Chapter Twelve-Bella
“Yes, my Witchy. I got the paint. You have enough Totally Teal in satin finish to fix the spot,” he said, setting the can down like it was a sacred offering.
Then, muttering under his breath, “I don’t see why I could not fix for you.”
“It’ll upset the balance if I let you use too much magic in here, Petyr. You know that,” I reminded him, for the thirty-seventh time this month.
“But I wish to help.”
“I know you do, but when you signed on to be my familiar, you agreed to protect, serve, and help me grow my abilities. You can’t do that if you just do everything for me,” I said, giving him my best stern-older-cousin voice.
“Yes, but Bella, you must let me help tonight.”
“You are helping,” I pointed out. “Who went back to the house for the paint?”
“Me,” he admitted, plopping his furry butt onto my clean countertop and crossing his legs like he was settling in for a fireside chat.
Yeah. Definitely wiping that counter down before baking tomorrow.
When Petyr worked in the kitchen, he wore a tiny chef’s coat I’d ordered from a children’s dress-up shop.
Because even though Domovyks weren’t exactly health code compliant, I had standards.
“Alright, Totally Teal, let’s make some magic,” I muttered, grabbing the brush and getting to work on the patched section of wall.
Elmo’s Hardware had the good stuff, even if Elmo himself was an opinionated old Warlock who smelled vaguely of pickled herring.
I was almost done—just a little trim touch-up where I’d dripped—when I called, “Petyr, what time is it?”
“It is 7:22—”
“What?! I only have eight minutes to get across town!”
I shoved the paintbrush into his little hands.
“You finish this. And I know I said it’s against the rules, but you’re already holding the brush.”
I tried to reason aloud for any Goddesses who might be listening.
“I will clean and lock up,” he said with an uncharacteristically smug grin.
Honestly, he looked thrilled at the prospect, like I’d just promoted him to Domovyk-in-Charge.
I knew from my reading that Domovyks had once been worshipped as minor gods of the home, so maybe this was scratching some ancient itch for him.
Either way, I was grateful.
“Thanks, Petyr. You’re the best,” I said, bolting for the door.
“Oh damn. I’m late. I’m late. Oh damn. Oh damn,” I muttered, tearing off my apron as I went.
Reminding myself of a certain white rabbit, I tore out of the bakery like my hair was on fire and my skirt was catching.
Only I didn’t get far.
Because the universe clearly hates me.
All four tires on my car were flat.
Not low.
Not oh, maybe I should get those checked soft.
Flat.
“NO!”
I stomped my foot so hard the crack in the asphalt probably deepened.
First arson, now vandalism.
What next?
Would someone shave off my eyebrows in my sleep?
Leave a dead fish in my bread proofer?
Forget I even thought that.
Really. Please, forget it.
No sense in giving fate ideas.
I scanned the street, trying to figure out my options. I could run.
Except my legs are short, my boobs are big, and the combo turns into a cardio death trap real quick.
Plus, my chef’s pants are not exactly made for speed.
I was two seconds away from despair when I heard it—the deep, rumbling growl of an engine.
A motorcycle.
Dang it.
I knew exactly who it was before I even turned around.
And I did not have time for this man.
Not tonight.
Not when the Trifecta was waiting on me in the clearing.
Not when I was still trying to figure out how to stop my heart from doing the cha-cha every time he came within six feet of me.
But there he was, all broad shoulders and sin incarnate, astride a gunmetal-gray motorcycle that looked like it had been built for seduction.
He wore dark jeans and scuffed leather boots, and his blond hair was tousled by the wind like he’d just ridden out of my dirtiest daydream.
I wanted to kick him in the shin for existing like that in public.
Then kiss him until we both forgot our own names.
Curse you, Witchy hormones.
“Hop on, Sugar. I’ll get you to the clearing,” he said, voice low and husky, like my name might be hidden in there somewhere if I just listened close enough.
It should’ve annoyed me—being ordered around.
It should’ve had me crossing my arms and telling him I could handle it myself, thank you very much.
Instead, well. It did other things to me.
Naughty things.
And when he leaned down and whispered, “Good girl,” after I swung a leg over the bike and settled behind him?
I nearly melted into a puddle of Bella-flavored frosting right there in the seat.
“Fine,” I muttered because dignity was important. “You can give me a ride. But it doesn’t mean anything. Just get me there.”
I even made a point of keeping my hands on the backrest like some kind of stubborn, apron-wearing rebel.
“Wrap your arms around my waist, Bella, and I’ll get you there,” he replied, like my snark didn’t even graze him.
Ugh. The nerve.
He pressed on the gas—the snake—jerking me around a little. So yeah, I did it—I placed my hands on his waist. Lightly, barely touching him.
But even the barest brush of my fingers sent tingles racing up my arms.
My magic lit up like someone had plugged me into a socket.
It buzzed and hummed, practically purring at the contact.
See, my magic whispered. We like him. We should keep him.
Shut. Up.
I was not falling into whatever-this-was with a sexy-as-sin Snake man who looked like he’d been born for slow dancing in the dark and fast kisses in the kitchen.
“Tighter, Sugar. Wouldn’t want you falling,” he told me again, that growl-hiss rolling over me like a caress.
The second time he gunned it, I actually did grip him—clawing him through his shirt—pink and white sparks flared across my fingertips.
The tingles weren’t just magic anymore. They were him. A heat that radiated from his body straight into mine.
And the worst part?
My attraction wasn’t purely physical. I’d heard people talking about him—how polite he was, how he went out of his way to help, how kids and grannies alike adored him.
Which, of course, made it harder to convince myself he was bad news.
