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“Congratulations on the impending birth of your first youngling.” I change the subject.
Unfortunately, Raiden isn’t diverted. “You’ve lost the plot. Since our transition into magic, we’ve frequented pubs and shagged countless females. We’ve never failed to secure a night with the women we most want because we function well as a team…until recently. Last night, I had to work damn hard to talk Sophia into inviting you home because you were busy mooning over Kari. It’s making my evenings more difficult, and it’s going to stop.”
Doesn’t my brother realize I’ve tried not to think about the woman I can’t have? Probably not. Until two years ago, Raiden’s perspective was mine, too.
The more I’m with Kari, the more that changes.
“Son,” Nathanial interjects. “You should know better than to mate. It’s no state for a Wolvsey.”
Especially if it means Kari’s death.
I should walk away, never return to the Witch’s Brew or set eyes on her again. But she’s a fever in my blood that I can’t cure—at least until I know if the curse is real. And I can only know that if I touch her…
Chapter Three
Kari
Sunday night at the Witch’s Brew is quieter than the rest of the week, but the early snow on top of leftover slush from another recent cold snap has made roads unbearable.
A few customers sit in dark corners of the pub. Tynan has already come and gone. Auropha died a month ago today, and his grief is still so raw.
The usual collection of rowdy wizards remains in the back with their billiard sticks and ales. A smattering of people collects around the room, some magical, some not. I don’t always know the difference.
In truth, I’m too busy watching the door. Nearly ten o’clock, minutes until closing. I should face facts; Ronan isn’t coming. Likely, he’s already procured a woman for the night and he’s pleasing her with those deft hands and his sinful mouth…
I shouldn’t care. After Edward, I swore off men, particularly gorgeous ones who only want one thing.
But I can’t stop fixating on Ronan.
Suddenly, the bell chimes, and the door sweeps open, bringing a dusting of snow on a pair of black combat boots. Long legs in black jeans, a heavy charcoal duster, long hair the color of midnight, and piercing green eyes bulldoze my defenses.
Ronan. And he’s alone.
My breath catches.
Without taking his eyes off me, he shuts the door and sheds his duster, revealing a tight black T-shirt that clings to the flexing, rolling muscles of his chest.
He strides straight toward me. My heart starts banging against my chest.
“Ronan.” I do my best to keep my voice even. “Scotch?”
“Double, no rocks.”
I know. I’ve memorized everything I can about the man. The dark tumble of his hair. The devil-may-care glitter of his eyes. His sharp jaw. The slight cleft of his chin. The sexual curl of his lips. And don’t get me started on his body…
Quickly, I pour his drink, then set it in front of him. Before I can retreat, he plunks his money down and grabs my wrist. “I came to talk to you.”
I know what he wants. And I’m far too tempted. If I have sex with him, he’ll only find someone else—probably in my pub—to grace his bed tomorrow.
And I’ll be gutted.
Over the past two years, I’ve come to know Ronan. At first as a gorgeous customer with a quick wit and an even quicker mind. He chatted, told jokes, and made me laugh. When I sprained my ankle last spring, he volunteered to clean up the pub and close. He brought me soup and checked in while I recovered. He made me feel important.
My cat went missing a few months later. He helped me search for Misty and held my hand while I worried. He rejoiced with me when she finally wandered home a week later. He even brought me a bottle of my favorite wine to celebrate.
My desire for him deepened, especially when he started flirting, asking about me, and staring as if no other woman existed. Before long, he cajoled me into divulging confidences, like the fact that I bought this pub because I hated my desk job, and my father’s sudden passing made me realize that life is too short to spend it miserable. Instead of tuning out like most men, Ronan listened. He cared about my grief, my plans, even my feelings in a way Edward never did.
When I admitted that I missed having a mother growing up, Ronan empathized, since his mother abandoned him and his twin at birth. From there, we connected on a level that felt far more than physical. I began fantasizing about him.
