The Bone Witch (The Osseous Chronicles, #1)

by Ivy Asher

My cheek is plastered to the laminate floor, and all I can think is that I need to sweep under my cupboards...oh, and what the fuck just happened to me?

A moth dive-bombs me, and I swat at it and squeal, ducking and tripping down the last couple of steps. Bastard bugs. Oh god, please don’t let my familiar be a moth—or worse, a ferret. I have a hard enough time finding decent guys without a pet that smells like piss following me around all the time.

The overwhelming scent of rotten eggs fills the car, and I groan and cover my nose with my shirt. I glare at Hoot, who couldn’t give two shits about the ass bombs he keeps dropping. I have the sneaking suspicion that he was adopted and returned because of the Bog of Eternal Stench that lives in his ass and not the mellow way he has about him.

I just body checked Joe Jonas’s hotter, beefier, and more masculine looking older brother.

Rogan studies me for a moment, and I can’t discern if he’s checking that I’m okay or looking for weaknesses. He pulls Hoot up to his face and kisses the top of his head and inhales deeply. “Did you just get a bath, little buddy? You smell so good, you handsome little tater tot,” he coos at him. I bite back a scoff as I watch Rogan kiss him again. Hoot rubbed himself all over my dirty underwear while I was in the shower this morning. The only thing he smells like is eau de mon vagina.

“I mean, a simple yeet would have sufficed, but boom shaka laka is a solid choice as well.”

“Listen, coffee maker, I know you think you’re the shit because you’re bougie as hell, but let’s keep it real. You have one job—to make coffee—and, bitch, right now you’re sucking at it. You should be ashamed. What would all the other coffee makers have to say about your attitude?” I growl as I try for the hundredth time to make this damn machine work.

He shakes his head but doesn’t say anything else. I take a sip of my coffee, and it forces me to close my eyes and revel in the explosion of flavors on my tongue. I welcome the heat that pours down my throat as I swallow, and I swear this cup of coffee is a better lover than a fair percentage of my past dalliances. “I want to have your babies,” I state matter-of-factly, opening my blissed-out gaze and leveling an arduous look on the coffee machine. Rogan barks out a laugh. “Should I leave the two of you alone?” he teases. “Please don’t, you know she only puts out for me because you tell her to,” I plead, and he laughs even harder.