Chapter Twenty-Three-Donny
I was too amped up to walk—no way my feet were touching the ground after that Bear blew my freaking mind—then left me there, like yesterday’s newspaper.
So, I flew home.
Literally.
Zipped right through the skies of Castor’s Corner like a sugar-high Valkyrie on a caffeine bender.
I didn’t even bother with a landing spell.
Just dropped out of the air and thudded into my front lawn like a half-buzzed superheroine who’d lost her cape.
Everything in me was vibrating.
My skin, my lips, my—well, let’s just say the entire southern hemisphere was still singing hallelujahs.
I’d just been eaten out by a Bear Shifter with the mouth of a god and the patience of a saint.
And I still didn’t know what to do about it.
The only thing I did know?
I was not ready to see the mess waiting for me inside.
But too bad for me, because as soon as I opened the door, I was greeted by the familiar scent of singed leather, mischief, and magical madness.
My house looked like a poltergeist party had collided with a biker bar clearance sale.
Again.
“Still blonde, Witchy?” Gryn snarked from the corner, his voice dripping with smug superiority.
The little turd was perched on my vintage velvet ottoman, tearing metal studs from the authentic 1980s biker boots I just scored at a Chelsea flea market.
We’re talking six-hundred-dollar secondhand leather.
Imported. Distressed. Pre-owned by an actual Hell’s Angel—probably.
“Yes! I am still blonde!” I snapped, slamming the door behind me with a flick of my wrist. “How did you do that, anyway?”
My voice came out a little breathless.
Okay, maybe still brain-dead from coming so hard I saw constellations.
So sue me.
Gryn just snarled and gave me his version of a magical shrug, which involved burping up a spark and throwing a stud at the wall like a dart.
“What do you care, Miss Hoity-Toity Know-It-All?” he grumbled, then returned to his DIY destruction project, shredding what was left of the boot with claws and teeth.
My eye twitched.
Those were going to be the centerpiece of my Fall Equinox outfit, but I didn’t have it in me to scream.
I just flipped him the bird.
A big ol’ glitter-dusted middle finger.
He let out something between a yowl and a guttural curse in a language I still didn’t understand—sounded like he was coughing up gravel and regret.
Per usual, I ignored it.
But Goddess, I really needed to start learning whatever forsaken dialect that little Domodork spoke.
Maybe Drusilla offered a familiar language elective at her online Academy?
She knew everything.
I mean, the woman could translate Ghost moaning into operatic arias.
Worth asking.
Mental note made.
But at that moment? I was running on pure magical fumes.
I tossed my keys into the portal-bowl by the door (it burped, rude), kicked off my heels, and sank into my couch with a groan.
Still blonde.
Still grumbling.
Still reeling.
My body was humming from Ryan’s touch, but my heart? My head?
They were a tangled mess of what-the-fork-just-happened.
Because somewhere between the teasing and the tongue and the whispered mate, I’d felt it.
Felt the bond.
Felt the click.
Felt, er, something.
Something more than sex.
Something bigger than my skepticism and stronger than the walls I’d built around my heart.
And that? That scared the absolute forking hell out of me.
Gryn cackled in the corner.
So, I flipped him the bird again.
Next, I floated into my bedroom like a Ghost on a sugar crash. The familiar swirl of cool blues and warm yellows hugged me like a weighted blanket for my soul.
This room was my haven.
My retreat.
My carefully curated, color-coordinated fuck off, world space.
Big-ass windows faced the backyard, letting in just the right amount of moonlight to keep the shadows honest. I’d designed this room to be light and airy, a literal breath of fresh air from the rest of my chaotic, magical, Domovyk-destroyed life.
The rest of the house may have been battered by centuries of Andrews family history, but this room was mine.
This entire house was technically mine.
It had been in the family for over two hundred years, passed down from Witch to Witch like a really haunted heirloom—except ours came with a secret pantry, a Ghost cat in the attic, and a magical plumbing system that flushed backwards during Mercury retrograde.
Classic Castor’s Corner.
