Chapter Twenty-Six-Donny
What could go wrong?
Famous. Forking. Last. Words.
I stood in front of the salon’s vintage mirror, flicking my fingers through my newly-restored golden honey waves.
Thank the Goddess the clown show had left the building.
My hair was finally behaving again—no more rainbow coils, no more Bozo curls, and no more magical meltdowns in the middle of deep-conditioning treatments.
The last two days had been hell.
Rainbow perm hell.
I hadn’t just singed my pride, I’d nuked it with that impulsive attempt to undo Gryn’s blonde curse.
And yes, I had resembled a circus reject for 48 straight hours.
Even Celeste had flinched the first time she saw me.
The little Domovyk had howled with laughter, rolling around on my designer rug like he was possessed.
“You like blonde better, Witchy?” he’d sneered this morning, smug and smugger in his ripped leather vest.
“Yes, I like blonde better, you groin-Goblin,” I snapped back, dragging my coffee to my lips like it owed me rent.
He just went back to yanking the metal studs out of a $800 vintage Armani jacket.
I flipped him off and cursed him with the itchiest ear hair known to familiar-kind.
He deserved it.
But no more self-doubt.
No more groveling to fate or flinching at the sight of my own reflection.
Today was a new day, and I was a Witch with work to do and bills to pay.
“Hair Now, Gone Tomorrow, this is Celeste speaking!” chirped my blue-haired assistant from the front desk, her voice perkier than a caffeinated bunny rabbit.
I rolled my eyes and smiled despite myself. I might’ve been cranky, frustrated, and dangerously horny thanks to one stubborn-ass Bear Shifter who ruined me for adult toys, but I loved this place.
My shop. My sanctuary.
And I wasn’t going to let some moody man-Bear or evil Imp-familiar unravel me.
Not today.
I’d earned this life. I’d built this business.
I was Donatella Andrews, Witch of the Trifecta, protector of Castor’s Corner, and badass stylist to the supernatural stars.
I’d tamed Troll beards, Shifter manes, and the occasional possessed extension. I could handle this.
Even if this included complete cherry turnover withdrawal and a libido stuck on fuck or combust.
Because, yeah—I’d been skipping the bakery.
But someone—not naming that giant Bear-sized rock in my shoe right now—had sent me a dozen cherry turnovers with vanilla glaze and a sticky note that read:
When you’re ready to accept we’re mates, call me. But not until then, Honey. I can wait for you.
-Ryan
Smug. Assface.
I didn’t burn the box, but I thought about it. Instead, I ate all twelve pastries in one sitting, washed them down with half a bottle of Chianti, and rage-watched season one of Game of Thrones. Twice.
I still wasn’t over the Red Wedding.
But I was still not anyone’s forking mate.
Gold sparks flared at my fingertips again, heat rising behind my sternum.
Inhale. Exhale.
I wasn't mad because of what Ryan said. I was mad because a part of me believed him.
My magic did too, and it hated being denied.
But I wasn’t ready.
Not to be claimed, not to be tied to anyone, and sure as fork not to lose myself again in someone else’s shadow.
So when Celeste bounced over and announced, “The Chicky twins are here!” with a too-bright smile, I bit back a groan.
“Send them in,” I said through gritted teeth.
“Look what the—” Candice began.
“—cat dragged in,” Denice finished with a synchronized sigh.
“Nice to see you finally taking responsibility,” Candice continued.
“We thought stylists had to work to make money,” Denice added, pursing her wrinkled lips.
I smiled.
Sharp. Cold.
The kind of smile that said I could turn them into toads if I wanted.
“Ladies,” I greeted with a nod. “Here for your free weekly dose of passive aggression?”
They gasped in unison. It was glorious.
Celeste choked behind the counter, pretending to cough.
“We’re only here—” Candice began.
“—because you messed up our hair—” Denice added.
“As usual,” Candice finished.
That was it. I’d had it.
“Really? Messed up, huh? Well, I see two perfectly styled, root-touched-up heads with not a gray in sight,” I continued. “Now, unless you’re here to book a real appointment—and pay for it—Celeste will schedule you for your monthly pedicure. Otherwise, I have paying clients coming in.”
“Well—”
“I never!” they huffed, clutching their matching mustard yellow handbags like they were about to be mugged.
“We’ll take our business elsewhere—”
“Until you apologize!”
Then, they walked out, taking eerily matching steps as they shoved through the door.
“Oh, sweet Hecate,” Celeste whispered. “That was amazing. You are a Goddess.”
“Nope,” I said with a grin. “Just a Witch who’s officially done taking anyone’s shit. And I’ve let those two walk all over me for years!”
She laughed and clapped, bouncing in her combat boots. “Pizza for lunch?”
“Only if it’s greasy, cheesy, and bad for my chakras.”
“Thought you’d never ask.”
As Celeste ordered, I leaned back in my chair, finally letting my shoulders drop.
The lightning in my chest had faded, and for the first time in days, I felt like myself again.
Maybe I didn’t have all the answers.
Maybe I wasn’t ready to be someone’s mate.
