Chapter Eight-Bella
After Conrad left, it was all I could do to pick up the pieces—literally—and move on.
Hardtack still littered the sidewalk in sad, stale mounds, but the three Domovyks were having the time of their lives.
They’d turned cleanup into a vodka-fueled snack fest, chomping through the vile stuff like Evie and I went through strawberry custard donut holes after wine night.
Petyr suddenly jumped up, ears twitching, and shouted something in his native tongue—a language that sounded like Russian, Romanian, and Klingon had all gotten drunk together and decided to raise a baby.
I didn’t have a clue what he said.
But judging from the vein pulsing in his furry little forehead, it wasn’t “Hey, let’s all hug it out.”
Petyr was generally my happy-go-lucky kitchen shadow, but ever since we’d been targeted by some pyro-happy punk, his typically cheerful magical panties had gotten into a gnarly twist.
I couldn’t blame him.
He’d been cleaning up more fire damage than frosting lately, and even a magical being had a burnout point.
That he was still doing it for me made tears sting my eyes.
“My Witchy must not cry!” Petyr puffed out his chest like a tiny, homicidal general. “The arson must be stopped, da? I will set trap for him and tear him limb from limb!”
“Oh, um, catching them would be nice. But maybe no limb-tearing?”
“Fine. Will make torture device instead, da?”
Yikes. I made a mental note to set up a Swoosh call with Magdelena—she spoke at least fourteen magical languages and was great at talking familiars down from murder.
But that could wait.
Right now, I had a whole laundry list of things to do.
Finish cleaning up this mess before the smell of burned sheetrock, lighter fluid, and my singed pride made me faint.
Give my statement to a certain tall, devastatingly sexy firefighter-slash-deputy who I’d been avoiding ever since we slept together and I snuck out the next morning without so much as a “later, gator.”
Get the bakery up and running before a line of caffeine-deprived, sugar-hungry supernaturals decided to stage a coup.
The Tasty Tart was the morning spot in Castor’s Corner, and people here were creatures of habit.
Once, I came back from vacation a day late and found actual picketers outside my door.
It was traumatic—for them and for me.
So I tied on a fresh apron—not my favorite, pink one, but it would have to do—and I swept, scrubbed, and polished like my life depended on it.
The damage could have been worse—even I was big enough to admit that.
It was mostly on one side of the storefront. Of course, some things took bigger hits than others. Like one of my custom floor-to-ceiling oak racks, and a patch of wall behind it.
But still, wood was good.
That was becoming my motto now.
“Put it on a business card,” I muttered, kicking at a splinter.
Right after I finished sweeping, I fumigated with a tried-and-true little hex I learned from my mother—who invented it the day she’d had quite enough of Dad’s post–taco night air raids—I planted my feet, raised my hands, and chanted:
“By thyme and sage, by lemon bright,
Purge this place of stink and blight.
From floor to rafter, cleanse the air,
Leave sweetness, warmth, and love to spare.
Goddess bless my humble shop —
and please, no more eau de gym sock!”
The magic swirled, sparkled, and whisked away every trace of burned sheetrock, lighter fluid, and bad memories until my bakery smelled like fresh lemon cake again.
Once it was over, I stood basking in the glow of my accomplishments until I noticed the brand new, state-of-the-art magical alarm system above the door blinking at me.
So, I gave it the finger.
The alarm hadn’t stopped anything.
Our mystery firebug had waltzed right past it, torched my shelf, and destroyed several of my favorite things—my pink apron, my rolling pin, my award placard, and the mug Evie and Donny gave me with all three of us grinning like idiots.
Who did that, anyway? Who went out of their way to destroy personal items in a place of business? And why, for fork’s sake?
“Bella?”
I was still mulling when a deep voice spoke right behind me.
“Aghhhh!” I yelped, jumping so hard my magic shot out in a burst of pink-and-white glitter that materialized into—yep—more hardtack.
Conrad froze mid-step, hands raised.
“Sorry for scaring you, Sugar—uh, Maribella.”
Sugar? Goddess, help me.
My heart did a full triple axel.
Why was he back?
Wasn’t it bad enough he’d already fried my brain earlier with that smoldery concern and big, protective presence?
“Um, someone called about some noise,” he said, stepping closer, “and I decided to check before I went off shift, make sure you were alright. Are you?”
“Am I what?” I asked, because apparently my brain had exited the building.
“Are you alright?” he repeated softly, like it mattered to him in a way that made my chest ache.
He was close enough now that I caught the faint scent of smoke, cedar, and something darkly warm that was all Conrad.
My traitorous eyes tracked the line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth.
My magic hummed under my skin, desperate to close the distance.
I pressed my lips together before I did something truly stupid.
Like grab his shirt, drag him against me, and give the entire street a live demonstration of why Witches and Pythons were a combustible combination.
My heart was practically pounding out of my chest at Conrad’s sudden appearance.
And really, was it legal for a man to look that good when half my bakery still looked like a crime scene and my hair was doing a frizzy halo impersonation?
