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What’s your cat’s name?” “Luce.” “As in Lucy?” “No, as in Lucifer. Don’t pet her, she’s allergic to people. And I do mind. Like I said, Petra, we’re closed.”
A new line of ink, bold, fresh, and burning white-hot like a brand, had appeared on the inside of my wrist. It was her name. And I knew without a doubt that this woman who walked out of my dreams and into my shop on a rainy October night was always meant to show up. Because, somehow, she was part of the curse too.
It’s a time-tested truth that the best-looking men are always the absolute worst.
Oh, except for the fun fact that any woman who fell in love with a Rousseau man was doomed to a tragic death. So that was perfect. Nothing says “great idea” like falling for a man who might be my own personal grim reaper.
“What you’re asking for, smart-ass, is a spanking.” A jolt of lust rocked my body. Wide-eyed and breathless, my heart pounding, I stared at him. Spanking? Yes, that sounded like an excellent idea.
She tasted like sweet dreams and bad decisions. And I was already in too deep.
It figured I’d fall for a witch. My taste in women always ran toward the feral ones.