“Relationships are for the birds, Bella.”
Granny’s voice rang in my head, the same voice that had carried me through more heartbreaks than I could count.
She’d also once said smart Witches didn’t need men for anything but ingredients, which had been a deeply disturbing thing to hear as a child.
Especially a child who loved to cook.
But right now? Riding behind Conrad Boman, the wind whipping through my hair despite the helmet he’d buckled under my chin, I wasn’t so sure Granny was right about this one.
The man was like gravity, pulling me to him with something magnetic I couldn’t deny for much longer.
I mean, I was only human. Well—Witch human.
Sooner than I wanted him to, Conrad rolled that awesome motorcycle of his to a stop.
“Here you go. Safe and sound.”
The words rumbled out of his chest and straight into mine. His body vibrated against mine, and for a second, I forgot we weren’t still moving.
I was clinging to him like static, and he didn’t seem in any hurry to pry me off.
Embarrassing.
We’d stopped at the edge of the trees guarding the clearing where my cousins were already waiting. I could hear Donny and Evie’s voices from here—low and wicked in that way only best friends can be.
Judging from the way Conrad’s mouth twitched, I had no doubt they were discussing exactly what they thought of me arriving on the back of his bike.
Saucy wenches. I grinned anyway.
The three of us were a package deal and we had the same ideals and agreed on things most of the time.
“Thank you,” I said, finally forcing myself to let go.
Goddess, he was nice to touch.
All hard curves and heat and those long, dangerous fingers that could probably undo my self-control as easily as they could unlace my corset—if I owned one.
“Bella, I think we should talk—”
“No. No talking, Conrad. I just can’t right now.”
I tugged on my chef’s pants to straighten them and—of course—got caught on something.
Ugh.
Because humiliation was my brand.
“Okay. Let me help you,” he murmured, voice low enough to make my spine tingle.
Before I could protest—or, you know, flee—he swung one long leg over the motorcycle like some kind of leather-clad ballet dancer and crouched down in front of me.
My pant leg had gotten snagged on something near the foot peg, and apparently, this was his cue to play knight in shining denim.
“Thanks,” I managed, trying to sound brisk and unbothered, even as I stood there frozen like I’d been hit with a body-bind spell.
Because here’s the thing—when Conrad Boman was this close, all my good sense packed up and went on vacation without me.
My panties soaked. My chest heaved. And my entire being went on high alert.
“I know you have rules for a reason, Bella,” he said, his head bent, deft fingers working at the fabric. “And I’m here if you ever want to discuss them. But just so you know—”
Oh no.
The just so you know tone was dangerous.
That was the tone of men who thought they were about to change your mind about something.
The tone of trouble.
And he was definitely trouble.
The sexy, square-jawed, snake-eyed kind of trouble my hormones insisted on throwing confetti over.
The fabric finally came free, and in one smooth, predator-like motion, Conrad stood. Blond waves fell into his face in that perfect, rockstar-messy way no man should be allowed to pull off outside of a shampoo commercial.
And yes.
Damn it.
He was hot.
Super hot.
The kind of hot you wanted to lick just to see if it burned.
Then, because the universe wanted me to suffer, the same hand that had freed my pant leg didn’t immediately retreat. Oh, no.
It smoothed over my calf—slowly.
Then my knee.
Then higher.
By the time it grazed my hip, my body was staging a full-scale rebellion against my brain.
I had a thousand arguments for why this was a bad idea, but they were drowned out by one very loud, very inappropriate thought: don’t stop.
And it was that thought—traitorous and wanton—that made me narrow my eyes at his ridiculously green gaze.
Because here was the truth, the one I hated saying even in my own head: I didn’t believe a man who looked like Conrad—who could’ve been cast as a demigod in a blockbuster movie—could ever be serious about someone like me.
Yes, I was cute.
Yes, I could bake circles around Martha Stewart in a throwdown.
But I wasn’t built like the women who usually hung off the arms of men like him.
And Shifters, well, they were another species altogether when it came to physical perfection. Literally.
So why would I even try?
Sex was fun when it was good, and yes, he was good. But I wasn’t looking to collect another broken heart just to add to the pile.
I opened my mouth, ready to tell him exactly that—ready to end this before it got dangerous—and without so much as a by your leave, the man cupped the back of my neck.
It was the hottest of all hot boy touches. The one book boyfriends the world over made if the author listened to the throngs of readers the world over when they wanted possessive sexy hot heroes to drool over.
But this wasn’t a story.
This was one hundred percent real.
And I was so damn screwed.
Warm, strong fingers anchored me in place as he leaned in, closing the distance with that slow, inevitable gravity that made every nerve in my body light up.
Then his mouth was on mine.
It wasn’t polite.
It wasn’t brief.
It was a kiss that felt like he’d been planning it for a long time and didn’t intend to waste a single second of it.
Rough, consuming, and so deep my magic sparked behind my eyelids, sending glittery pulses through my veins.
My toes curled so hard they might never uncurl.
My knees? Completely untrustworthy.
By the time he pulled back, I was breathless, disoriented, and possibly in another dimension.
“Sometimes all it takes is a leap of faith, Maribella,” he murmured, and then—just like that—he was gone.
No lingering glance.
No cocky grin.
Just the roar of his motorcycle as he rode away, leaving me standing there like some lovesick extra in the music video of my own life.
Granny always said relationships were for the birds.
But as the growl of his engine faded—or maybe that was just the thundering of my heart—I had to wonder.
Maybe relationships were for the Snakes.
And maybe, just maybe if I was very, very lucky, they were for Witches, too.