walking around basically shirtless in October.”

“Mhm,” Grievance said, not at all convinced.

“It would be irresponsible not to. I am the village Healer after all.”

Grievance’s mouth curled into that slow smile that always made Milo’s stomach perform acrobatics.

“You are a very dedicated witch.”

“I am.”

“So dedicated that you’ve nearly fallen or walked into something three times now.”

“…Four,” Pip corrected.

Milo pointed toward his hat without looking.

“No one asked you.”

Grievance laughed, the low rumble warm enough that Milo could almost pretend the October breeze hadn’t found its way down his collar and sent chills down his back. He should have brought a jacket.

Pumpkin Hollow’s main square bustled with preparations for the festival.

Floating jack-o’-lanterns drifted lazily overhead, bobbing between strings of enchanted lanterns that glowed honey-gold despite the afternoon sun.

A pair of witches argued over whether bats counted as “tasteful décor” while a gaggle of broom-riding children chased one another around the fountain, leaving harmless trails of glittering orange sparks in their wake.

Someone had jinxed the scarecrows again, which was causing quite a commotion.

One tipped its floppy hat toward every passerby.

Another played a tiny fiddle, and it wasn’t half bad.

A third had somehow learned to wolf-whistle, earning a few disgruntled looks from a group of scandalized dwarven women.

“Honestly,” Milo muttered, as the third one let out an appreciative whistle when Grievance walked by, “even the decorations have eyes for you.”

The scarecrow gave Grievance an enthusiastic thumbs-up. Grievance nodded back politely.

“Ugh. Don’t encourage it,” Milo groaned.

“Maybe it was being friendly.”

“I don’t like the way its button eyes looked you up and down.”

“I am unsure what that means.”

“It means you’re too handsome for your own good.”

“Hmm, how tragic.”

Milo shot him a look. “Are you done? Your smugness is starting to spill all over the street. It’s messy. Somebody is going to have to clean this up.”

Grievance laughed, then bent low so only Milo could hear in the densely packed crowd.

“The only eyes I want on me are yours. Looking up… from your knees, watering while you choke on me.”

Milo coughed loudly, causing a few tourists to quickly shuffle away.

“Grievance!” Milo yell-whispered. “I told you not—in—public.”

“And I recall telling you I—make—no—promises.” Then he pinched Milo’s ass for good measure.

“Enough mating foreplay! Pip still here!” squeaked a voice from beneath Milo’s hat.

“You’re right, sorry Pip,” Milo said, still smiling at Grievance.

My mate.

Some days… Milo still couldn’t believe it.

“You make goat uncomfortable,” Pip said, and as though in agreement, Marigold bleated loudly from where she trotted behind them.

The tiny pumpkin sweater stretched around her fluffy middle, complete with a little green collar that bobbed with every step.

Grievance glanced down. “Our daughter looks very festive.”

Marigold bleated louder, her little tail wagging.

“We are not calling the goat our daughter,” Milo said, even though the sound of it made him feel all sprinkle-sweet inside.