Hating a Witch (Bewitching Billionaires #2)

One

MORGAN

When I was a kid, nine maybe, I was at a friend's house. Her older brother was watching a movie we knew we shouldn't watch, but we did anyway. There was a bald guy, and I forget the plot. But there was also this creepy kid who whispered "I see dead people."

After the second or third time it was obvious he was communicating with the dead, I said, "I do that too. I talk to dead people all the time."

My friend and her brother both looked at me, horrified. I guess they could tell I was serious and not joking.

I was never invited back to that girl's house again. And I learned that even though everyone at school knew my family members are witches, it was best not to tell anyone about my special power.

Now, everyone knows what I can do. I work for my family's company, Goode Witches, and for prices I think are exorbitant, I'll do my best to talk to your deceased loved one for you. Or maybe your not-so-loved one. I don't judge.

In addition, every month I spend time in my personal spell room, doing a summoning spell. I haven't missed a single new moon, not since I started doing this when I was thirteen. Every 28 days, I try.

And every 28 days, I fail.

I was only one when my dad died. My mom didn't even know she was pregnant with my younger sister, Bronwen, when Dad had a heart attack. At least, that's what Mom told us.

But over the summer, I was helping clean out the spare bedroom that Mom’s fiancée, Gary, now uses as an office. And I found Mom's old Grimoire. Which is basically a witch's journal. We write down all the spells we do, and how they turned out. And some of us, like Mom, use it as a diary, to write out events and thoughts and feelings.

I shouldn't have snooped, but I had this powerful sense that I had to read that book. Like the deities were pushing me to read it. So I did. I don't have all the answers now, just more questions.

The night my dad died, he and my mom were doing a spell. And besides it being important because it's the day he died, it's also notable that Mom was very vague with details about the spell, and about that day in general. The rest of the book is meticulously detailed, but that one day, she wrote very little.

I, being who I am, am naturally suspicious. I don't think Mom and Nana—my grandmother—have told us the truth about that night. Or at least they’re leaving out major parts of the story.

Even more suspicious, when I asked my grandma about it, she got angry and told me never to ask about it again. Which is drastically out of character for her. She loves sharing knowledge. And that's the only time I've ever seen her really angry.

Which, of course, makes me even more certain there's more to that day .

Now you'd think, being a witch who summons and talks to spirits for a living, I could just ask my dad's spirit.

You. Would. Think.

But no. I can summon every damn spirit on this planet (yes, I've tried summoning notable historical figures, and yes, it worked). The only exception is my own father.

I know my skills are beyond adequate. I'm one of the most powerful necromancers in the world.

The thing is, if a spirit doesn't want to be summoned, I can't. It's rare, but it does happen. The only spirit it isn't rare with is, of course, my dad.

And it hurts like a bitch of a motherfucker that he doesn't want to talk to me. I was too young to remember him, so my only proof that I even met him is a few old photos. And they just aren't enough.

I must be a glutton for pain, though, because once again, it's the new moon and I'm in my spell room, readying my supplies to summon my dad.

The new moon is the best time for contacting the ancestors, so I do this spell 13 times every year. I also do the summoning spell on October 30, October 31, and November first. Those are the days the veil between the worlds is thinnest, so I figure it can't hurt.

Except it does hurt. Every time hurts. It's a rejection all over again. My older sister, Sirona, and baby sister, Bronwen, constantly beg me to stop trying. I can hear Sirona's voice in my head every month. You're only digging the hurt even deeper. Let it go.

But I can't. Especially after finding that Grimoire. I don't just want to know what really happened that day, I need to know. I can't even explain it. It's a compulsion deep inside me. Probably put there by the deities. All I know is I won't feel settled until I know how my dad really died. And why my family has been lying about it ever since.

I have several altars in my spell room, which occupies the entire third floor of my house. altar, on the northwest wall, is dedicated to my dad. It's small, a little shelf attached to the wall. I keep a framed picture of us from the summer solstice festival almost a year before he died. I'm a baby in the photo. He has me in a carrier on his chest, facing outward. We're both grinning, along with my mom and toddler Sirona.

The picture makes my heart squeeze every time I see it.

The altar is draped with a black cloth, and five black candles surround the photo. candle for each member of the family we should've been.

For the ritual, I've added a stick of selenite and some black obsidian. A small polished amethyst heart sits in front of the photo. And as an offering, I place his favorite mug on the altar. In it is a tea of rosehips and thyme, his favorite blend.

