Chapter Nineteen-Evie
“By the way, um,” Maribella’s voice slowed, a classic sign she was about to veer from pastries into personal drama.
Her heart-shaped face in the Swoosh screen looked unusually uncertain, eyes flicking toward her shoulder like she was checking for eavesdropping familiars.
“How long are those Shifters staying?”
I exhaled slowly and leaned back in my chair, stretching out the kinks in my neck.
“I don’t know,” I said, as honestly as I could.
And that was the problem, wasn’t it? I didn’t know.
Jaxson hadn’t said anything definite, and I’d been too busy fantasizing about him spoon-feeding me chocolate mousse and zabaglione in bed to bring it up.
Pathetic, right? I know.
I wanted him to stay.
I wanted the time to explore whatever this thing was between us.
Something hot and magical and, dare I say, meaningful.
But was wanting enough?
Could I risk the balance of Castor’s Corner for the sake of a whirlwind romance and some truly orgasmic kissing?
Yeah, probably not.
Sometimes being the responsible adult really sucked magical goat balls.
And there was the annoying fact that even though he saw my O face mondo times last night, Jaxson didn’t claim me.
He didn’t mark me with his bite.
And I was like ninety-nine point nine percent sure that was how it was done.
“Maybe the kids just ran off to the woods to play hooky from Miss Spritely’s evil Saturday morning lessons?” Maribella suggested, trying to lift my suddenly dour mood.
“Could be,” I said. “Or they stumbled into another realm and are now apprenticing with a squirrel Wizard. Honestly, it’s a toss-up.”
“Evie?” she said gently, drawing me back from my sarcasm spiral.
“What?”
Her face softened even more. She bit her lower lip—classic Maribella when she was about to ask something big.
Then she said, “Do you think, um, do you think we could keep them?”
I blinked. “Keep who?”
But I already knew.
The second the words left my mouth, my stomach did a somersault.
My gaze drifted to the dancing donuts she’d enchanted around her Swoosh frame.
I’d gotten used to their frosting-fueled frolicking, but at that moment, they seemed unusually smug.
Like they knew something I didn’t.
Maribella gave me that look—the one that meant you know exactly who I’m talking about, Evie Castor, don’t play dumb.
“Has something happened between you and one of the guys?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.
“Of course not,” she said instantly.
Too instantly.
And then came the sniff.
Not a sad sniff.
No, a guilty one.
The Maribella Special.
She sniffed like that every time she accidentally let a customer have a free cookie or told someone their baby was cute when it actually looked like a potato.
“Mm hmm,” I said, crossing my arms.
Her cheeks turned the color of strawberry buttercream.
“I said of course not!” she repeated, and then added in a much smaller voice, “But maybe there’s, um, potential.”
I arched a brow. “Uh huh. Potential. That’s what we’re calling it now?”
She huffed, then glanced over her shoulder like the walls might be listening.
“It will keep,” she muttered. “Now you be careful, Evie.”
Her expression changed so fast it gave me whiplash.
Gone was the flustered bakery flirt.
In her place was Witch Oracle Mode, eyes soft and steady.
I didn’t take it lightly.
Sure, I was the one with the official Sight, but Maribella had instincts that could rival a bloodhound.
And when she looked at me like that, I knew something was stirring.
“Do you think I should come with you?” she asked quietly.
“Nonsense,” I said, brushing her off with a wave. “You’ve got a bakery to run. And a zero-carb brownie recipe to perfect. I believe in you.”
She groaned. “Right. So much for our legendary Witch metabolism.”
“Well, Italian Witches are different, Bella. You know how it works. My ancestors descended from the OG La Befana,” I said, quoting Nonna’s favorite lore.
“Pasta first, magic second.”
“Yeah, well, I’m only Italian by association. Any actual Italian blood is so far back in my gene pool it hardly counts,” she grumbled. “So shouldn’t I only gain like a portion of the weight?”
“That’s not how carbs work. If it were, I’d have a full six-pack instead of a marshmallow center and thighs that jiggle when I sneeze.”
We shared a laugh, and something in my chest unclenched.
No matter what was coming, I had these two incredible Witches at my back.
And that meant the world.
Maribella sighed again, softer this time. “I’ll work on the brownies if you promise to be careful.”
I held up three fingers in the most solemn vow we had. “Witch’s honor.”
She rolled her eyes. “Fine. But call if you need me. I mean it, Evie. If anything feels off—anything at all—you call me and I’ll be there. Petyr can hold down the bakery for a few hours.”
“I will,” I said, meaning it. “Now go wrestle with your feelings for whichever sexy Shifter you’re not dating but might maybe want to do naked kitchen magic with.”
She turned as red as her raspberry glaze and ended the call with a sputter and a snap.
I smiled as the donuts winked out and the screen went dark.
Despite the swirling magic, the missing kids, and the Shifters camping out in my sleepy little town, I was smiling.
