Chapter Twenty-Four-Donny
See, I knew Witches and Shifters could mate.
That wasn’t some big mystical revelation or forbidden love plot twist.
Biologically, magically, and cosmically—it was all on the up and up.
The great La Befana herself, Magdelena the Magnificent, had a Shifter mate and two gorgeous sets of twins with glowing eyes and prophecy written into their DNA.
Hell, those kids were destined to one day lead the magical world into a new era of peace and power.
Or at least that’s what the CovenNet forums said.
And everyone knows if it’s on CovenNet, it’s probably true.
But here in Castor’s Corner?
I’d seen it firsthand.
Evie and Jaxson were the blueprint.
My best friend—the town’s big boss mayor—shacked up with our sexy new Wolf Sheriff, and from all accounts, they were happy.
Fated. Cozy even.
So yes. It could happen.
Just not to me.
Because I wasn’t mate material.
Not even close.
I didn’t have a maternal bone in my body—unless you counted my firm belief that every being, magical or mortal, should have access to good leave-in conditioner.
Shifter men? They were basically giant, hairy toddlers with six-packs.
Did I look like the type of woman who wanted to babysit a brooding Bear just to keep him from stomping off into the woods every time he got cranky?
I don’t even babysit my familiar properly.
Gryn runs feral 90% of the time and chews on my favorite shoes like a furry Gremlin with a grudge.
Besides, looking at the disaster that was my family tree? Fidelity was more of a suggestion than a practice.
The Andrews and the Castors—we weren’t exactly known for sticking it out.
Hell, half of us couldn’t even pick a hair color and commit.
I knew myself. I knew that I’d never cheat, not on purpose, not in a million lifetimes.
But that didn’t stop the gnawing voice in my head.
The one that whispered things like what if it’s in your blood?
What if there’s some wild, restless, cursed seed buried deep in my DNA that would one day take root and ruin everything?
The thought made my stomach cramp and my heart twist.
I hated it.
Hated me for even thinking it.
When I was a kid, Granny Andrews used to look at me like I was some kind of delicate mistake.
Always criticizing the way I dressed, the way I talked, the friends I made, the boys I liked.
She’d whisper her disapproval like it was a hex, but only when my parents weren’t around. Subtle, but poison all the same.
And when I turned twenty and came home from college to announce—with sparkly eye shadow and righteous conviction—that I was dropping out to go to beauty school?
Whew. That was the cherry on her judgment sundae.
"A real Witch uses her power to protect the world, not dye roots and curl bangs," she’d sneered.
Well, fork her.
Fork her twice for making me feel like crap.
It had taken me years—literal years and one heart-shaped handheld mirror—to finally believe I was good at what I did.
That what I did mattered.
That making someone feel beautiful could be a kind of healing.
That being a stylist, a potion crafter, a business owner, and a damn good friend was enough.
But being someone’s mate? Could I do that?
I wasn’t so sure.
Especially not Ryan’s.
That Bear of a man was too solid.
Too good. Too real.
The kind of person who deserved a warm-hearted, nurturing mate who made casseroles and sewed buttons and never once considered running off to Bermuda to open a potion bar on a whim.
He deserved better than a moody, magically unstable stylist with control issues and commitment phobia.
I worried my bottom lip until it was sore, and glared at the drawer full of abandoned toys like they were traitors to the cause.
“I’m a forking mess,” I muttered.
Maybe being alone was just safer.
Plenty of Witches went that route.
The Chickie twins had never mated.
They had each other, a pair of matching orthopedic shoes, and a legacy of enchanted lawn ornaments that could out-sing Mariah Carey.
And then I made the mistake of picturing myself thirty years from now.
In a shapeless violet housecoat, mismatched knee-highs, half a dozen rollers clamped in my still-blonde hair—because of course the hair would still be blonde.
Maybe Gryn would be perched on my shoulder gnawing on my retirement paperwork, and no Ryan in sight.
I screamed.
Like, internally screamed, but loud enough for my soul to hear.
"That’s it," I growled, marching toward the master bathroom with dramatic flair. "I’m fixing this hair now."
Enough was enough.
If I couldn’t fix my future, I could at least fix my damn roots.
So what if it was risky?
What was the worst that could happen?