Witches Get Stitches (Stay a Spell, #3)

by Juliette Cross

“Leave it to you to draw the most dangerous super in the room.”

“Same price as last time?” I asked, scooping my tank-top back up onto my shoulders. “Two blow jobs and a steak dinner?”

“You’re wrong. I’m not trying to impress you. I want you to see me.” “Why?” I reached out with my magical senses. “We just met.” “And when we did, the earth opened up beneath my feet.”

Lucky for me, I’d never see this werewolf again.

LMAO. Sure you won't Violet.

“Well then, my first song goes out to a girl who took my breath away the first night I met her.” More whistles. “Then she bailed on me.”

And second, stop making fun of women. Without women and their periods, you wouldn’t even exist on this planet.”

You know those moments after waking from a rowdy night full of way too much alcohol and your memory is spotty so you spend at least an hour recounting every event just to be sure you didn’t do anything too embarrassing? That was me.

Me too

“From you, I’d beg for them.”

Ugh. The pining from this man. Obsessed.

“What are you grinning at, bitch?” “A little lost lamb. Looking for her wolf.” He batted his dark eyelashes at me.

“Such a bad liar.” “I hate you.” “Still lying.” “Stop talking and fucking kiss me.” “There’s my girl.”

And the shit-eating grin on his face told me he just sat there and heard everything that had happened. “Enjoy the show?” I snapped snarkily. He winked. “Magical supply closet, eh?” “Fuck off, Sean,” I called before storming off to my workspace. But then I heard Nico answer him as he headed across the lobby to leave. “Yeah, it is.”

“Should I be worried that you think people can get pregnant from pheromones?”

“What, you’ve never seen a girl cry over a chicken coop before?”

I’d called his cell number, which he hadn’t changed, one hundred and seventy-two times. He’d let every single one go to voicemail. I’d sent some heinous, life-threatening texts with explicit details of how he would come to his imminent demise. All had been left on read. Then not even that. Presumably, he’d turned his phone off so it couldn’t be traced.

“Guess you can’t call him cockwaffle anymore.” Henry smiled like the devil himself before adding in his deep tenor, “You can definitely keep calling him that.”

He snuffed and looked down at the car in wolfie confusion.

“Isn’t the pill ninety-nine percent effective?” asked Clara. “I’m the one percent.” Alpha exhaled a satisfied, manly breath. “My seed is strong.”