“You could at least say please.”
“Shifters do not say please to a witch.”He would never compromise his morals for a morsel of rotisserie chicken.
Instead, he used his powers of annoyance. Letting go of the plate, he walked over to the bowl of kibble that he had pushed to the edge of the table. The witch followed him with her eyes, realizing too late what he was about to do.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
With a simple nudge, the bowl fell off the table. She lunged for it, but was a second too slow before the bowl shattered on the floor, sending kibble scattering. So much for keeping a low profile. But he wouldn’t live like this. Not when meats were within reach. And just for good measure, he pushed a glass of water off as well. To really drive the point home.
They stared at each other. He glared. She glared. Dozens of witches watched the glare-off. She heard giggling.
Finally, with an exasperated breath, she pushed her plate of meat before him, opting to take a large swig of her red wine instead.
Felix purred. A small victory. The first of many.
He chowed into the scrumptious thigh meat with the fever of a man who hadn’t eaten in years. The little witch had a disgusted frown on her face that only went deeper when he started to crunch on the bones. It only made him do it louder.
The fireplace crackledas they sat in an awkward silence across from each other in the dorm. All Felix wanted right now was a glass of whiskey in a chair that wasn’t built for a tiny witch. He draped his long legs over the Chesterfield chair, having pulled it as close to the fireplace as was safe. He always loved the warmth.
The witch sat in her reading nook, thumbing through the pages of the book which had mysteriously appeared on the backs of magical rabbits. She had spent hours trying to translate the cursive slop that vaguely resembled the old language. How was this his life right now? He missed his pub, watching rugby with his brothers, and sunning himself on the rooftop when the London skies allowed it. He missed having sex. It had already been a week since he had been buried inside someone, and that was far too many days to go without. If this went on any longer, he would have to hide himself in the bathroom and get himself off.The horror.
Silver light streamed through the window as the willow rattled softly against the panes, casting patterns that danced over her freckled skin. He watched her stir with a morbid sort of curiosity. He watched as she bit the end of her pen between herluscious lips, and just for a moment, he wished it were his cock. She was wearing her pajamas—shorts and a thin cami. The way it hugged her body made his attention linger. He had to admit, it was a nice sight to behold. The moon illuminated another sliver of light onto the smooth line of her stomach. It was a cold night, even with the fire, and he was particularly taken with the way her nipples puckered through her shirt. A low, involuntary purr vibrated in his chest before he could stop it, and the bond thrummed in answer.
The way the little witch had moaned for him surfaced in his mind. Would it be the worst thing in the world to use her body while he was here? He shook his head to rid himself of the thought. No, he wouldneverdo that. Not after what they did to him. To his father.
The bond was fucking with his head.
Witches were disgusting, he told himself, as he dragged his eyes away, jaw tight, trying to mask the anger in his voice with boredom. “Has the magical bunny book told you anything about breaking this bond yet?”
With one hand, she shut the book forcefully enough to move strands of her long hair away from her face. “I told you, thebookhas a riddle in it that I think the goddess wants us to solve.”
“Yeah? And I’m the Queen of England, huzzah.” Felix quipped.
She rolled her eyes. “I’d like to hear if you have a better idea.”
“I don’t.”
Felix rested his head on his palm as he looked over at the studious witch. “Let’s see it then.”
She moved from the bed and kneeled to the side of the armchair, passing him the book. He tried not to think about how much he liked the sight of her on her knees. He thumbed through the pages until he reached the riddle.
She translated the old words, smudged together in a barely legible script of loops and curls. If the goddess wrote it, she had terrible handwriting. Or the bunnies had gotten to it first.
He studied it for a moment, but deciphering metaphors was never really his thing; he preferred people to say what they fucking meant. So instead, he handed it back to her, trying not to look at the line that disappeared beneath her shirt. “Haven’t the foggiest.”
She gave him alook. “Helpful.”
“Have you tried Googling it?”
“You think the answer to a magical riddle would be on Google?”
“Perhaps,” he purred.
“Perhaps not. The sacred text isn’t on Google. And if the riddle is, that takes the fun out of it. You should know that.”
“Know what?” he questioned, head cocking.
She smiled. “That it’s not about the reward, it’s about the chase, the thrill.”