“Bella? I needed to check on you myself before I went off shift after that noise complaint. So, are you okay, Sugar?”
“Huh?” I asked brilliantly, because apparently coherent thought was no longer my thing.
He smiled slowly then, and he stepped closer.
He was all broad shoulders and infuriatingly calm male confidence.
And I was hard-pressed not to melt into a puddle of goo at his boot-clad feet.
I pressed my thighs together, trying not to imagine how good he kissed, and did other things.
Hell, I was hanging on by a thread here, people.
Seconds away from giving the magical surveillance cameras a real show.
Yowza.
“You work fast,” he said, scanning the shop with his cop eyes.
I followed his gaze, feelings of pride filling me.
I mean, how often did a man notice when a woman worked hard?
Not many if Granny was to be believed.
“I suppose, but that’s mostly because of Petyr.”
“Petyr, huh? Are you and your familiar having any issues? I noticed he was a little possessssive of you earlier,” he added with a slightly growly hiss.
Ermagerd.
Just like that, lust sucker-punched me right in the gut. Conrad Boman had the sexiest, huskiest voice I had ever heard.
That snaky hiss at the end of words that didn’t even end in an S?
Yeah, my panties were waving a white flag and begging for mercy.
“No, Petyr and I get along great. In fact, he’s so happy here, he’s about to ask Magdelena if he can bring his wife and sons over.”
“Oh. I didn’t realize he was married,” Conrad replied. “That’s good. What about you?”
“What about me what?”
“Any ex-boyfriends with grudges? Someone who would want to hurt you, Bella?”
I frowned.
Sure, I had exes—men I’d dated, kissed, baked for—but only one who’d broken my heart, and he’d moved to Chicago years ago.
“Um, I don’t think I should discuss that with you,” I mumbled.
“It’s to keep you safe,” he insisted, but something about the whole thing made me antsy.
“Fine, but the only ex I have who might want to cause me grief is Jameson Vorhees, but he took a position with the Warlock World Coven and moved to Chicago.”
“Vorhees,” he growled, jotting the name down like he was adding it to his personal hit list. “Anyone else?”
“Uh, no. You alright there?”
“Sorry, I might be feeling a little possessssive of you myself,” he confessed, and his eyes, oh my Goddess, his eyes were glowing.
Whether it was lust or jealousy, I couldn’t say.
But either way, the man was smoking hot.
“No reason for you to be,” I hedged.
“Isn’t there, Sugar? I know how you look when you’re rounding that bend to ecstasy.
I know what you taste like at three o’clock in the morning.
I know those desperate little sounds you make when you like the things I do to your body.
So yeah, I’d say there’s plenty of reasons for me to covet you, sweet Witch,” he murmured, his voice wrapping around me like molten chocolate.
And I know I shouldn’t, but I liked it. A lot.
“That’s in the past,” I said, but my voice cracked, and even I didn’t believe me.
Faker.
“You know I can hear lies, don’t you, Sugar? Those memories of you and me together? They’ve been playing over and over in my head since that night.”
“So what difference does it make? We slept together. It was a one-off.”
“Not for me. Never for me. I still want you, Maribella Strega. All the time. And I promise you, little Witch, I’m not giving up.”
“No?” I tilted my chin, pretending I wasn’t already half-melting from the heat in his voice. “You say that, Conrad, but you will. You’ll get bored. Find something else shiny to chase.”
His eyes locked on mine, molten and unblinking.
“Nuh uh. No way. No how. I’m not going anywhere. And when you’re ready to finally admit you want me, too? I’ll be right here. Waiting for you.”
It should’ve sounded cocky.
Instead, it slid under my skin like warm honey, coating every raw, vulnerable part of me I kept carefully walled off.
With a handful of words, the man had my heart pounding like I’d sprinted up three flights of stairs and my magic sparking like I’d just mainlined espresso and sugar.
I shut my eyes, desperate to hide the truth—that every nerve ending I owned was leaning toward him, hungry for more.
But wanting Conrad Boman was dangerous.
The kind of dangerous that left you raw and bleeding when it ended.
He was lethal, not because of his strength or the fact that he could probably coil around me and squeeze the breath right out of my lungs, but because he could get into places no one had ever been.
The private places.
The ones I didn’t let anyone touch.
Dude—get your mind out of the gutter! I was talking about emotional places, for Pete’s sake.
I mean, he’d already touched everywhere else, if I was being honest.
Still, falling for him would be emotional suicide, and I’d survived that once before. I wasn’t dumb enough to sign up for a repeat performance.
At least, that’s what I told myself.
Only my foolish, traitorous heart clearly hadn’t gotten the memo.
It thudded against my ribs, reckless and eager, whispering lies about happily ever afters and forever matebonds.
It wanted to believe him.
It wanted my brain to shut up and just let it happen.
But I couldn’t afford to fall for that line.
Not again.
Not with him.
If I did and it all went bad? Something told me I’d never recover.
Maybe I was too big a coward for my own good.
But whoever said it was better to have loved and lost was a masochist, that much I was sure of.
At least, I used to be.