Gods help me.
Because the real trouble hadn’t even started yet.
We signed off at the same time, but I stayed put, just breathing, fingers still curled around my teacup like it might anchor me to the calm before the chaos.
My eyes drifted to the Swoosh screen, now dark, and then to the soft hum of the town beyond my window.
Guilt-free brownies.
Goddess bless Maribella and her endless baking optimism.
It was practically the Holy Grail of our friendship—three curvy Witches on a lifelong quest to enjoy dessert without it going straight to our asses, boobs, or bellies.
So far, the quest had yielded very delicious failures, several sugar comas, and exactly one singed oven mitt from Donatella trying to infuse her brownies with a fire rune.
Witch metabolism, my ass.
No, seriously.
My actual ass.
The one that I had inherited from my Great Aunt Edna.
The one that made its presence known in every pair of leggings I owned.
Somewhere in the great cosmic blueprint, the magical beings upstairs had decided the Trifecta would wield immense power, run an entire supernatural town, and have hips that didn’t lie—but did jiggle.
A whole fucking lot.
Maribella used to say it was the Jersey Girl in us.
Nonna said it was the Benevento blood of my ancestors. Witches from southern Italy had a love affair with carbs and spells passed down by Nonna, and both had consequences.
Mainly, the kind that settled in the lower half and refused to budge.
Pasta was in my bones.
Cannoli in my destiny.
And don’t even get me started on tiramisu.
That stuff was basically a love potion.
I sighed and glanced down at myself. Sure, I had a few extra curves.
And yeah, sometimes it stung when I stood next to twigs like the Great Witch Wheedler, who still looked like a walking enchantment even after birthing twins.
But last night?
Last night, Jaxson had devoured every inch of me like I was a Michelin-star meal, dessert, and a double shot of whiskey all rolled into one.
And not once did he hesitate.
Not once did he flinch or falter.
If anything, he looked at me like he thanked the stars I wasn’t built differently.
Or like a stick.
That kind of appreciation?
It wasn’t just sex.
It was like being worshipped and I was so down for more.
A slow, smug smile crept across my face.
I wasn’t that chubby sixteen-year-old anymore.
The one who could barely control her magic or her hormones.
Who’d crushed on the quarterback and flamed her eyebrows off trying to cast a glamour charm.
I was a grown-ass woman.
A Witch. A protector. And, apparently, a sex goddess if last night’s performance review counted.
Yowza, indeed.
My phone buzzed on the desk, snapping me out of my little victory montage. I peeked at the screen—Donatella.
Of course.
She warned me to stay alert and offered to come with. I could practically hear her voice in the message, crisp with concern and thinly veiled anxiety.
Maribella must’ve tipped her off about the cemetery errand.
I texted back quickly.
Me
Got this. All good. Go clean up your demon poop.
She replied with a skull emoji and what I think was a GIF of a Wiccan smudging a bathroom.
I exhaled, stood up, and rolled my shoulders.
Time to shake off the dreamy afterglow and get back in mayor mode.
Two kids were missing.
That wasn’t just a blip on my to-do list—it was a full-blown, red-alert, boots-on-the-ground situation.
Whoever thought they could mess with innocents in my town was in for a rude awakening.
Castor’s Corner wasn’t just my home.
It was my responsibility.
And when it came to right and wrong, I didn’t screw around.
Harming children?
That was the kind of evil that made my blood simmer.
I reached inward, checking my magical reserves.
Yep. Still buzzing like a live wire.
Turns out, orgasms were nature’s power boost.
Maybe I should add it to the next town council wellness memo.
For best results, channel sexual energy responsibly. May cause spontaneous magical surges and enhanced glow.
Still, as much as I hated to admit it, a pang shot through my chest when I thought of Jaxson leaving.
Which he probably would.
Probably should.
His Pack, his mission—hell, his entire life—wasn’t rooted here.
But I was.
And yet, I had to wonder.
The way he’d looked at me last night? Like he’d been searching for something his whole damn life and just found it tangled up in my sheets?
Yeah. That look haunted me in the best possible way.
Was I being selfish, wanting to keep him here?
Absolutely.
Would I do it anyway if I thought it wouldn’t hurt anyone else?
You bet your sweet, carb-loving, Italian Witch ass I would.
I shook it off.
Later.
I could moon over Werewolves after I ensured the town’s kids were safe and sound.
I cracked my knuckles and stretched my arms overhead, letting the tension snap loose from my spine.
No more stalling.
I had magic.
I had motive.
I had murderously maternal instincts.
And if whoever took those kids didn’t want to deal with the full wrath of a sexually recharged Witch with a caffeine addiction and a wicked right hook—they’d best return them now.
I was about to go full Hex Mode.
Big girl panties: on.
Mission: active.
Ass-kicking: imminent.
Because nobody—and I mean nobody—messed with my town.
Not on my watch.