I've tasted it, and the two go surprisingly well together. The mug is corny, with a dad joke on it that says "Why did the chicken cross the playground? To get to the other slide.” and there’s a cartoon chicken going down a slide. It makes me smile every time I see it.

Everything ready, I pick up my wand. I have more than one, but this one is my favorite. It’s simple, carved wood from a gnarled, twisted branch. The wood has been sanded smooth, stained pink, purple, and blue (the bisexual flag colors), and varnished to a shine.

"Deities, I ask that you assist me in this ritual. Respectfully, I request your approval that this ritual may have its intended outcome. Thank you."

It's subtle, but the hum of magic fills the air. My skin tingles with it.

Using my wand, I spin it above my head it to gather energy, then use the energy to draw a protective circle around me and the altar. "I thank you, deities, for your protection."

The deities, no matter what region or religion they're from, are notoriously fickle and vain. So I do a lot of thanking them.

I set my wand on the side of the altar and pick up my lighter. I've already anointed the candles in rose oil and the fragrance is nostalgic. It reminds me of all the other times I've done this ritual and had no success.

Not the happiest of nostalgia.

I light the candle closest to me on the right and say, "Let this candle represent my younger sister Bronwen." Then the candle on the left. "Let this candle represent me, Morrigan." The candle next to Bronwen's. "Let this candle represent my older sister Sirona."

A note about my name: I was named Morrigan after the Celtic goddess. But right away, little Sirona (also named for a Celtic goddess) couldn’t pronounce it. Morgan was the best she could do, so I’ve been Morgan ever since. Except when I’m in serious trouble with my mom or Nana.

The candle flames dance and flicker, and for a moment I let myself get lost in them. Let the power of fire seep into me, giving me more energy for the spell.

The candle beside mine is next. "Let this candle represent my mother, Angela." And last but not least, the larger candle behind the photo. "Let this candle represent my father, Fredrick."

I stand in silence, staring into the flame of my dad's candle, staring at the picture, willing him to come to me this time. I struggle to keep my desperation under control. That won't help the spell.

I hold my hands out to the side, palms forward, and raise my face to the sky. A pose of supplication.

"Fredrick Goode, I humbly request that you show yourself to me. Come so that we may make our family whole, if only for a moment. Come and talk with me, share your wisdom. I beseech you. Your family loves and misses you."

Please, Dad. I keep the begging in my head, not saying it aloud.

The energy in the room is palpable, magic crackling around me, raising goosebumps on my skin. But it's always like this. It means the veil between the worlds is temporarily lifted. If he wishes, he can come to me now.

When I do this with strangers at work, now is the time when their chosen person appears to me. I rarely have to wait more than thirty seconds.

Today, I have no idea how long I wait, standing in that same position. Staring at a spot on my ceiling. Noticing that there are a few cobwebs up there; it's been a while since I remembered to do a whole-house-cleaning spell. I'll have to do that later.

The seconds tick by, rolling into minutes. The minutes might even roll into an hour. I have no idea. All I know is that with each one of those minutes he doesn't appear, the leaden feeling in my heart grows heavier. The ache deepens.

Finally, when the tears are so close I can barely keep them at bay any longer, I lower my chin and stare back at the photo of the man who is both a stranger and yet so familiar to me.

"I guess you're not up for it today, again, huh, Dad?" I say to my empty room. My empty house.

Even Bowie, my owl familiar, doesn't come inside. Being an owl and all.

Maybe I should bring home one or two of the cats always hanging around Sirona's house.

Maybe I'm getting off track.

I take a sip of the now-tepid tea, the flavor smooth on my tongue. Then I use my candle snuffer to put out first Dad's candle, then Mom's, then the three of us in the opposite order I lit them in.

And, just in case some other spirit wandered over and isn't revealing themself to me, I say, "In peace you came. In peace be gone. Until next time, so mote it be."

The change in the air is palpable. The hair on my arms no longer stands on end from the energy swirling around us. The tingling stops. My goosebumps are gone .

And the sorrow flows in to take its place. The deep sense of failure.

Halfheartedly, I use my wand to reopen the circle. And the ritual is done. So that's failure number eleventy-seven million.

At least I'm consistent.

ZACH

My future stepmother, Angela Goode, lives in a gigantic black Victorian mansion with wrap-around porches and turrets and all kinds of other fancy architectural details I don't know the names for. It's a fantastic house.

It's also filled with too many rooms and too many hiding places.

I know, because every Sunday she has her daughters over for family dinner with her and her mom, who lives with her. And since the start of summer, my dad and I have been coming.

