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My Devil doesn't give a shit.

Neither does my cock whenever she appears outside wearing those little leggings she likes.

Fuck my life.

Oh, and those muffins?

She must have bewitched them.

I polish off the entire basket the morning after she gives them to me, and I've been craving more ever since.

Pumpkin-spice muffins.

How fucking humiliating.

But the muffins aren't what's really driving me insane.

That kiss.

That goddamned kiss.

How could I let myself do that?

Touch her.

Taste her.

Now I can't stop thinking about doing it again.

And again.

I’ve ignored my garden. I’ve ignored work. I've even ignored Grandmother's texts, which have grown increasingly threatening.

Grandmother:

DRINK YOUR TEA, DAMIAN.

Then:

I KNOW YOU ARE READING THESE.

And this morning:

ANSWER ME OR I AM COMING TO TEXAS.

That one almost gets a response.

Almost.

Instead, out of pure self-preservation—because apparently breaking into Belinda's house, throwing the little Witch over my shoulder, and carrying her home with me isn't considered acceptable neighborly behavior—I arrange to meet our noble Sheriff, and also my pal, Owen, at the Crescent Moon Diner.

I need to tell him the truth.

So when I’m sitting across from him, I go for broke. No beating around the bush for me.

“You're going to have to kill me.”

Owen Randall stops chewing. Across the booth, the Sheriff of Arrhythmia stares at me over a cheeseburger.