Chapter Eighteen-Donny
So, magic has rules.
We all know that.
And if I even thought of breaking the sacred code of salon sorcery, the Goddess would flay the magic from my soul and leave my behind rawer than a fresh wax job in July.
And that wasn’t even the worst of it.
The last poor Witch who’d betrayed her oath? She didn’t just lose her powers—she was cursed to live out her remaining human days with the most abominable hairstyle known to supernatural society.
Yep, you guessed it.
A business-in-the-front, party-in-the-back, wavy-haired mullet with frosted forking tips, which for some reason was making a comeback amongst the younger normals.
Blech.
I shivered at the memory of that cautionary tale. The woman had been excommunicated and ex-hair-styled.
A fate worse than death, in my humble opinion.
Swallowing back my horror, I focused on finishing my duties before my last clients arrived.
I gathered all the stray clippings from the day—snippets of hair, shards of nail, and magical residue—and funneled them into the enchanted tube system that led to the in-house crematorium, where they would be purified in accordance with the Covenant of Salon Sorcery.
Hair Now, Gone Tomorrow didn’t play around.
We might be cozy and Witchy and covered in pink glitter, but we followed the Goddess’ rules to the letter.
As I sealed the last tube with a satisfying pop, I heard Celeste’s voice behind me.
“You sure you don’t want me to stay?”
Ugh. That was the fifth time she’d asked.
I turned just in time to see her sneak a peek at her phone again. I rolled my eyes so hard I might’ve dislocated a retina. The girl was more obvious than a hexed love potion.
“Of course not. Go on. Shoo. Be gone. Fly free,” I said, flapping a hand toward the door.
“But I could cancel my date—”
“Celeste,” I cut her off with a pointed look. “You finally got asked out by your dreamboat. You’re not canceling. Not after making me eat the same lunch for a month straight just to get a glimpse of his biceps.”
Her cheeks flushed. “How did you know I’ve been crushing on him?”
“Please. I’ve got better intuition than a Ouija board on a full moon. And I’m starting to look like a dumpling with how much you’ve made me eat from Wrap & Roll. Now, git.”
I waved my broom at her for good measure. It worked.
She squeaked and bolted out the door with a mumbled “thank you,” nearly tripping over her own feet.
Finally. Peace.
I took a slow, luxurious sip of my lavender-citrus tea, leaning against the counter as the cool fall breeze filtered in through the open window.
Outside, the sun was setting, and the leaves were a riot of color—reds and golds and burnt oranges that made me want to buy fuzzy socks and threaten anyone who spoke ill of pumpkin spice.
It was my season.
Autumn was my vibe.
Witchy and wistful and just a little bit dramatic.
I sighed with contentment, letting the warm mug soothe my hands and my nerves.
And then, a growl.
Not a menacing one, but deep.
Rumbling.
And so forking male it made my knees buckle.
I nearly yeeted my mug at the ceiling, but before it could even slip from my fingers, a huge hand caught it mid-air.
“You almost dropped this,” said Ryan McLeod in a voice that made my ovaries weep with need.
Sweet sizzling spellcraft, he was close.
Too close.
Not close enough.
And, oh my Goddess, he smelled like smoke and sugar and danger.
“Hey, Donny.”
I swallowed hard.
“You scared me.”
“My apologies, Honey. I’d never intend to frighten you,” he said with a voice so smooth it should be illegal.
I narrowed my eyes to keep from swooning.
He was stupidly tall.
Broad like a fridge.
Hairy like a lumberjack in a shampoo commercial.
His beard was an overgrown mess of auburn and chestnut, and his hair was currently in what I could only assume was a chaotic bun held together by willpower and lies.
Hot? Yes.
But the man needed help. Help only I could deliver.
“Come on,” I said, breezing past him, my hair swinging behind me like a gold battle flag. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
He followed, silent as a shadow, and lowered himself into the shampoo chair like some kind of mythical beast going into hibernation.
Graceful and deadly.
I pretended not to notice how his gaze tracked me like I was prey. Sexy prey.
Ugh. Get a grip, Donny.
I focused on the basics—adjust the chair, wet the hair, try not to drool.
“So,” I said, gathering shampoo in my hand. “What exactly do you want me to do?”
He tilted his head, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Are we talking about my hair, Honey?”
I paused, realizing I’d stepped right into that one. “Yes. Your hair. And your beard. That’s what I’m talking about.”
Who was I trying to convince? Him or me?
“Whatever you say, Honey.”
Ermagerd. Honey. HONEY?!
It just dawned on me he was a Bear. And Bears liked honey.
Specifically, they liked to eat it.
I bit my lip hard enough to make my eyes water.
This was getting ridiculous. I was a professional. A licensed magical stylist with wards on her scissors and a mini altar in the back room.
I was not going to melt over some rugged Bear Shifter, no matter how good he smelled or how flirty he got.
“Well?” I snapped, trying for impatient instead of flustered.
He shrugged. “Didn’t really have a plan. I trust you.”
I blinked. “You trust me?”
“Yep. Go on. Do whatever you want. I know I’m in good hands.”
Sweet forking stardust.
That was the sexiest sentence I’d ever heard.
And it wasn’t even dirty.
I turned away to hide my blush and turned the water on with a flick of my wrist.
Adjusting the temperature, I began working the shampoo into his hair.
He groaned.
I pretended not to hear it.
Focus, Donny. Focus.
His hair was—surprisingly—glorious.
Not coarse like I expected.
Just thick. Soft. Like brushed velvet with streaks of silver and gold glinting under the light.
The silver made me think. How old was he? Did Shifters age like Witches? Suddenly, I was full of questions, but I didn’t dare ask them.
Focus on the hair, Donny.
I rinsed and conditioned. Then, I did the same to the beard on his face.
It wasn’t much different from the hair on his head.
Wild, yes, but underneath the chaos was luxury.
The man was a walking ad for conditioner.
“I’m forty-seven, by the way,” he said out of nowhere.
I startled.
“What?”
“You were wondering how old I was,” he said, one brow raised, that same wicked little smirk dancing across his lips. “I could hear it. Sorry. It’s a thing.”
Holy. Forking. Hell.
Mind reading. Forking mind reading.
That was a mate thing.
A fated mates thing.
I was going to die right here.
Buried alive under a mountain of pheromones and panic.
“What’s on your mind, Donatella? I can practically hear your wheels turning. Come on. Talk to me, Honey.”
That did it.
I slapped a dollop of conditioner on his forehead.
“Ow!” he laughed.
I smiled wickedly.
“Oops. My bad.”
“Do I need to worry?” he asked, mock-serious. “Should I prepare myself for a mohawk?”
“Depends. You planning to flirt with me all night or let me do my job?”
“Can’t it be both?”
This Bear was going to be the death of me.
But oh, what a beautiful death it would be.