I don't love spending my time with people I know are somehow defrauding my dad. But I go every week in part to keep an eye on them and try to catch them in any scam before he gets in too deep. And in part, I go so I can slip away and explore the mansion, trying to find evidence of their fraud.

Because if there's one thing I know, it's science. There's an order to the universe, laws, and everything must follow those laws.

So there's just no way magic can be real, even if millions of people have been duped into believing in it by prominent witch families like the Goodes.

I will say, Angela and Hazel, her mom, make a hell of a meal. It's always delicious. Which makes it all a little more tolerable.

On the flip side, having to spend more time with Morgan, the middle sister, balances it out. Unfortunately, my body and my libido are very aware of the fact that she's also one of the most attractive people I've ever met. She's not conventionally gorgeous, with light brown hair and a streak of pure white in front, and brown eyes that look like amber stones. She wears too much jewelry, and too much black. But that doesn't stop my cock from waking up and paying attention every time she's around.

I'm not fans of any of the Goodes, knowing what they're up to, but on a one-to-one personal level, I have no problem with Sirona or Bronwen. And Sirona's new boyfriend seems like a decent guy, though as a doctor, I'd think he could see through the falsehoods of magic that they spin.

To be honest, it's one thing that keeps me from making an attempt at friendship with him. From what I've gathered, he just moved to town last winter.

But that's not my problem. Keeping my dad from marrying into this family of con artists—albeit excellent con artists—is my problem.

What I can't figure out is what they're after with Dad. They're multi-millionaires who run a multi-billion-dollar company. So it's not money. The only thing that makes sense to me is some kind of blackmail. Except it would have to be something where my dad knows they're frauds and he's blackmailing Angela into marrying him. And that makes even less sense. My dad would never do that.

This puzzle has been frustrating me since the day, roughly three months ago, that we sat at this very dining room table and Dad announced his engagement to Angela.

The other explanation is that my dad truly is in love with her and she's using him for something. And, I can admit, my dad does act like a man in love. He dotes on Angela in a way I don't remember him ever treating my mom.

But then I've circled back to what Angela could want from him. And I'm at a dead end again .

Stomach full with, I can admit, some of the best food I've ever eaten, I sit back in my chair to listen to the various conversations around me. Maybe someone will slip and give me a clue.

"I think we need to go with more soothing colors, to help patients feel at ease," Sirona says to Grant.

I don't wait for his response. I don't need interior decorating advice.

Dad, Angela, and Nana—what they call Angela's mom—are deep in discussion as to whether the Milwaukee Dragons pro football team will win the Super Bowl this season. Statistically, they're at the middle of the pack, but the season is just starting. I'm not super into watching sports, but I like the math part of it.

When I was a kid, after my mom died, my dad didn't seem to know what to do with me for a few years. Then I got good enough at math to talk sports stats with him. So we bonded over them. Which I really needed when I was twelve. But I don't need it anymore. Dad and I have a decent relationship now, even if we no longer spend Sunday afternoons flipping between the Brewers, the Dragons, and the Packers.

Bronwen is chatting with Evan, who's like their brother from another mother. I've managed to figure out that he and Sirona have been best friends for years and the rest of them just kinda adopted him into their fold.

I've also figured out that Evan is in love with Bronwen, and near as I can tell, she has no clue. She can't tell when a man right in front of her is in love with her, yet she claims to be a love witch. Just more evidence that their claims are full of shit.

Regardless, Bronwen and Evan are talking about some concert they're going to in a few weeks. I'm not going to get any information from them that will help me.

That just leaves Sabrina. Who is a toddler, Bronwen's daughter, so that's no help. And, of course, Morgan .

In my favor, everyone seems occupied. No one is paying me any attention. Which is perfect.

I put my napkin on the table next to my empty plate and stand. "I'm going to use the bathroom," I mumble to no one in particular. A glance over the table confirms that no one even notices me.

Which is quite a feat for me to pull off, honestly. I'm six-foot-two with pretty distinctive hair—so dark brown it’s nearly black and it hangs to my waist—and a shitload of tattoos. It's rare that I'm this invisible. But I'll take it.

I slip out of the dining room and into the kitchen. From there, I could go to the bathroom, but I've already searched that thoroughly. And the rest of the rooms on the first floor.

Do I dare trying the second floor? There's a basement too, but the stairs are ancient and creaky, and I don't want to draw attention to myself. Some other Sunday, I'll have to come up with a reason to be in the basement. That way, if I'm caught, I have an excuse.