But I was ready to consider the possibility.
And I was so forking done letting fear make my choices for me.
“Celebratory pizza has been ordered!” Celeste cheered.
She was really something else.
And by something else, I meant she’d vacillated between cheerleading me with cult-level enthusiasm and avoiding me like I was the second coming of the rainbow hair disaster.
I couldn’t exactly blame her.
I’d been cranky, twitchy, and not-so-quietly vibrating with barely contained sexual tension all day. Even I was annoying myself.
Still, she stuck it out.
I had three remaining clients today, two emergency walk-ins (one of them a Troll with sideburns like steel wool), and somehow, we made it through.
I was grateful for the chaos. Truly.
Work was the only thing keeping me from spontaneously combusting into a glittery cloud of magical angst and sexually frustrated pheromones.
Unfortunately, even trimming Hedgehog Shifter hair and mixing a fresh batch of lilac-sage scalp soother couldn’t fully distract me from him.
The sexy, brooding Bear Shifter with a tongue like sin and a voice that sounded like it had been soaked in bourbon and rolled in flannel.
I caught myself zoning out more than once during appointments, and let me tell you, imagining Grizzlies going down on Witches while holding scissors near someone’s ears? Not advisable.
At last, it was the end of the day. I swept up the last of the enchanted curls and dead ends and hit the start button on the magical crematorium under the sink, watching the hair clippings vanish in a puff of lavender smoke.
Satisfying.
Celeste gave me a tight-lipped smile, tucked her bag under her arm, and bolted before I could say anything about a staff drink or snack.
I should’ve felt bad.
Instead, I muttered, “Good call,” to no one in particular, locked up, and headed out.
I needed air. A walk. Anything to stop thinking about his mouth.
The breeze hit me the second I stepped outside, crisp and cool, smelling like leaves and apples and fireplace smoke. October in Castor’s Corner. It was pure magic.
Storefronts were done up for spooky season—hay bales, gourds, grinning pumpkins, glam-witch mannequins in corseted dresses, and enough fairy lights to make Times Square look dim.
The town practically hummed with spellwork and nostalgia, a mix of normal and not-so-normal all wrapped in charm.
Everyone was buzzing about the Halloween Bash, and sure, the seasonal display game was strong—but I wasn’t really feeling it this year.
Evie wanted a “Hollywood Bombshells” theme, and while I normally lived for vintage glam, I didn’t want to spend the entire night being compared to every blonde Witch from history.
Especially not Marilyn.
Don’t get me wrong—I was adjusting.
The blonde thing?
I was starting to see the appeal.
It looked soft in the lamplight, a mix of ash and gold, the kind of color people paid thousands for. It even brought out the odd tones in my eyes—a brownish hazel that skewed mossy green in the morning and wolfish gold at dusk.
I used to think they were my best feature.
Well. Before he showed up and made me question every inch of my body and soul.
I crossed my arms and kept walking.
My heels—Prada, thank you very much—clicked against the sidewalk as I strolled past the bakery (yes, that bakery), refusing to glance at it, even though I knew full well the smell of cinnamon and warm cherry glaze would wreck me.
My Armani jeans clung like a second skin, enchanted to elongate my legs and lift my ass just so.
Paired with the vintage off-shoulder lace blouse I found in Paris during my failed escape-from-Castor’s-Corner years ago, and yeah, I looked good.
But what did it matter?
It didn’t matter how I looked or what kind of potion I brewed or how many clients I booked. I was still just me.
Donatella Andrews. Stylist. Witch. Daughter of disappointingly normal parents. Granddaughter of one of the grumpiest, most judgmental Witches ever to haunt a rocking chair.
Granny always said I was too soft. Too dreamy. Too full of nonsense.
When I quit college to enroll in beauty school, she declared I was throwing my life away.
My parents, bless them, came around eventually.
But Granny? She always thought I’d end up barefoot and crying, alone in a house full of cats and unpaid bills.
I clutched my arms tighter around myself and slowed as I reached the edge of the park.
Funny thing was, I did come back. And not barefoot. Not broken.
I bought the shop from those nasty old biddies, the Chickee twins.
I built a life.
I healed people in ways they didn’t even realize needed healing.
Hair magic wasn’t just glamour—it was restoration.
It was self-worth. I helped people see the best in themselves.
So why couldn’t I see it in me?
Maybe the town didn’t hate me.
Maybe I just hadn’t stopped believing my Granny’s voice long enough to listen to my own.
I paused, sucking in a deep breath of fall air. The trees above rustled like they were whispering secrets I hadn’t heard since I was a kid.
My skin buzzed—not with static, but with something else.
Something low and warm and humming.
Power.
I was part of this town. I belonged here.
No man, no prophecy, no glowing mating mark was going to make me forget that again.
Not even the Bear whose kisses made me forget my own name.
But the thing was, he wasn’t asking me to give up anything, was he?
Shit. So what if, I was the one who messed up by not giving him a shot?
These were thoughts that needed time and a long stroll to figure out.
So, off I went.