My ancestors had come to the New World fleeing persecution and seeking opportunity.
Some came from a long-forgotten village in central Italy—seriously, the actual name’s lost to history, which feels like a metaphor for everything else I pretend not to care about.
Like fate.
Or love.
Or gigantic, croissant-baking Bear Shifters with bedroom eyes and a soft spot for mouthy Witches.
Weirdly specific, I know.
But he’d gotten under my skin like splinters from a cursed broom handle.
I sighed and dropped my head in my hands, ignoring the faint char marks Gryn had left on my handcrafted throw rug.
The little turd was probably nesting in the pantry again, chewing on my vintage cake toppers or reorganizing my canned potions alphabetically.
Whatever.
I needed space.
This house had always held both comfort and Ghosts.
My parents hadn’t wanted it after my grandparents passed—said it held too many memories.
Maybe they were right, but I couldn’t let it go.
Not the wraparound porch with its rocking chairs, not the enormous kitchen where Bella and I brewed love spells disguised as jam.
Not the garden where I poured my energy into the earth and it gave me healing herbs and sweet tomatoes in return.
This place knew me. And I’d built a life here. One where I could thrive without needing anyone.
Or so I’d told myself.
Until him.
Until tonight.
I slammed the bedroom door with a flick of my fingers and locked it tight.
Not that anyone could get in—there were six protection wards on this room alone—but I needed the closure. Literal and emotional.
My king-sized bed, a family heirloom carved by my great-grandfather, sat like a throne in the center of the room.
The engraved pine trees and bears had always been my favorite detail.
Go figure.
Guess my subconscious knew something I didn’t.
I waved the pillows into a neat pile, shoved back the covers, and climbed in, hoping the thick yellow comforter would soothe the ache Ryan left behind.
And not just the ache in my heart.
I still couldn’t believe the man had left. Left. After all that foreplay. After I melted into a puddle on his face.
After I basically threw myself at him like some oversexed groupie at a Shifter bachelor auction.
He walked away.
Who does that?
I was so mad I could spit.
Or cry.
Or combust.
But instead, I reached for my side drawer, ready to prove him wrong.
Ready to show my own damn body that I didn’t need a possessive Bear and his magic mouth to feel good.
But when I opened the drawer, my stomach dropped.
Nothing appealed.
Not my trusty lavender wand.
Not my glittery rabbit with three vibration settings.
Not even the obsidian one Evie bought me as a gag gift but turned out to be very effective.
I stared at my collection of pleasure wands, each more magical than the last, and slammed the drawer shut with a growl.
“That hairy-assed fucker jinxed me!” I hollered.
Zap!
The lightning bolt from the Goddess zapped me square on the ass, leaving a tingling welt and a very bruised ego.
“Ow!” I whined, rubbing my butt as I flopped back on the bed like a tragic heroine in a soap opera. “That wasn’t even that bad a curse word!”
And there I was.
Still blonde.
Still horny.
Still furious.
I tugged the comforter up and rolled onto my side, trying to summon sleep. But the second I closed my eyes, I saw him.
Ryan.
His eyes. His hands.
The way he looked at me.
The way he kissed like he was memorizing my mouth with his soul.
The way he didn’t stay.
I knew he wanted me to say it.
To claim him back.
To admit we were mates.
But I wasn’t ready.
I didn’t know if I’d ever be ready.
Because the moment I said those words, I wouldn’t be Donny Andrews, Trifecta Witch, owner of Hair Now, Gone Tomorrow, reigning queen of independence and glitter eyeliner.
I’d be his.
And I didn’t know if I could survive losing myself.
Even if he made me feel more alive than anyone ever had.
I inhaled deeply. Exhaled slowly.
The sheets smelled like cedar and rosemary. Comforting.
I wanted them to smell like him, though.
I buried my face in the pillow and muttered, “Puhleeeze,” like the world was trying to sell me the fantasy of true love and I was the last Witch on Earth not buying it.
But deep down?
Yeah.
Part of me was already sold.