Second floor it is. I take the stairs slowly, making sure to stay on the carpet runner down the center of the stairs, and not step on the wood on the sides, where my shoes will make more noise.

I've never been upstairs before. At the top of the steps is a large open area with storage furniture along one wall. Another wall holds numerous boxes, three stacks four boxes high.

Excitement fizzles through me. These boxes could be the gold mine I've been looking for. But how do I explain snooping through their things if someone else should come upstairs?

I'm trying to come up with a reason when I hear footsteps on the stairs. Someone is, in fact, coming up. Shit.

All I can do is watch as they ascend into view.

It's Morgan. Because of course it's her .

She stops short when she sees me. "Oh!" Then she frowns. "Oh. Why are you up here?"

It's on the tip of my tongue to say the toilet downstairs is clogged, but instead what comes out of my mouth is, "My dad thought he moved a box of my old stuff over here with all his things. So I was going to grab it."

The furrow between her brows deepens. Even suspicious and frowning, she's ridiculously hot. A different sort of excitement fizzles through me. She's standing close, enough so that I could reach out and touch her if I wanted. My fingertips tingle at the thought.

I make myself take a step backward. Out of her space. Far enough away I can no longer smell her gentle floral scent. I'd expect her to have a bolder, angrier scent, but no, every time I've gotten close enough to catch a whiff, it's soft. I like that incongruity more than I should.

"Your dad's stuff is all in his new office." She gestures to a closed door on the far side of the open area. Past it is a hall that undoubtedly leads to more bedrooms.

The sound of a giggle has both of us looking toward the stairs.

"Hush or someone is going to hear us," Grant whispers loudly enough for us to hear.

"Sorry." Sirona manages an actual whisper but still loud enough for us.

"Shit!" Morgan grabs my wrist and tugs me toward yet another door.

Trying to ignore the softness of her hand, or the way my skin tingles from her touch, I let myself be dragged into a closet.

She shuts the door quietly with her free hand, her other not leaving my wrist. And I like it far too much to pull away.

Which is exactly why I should pull away. It doesn't matter that my body and my hormones are attracted to her. I would never get romantically involved with a con artist, especially one destined to be my stepsister.

A dim bulb goes on overhead, probably motion detecting. The closet is lined with shelves on all three sides, packed with books and toys, undoubtedly left over from when Morgan and her sisters were little.

It is a closet clearly designed for only one person at a time. The narrow space between the shelves leaves just enough room for the two of us.

Maybe when I look back on this later, I'll find it amusing. But at the moment, there's nothing funny about being mashed together in a tiny closet with the woman I desperately want and can't stand.

MORGAN

I'm sure the lightbulb above us has long since burned out, so I close my eyes, imagine it glowing, and snap my fingers quietly.

And we have light.

I look up at Zach and immediately regret turning on the bulb. Now I have to look at his handsome face. Being pressed up against him from shoulder to knee is bad enough. In the dark I wouldn't have to also deal with that glare. that's intimidating and sexy all at once.

Plus, now I know how his chest feels. With my arms trapped between us, my palms against all that lean muscle, I know what it feels like to touch him.

My heart is pounding and somehow I can't look away from him. His dark eyes seem to swallow me up and I love it.

Which I hate.

We're silent in this closet, the only sounds the muffled but unmistakable sounds of people kissing .

Thanks, Sirona. What excellent timing my sister has.

"They better not have sex out there," I mumble.

Zach's body goes rigid. "You don't think they would, do you?" He sounds pained.

That makes two of us.

Though if he tried to kiss me, now that I've touched him and we're trapped in this cramped space indefinitely, I might not stop him. I might even kiss him back.

That's how ridiculously far gone my hormones are over this infuriating man.

I manage to break our eye contact. It was either that or stop breathing. I guess I still have a bit of self-preservation left.

Now I'm starting at his chest. Sure, it's under a Nirvana t-shirt, but it's fitted enough to hint at the contours beneath. And what my imagination can't fill in, my hands can touch. He's warm and solid beneath my palms. It's everything I can do not to start stroking him, exploring him further.

I can feel his gaze on me and I want to look up. I want to get lost in those deep, dark eyes.

He shifts his weight, and his chest slides under my palms. I have to swallow a groan.

Maybe it's my imagination but his breathing seems a little labored. Mine certainly is. I can't take a full breath with him this near.

"Babe, no, we shouldn't." Grant's voice drifts in, followed by the distinctive sound of a belt buckle being undone. "Babe." And then he groans and it doesn't take much imagination to figure out what my sister is doing.

