Chapter Three-Ryan
There she is. Donatella Andrews.
The Witch of my dreams.
Literal dreams, okay?
Not some kind of poetic metaphor.
Ever since the damn truck broke down and stranded me, Jaxson, and Conrad in Castor’s Corner, my Bear has been restless as hell.
Pacing, snarling, demanding—hers. Mostly just hers.
Like he’s just waiting for her to look our way and say the word.
I thought the town was cursed at first.
I mean, the mayor’s a Witch, the bakery talks to itself (don’t ask), and someone keeps hexing the firehouse bathroom so every time you walk into the damn stall, it plays Back That Azz Up.
But the real madness?
It’s her.
Donny.
She’s all fire and glitter and that big city-meets-small town kind of fabulous that makes my brain short-circuit every time she struts by in some designer getup I can’t even pronounce.
Her hair always looks like she just stepped out of a shampoo commercial.
Her laugh is too loud for any one woman to own.
And her curves? Her fucking curves.
Gaia help me.
My Bear wants to worship every inch of her like she’s a damn altar.
She doesn’t even look at me.
Correction—she looks at me like I’m one of those novelty air fresheners that smells like beef jerky.
Intriguing.
Confusing.
Possibly offensive.
Meanwhile, I’m working double time—literally.
Fighting fires during the day, baking croissants, rolls, baguettes, and even pies at The Tasty Tart at night.
Anything to stay busy.
Anything to stay near her.
Because here’s the thing.
I don’t just want her.
I think she’s mine.
That’s a lie. I don’t think shit.
The woman is mine.
I fucking know it.
My Bear knows it.
My soul feels it.
But how the hell do you convince a woman like Donatella Andrews—chic, sarcastic, powerful as hell—that you, a giant lumbering Grizzly with a heart the size of Nebraska, are her fated mate?
Hint: you can’t.
So instead I do what I can.
I bake.
I sweat.
I chop wood and carry water and flip steaks at every town gathering like a man possessed.
Which, honestly, I might be.
And now here she is.
Walking into the firehouse on bonfire night like she owns the place—because let’s be honest, she kind of does.
Evie and Bella trail behind her, already bickering about something probably glitter-related.
The flames dance in her eyes, and her red lips curve into that signature smirk, and—my Bear snarls.
The beast is feral. For her. Only her.
I grip the tongs in my hand like they’ve done me personal harm and focus on the spit roast.
Meat. Good. Grounding.
Not curvy. Not sassy. Not—fuck.
“Do not look at her ass,” I mutter to myself, eyes locked on the hypnotic sway of her hips as she saunters toward the food table.
Too late.
My cock thickens in my too-tight boxers, straining against the seam like it’s got its own damn heartbeat.
I might just explode right there on the firehouse lawn, surrounded by Shifters, Witches, and a whole half of a cow we have roasting on a spit.
“Rein it in, big guy,” Conrad murmurs beside me without looking up from the grill.
I grunt and glare at him.
The fucker needs to mind his business. He’s got his own problems.
Specifically, one pastel-wearing Kitchen Witch with a voice like sugar and a temper like a spring-loaded trap.
Bella smiles like sunshine—but if you ever make her cry, she’ll probably turn you into a muffin.
But Bella isn’t mine.
Neither is Evie.
They’re both powerful, sexy, wonderful Witches—but the Fates didn’t tie me to either of them.
No.
They gave me Donatella.
Donny Freaking Andrews.
And if the Fates had a sense of humor, they were pissing themselves laughing right now.
Because I’m not exactly what Donny would call her type.
I mean, unless her type included large, broody Bear Shifters who baked in their spare time, had zero fashion sense, and looked like they could bench press a Buick—which, for the record, I could.
But none of that seemed to matter to her. Because when she looked at me—which wasn’t nearly often enough—it was with that you’ve got flour on your shirt and also your face kind of expression.
Meanwhile, I’m over here losing my damn mind because her laugh makes my chest feel like it’s catching fire and her curves?
Let’s just say my Bear gets hungry.
See, I’m the kind of guy who once I’ve made up my mind about something, I don’t stop.
I don’t change it.
I don’t lose focus.
And Donny?
She might be avoiding me, ignoring me, pretending I’m just some temporary help with a whisk and a hero complex.
But if she ever gives me the time of day?
She’s gonna find out exactly what it means to mess with a Bear’s affections.
I’ll ruin her lipstick, worship her thighs, whisper filthy things in her ear while she’s cutting hair or re-organizing the fashion world just to make her squirm.
I’ll mark her, claim her, and cherish her until she realizes the Goddess herself made her for me.
But until then?
I’ll wait.
I’ll watch.
I’ll burn quietly every time she walks into a room and acts like her presence isn’t wrecking my entire ecosystem.
Because looking at her and not being able to touch her?
It’s the sweetest kind of hell I can imagine.
I should leave.
I should pack up and get the hell out of Dodge—er, Castor’s Corner.
But I won’t. I can’t.
All because I know.
Deep in my bones, beneath the aching need and the slow simmering want, I know the truth.
She’s mine.
And I’m not going anywhere.
Just then, Donny bends over to inspect something on the far end of the table, her plump ass outlined in the pants she has on, and I squeeze the tongs in my hand so tightly they snap.
Yep, I am just that cool.
Fuck me sideways.
I swear the Goddess herself is laughing at me this time.