Besides killing me. Because she absolutely is going to be my cause of death. And when they’re done, I’ll kill her.

This time I can't help looking up at Zach. I'm above average height, five-foot-eight. I'm not used to looking up at people this much. I hate that I like it so much.

His gaze bores into mine, like he's trying to see inside me. I can't read his expression, a frown that looks more confused than anything else.

The sounds of Grant enjoying himself filter in and it's embarrassing, but it's got my imagination swirling. On a physical level, I desperately want something similar with Zach.

And the kicker is, I think he wants it too. Between us, I can feel that he's not uninterested.

So he's getting hard and I'm throbbing and wet. It is entirely unfair that I'm finding myself in this situation with someone I generally can't stand. If I liked him even a little bit, we could be making out just like Sirona and Grant.

The deities are clearly fucking with me. Plus Bronwen with her stupid spell. That's all this is.

Through the lusty fog in my brain, something occurs to me. He hasn't asked why I'm snooping around. Then again, all he saw me do was come upstairs. He has no idea why I did.

"So what's the real reason you were up here, snooping around?" I keep my voice as quiet as I can yet still be heard. Besides, Grant and Sirona are quite occupied. I'm sure they won't hear me whispering in a closet.

"Your dad could just get the box of your stuff for you if that were a true story." This time when I meet his gaze, there's a challenge in mine. "So what are you really doing upstairs and why are you lying about it?"

For long moments, he doesn't answer. He just stares into my eyes, like he's searching for the answer there.

For one excruciating moment, his gaze drops to my lips. My whole body tingles in anticipation; my mouth waters. In this moment, I am positive if he tried to kiss me, I would kiss him back. Probably take over.

So it's a relief when he looks back at my eyes. A relief that I hate.

"Fine," he finally says, his voice low and gravelly and sexy as fuck. "You want to know why I'm snooping around? I'll tell you."

I nod for him to keep talking. Meanwhile, I'm using all my willpower not to grind against him, not to use his cock to ease my ache.

"I think you and your family are full of shit." He says this calmly, almost devoid of emotion. Like he's said my family is kind and pleasant.

The tingles are replaced with red-hot anger. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" I snap, louder than I intended.

"You may be able to con thousands of people, claiming you can perform magic for them. But I'm a scientist. I know you're a bunch of con artists."

His gaze boring into mine is no longer arousing. It's infuriating.

"You're good con artists, I'll give you that. You're absolutely excellent at it. But you're still con artists."

My fingers curl, digging into his chest. My nails aren't long, though, so with his shirt there, I can't do any damage. And I want to. I am livid. How dare he insult me and my family like this?

"So, what? You're trying to find proof of our phoniness so your dad doesn't get swindled by us too?" My voice is dripping with sarcasm and disdain.

"Pretty much."

"Well good luck. But you won't find anything. Because magic is very damn real."

I could do a quick spell, prove to him that magic is real, but he's not worth my energy. I don't have to prove myself to this asshole.

Though if I had the capability to turn him into a frog, like the witches in fairy tales do, I might. That would be worth my energy .

Now being pressed up against him like this is repulsive. I want nothing to do with him ever again.

Too bad that's not possible.

"Don't bother trying to prove it by doing some little spell. I know it's all illusions and sleight of hand."

I can't think of a properly cutting retort, so I just keep glaring. Willing him to turn into a fucking frog.

No, a frog is too good for him. A slug. I'd turn him into a slug.

Yep, the deities are definitely torturing me. That's the only explanation.

"Funny, your dad doesn't have the same dumbass misconceptions you do," I say, my voice practically a growl.

Gary and I worked together part of the time I was helping clean out the bedroom that's now his office. And did I use magic to lift heavy objects and move them? Absolutely. He thought nothing of it. Or at least he didn't say anything. And there's just no way an illusion could lift a solid wood desk off the ground, move it 12 feet, and set it down. At least no illusion I've ever heard of.

But again, there's no point. I could make every item in this closet levitate and fly around and Zach would still believe what he wants. I've met people like him before. Magic doesn't fit into their world view so rather than open their mind and consider a new possibility, they dismiss magic. They brand my family swindlers.

Over the years, we've all gotten used to it. We let it roll off our backs, because we know it's not true. And it's easy enough, because they aren't people we know. They're anonymous posters on social media. Not worth the time it takes to read their ignorant comments.

But typically we're safe from people like that in Owl Cove. Everyone knows what our community is like when they move here. So yeah, I know people who think like Zach are around.

I just never thought one would be a soon-to-be member of my family.