Witcha Gonna Do? (Witchington #1)(23)
I’m sweating, my shirt’s come untucked, and I’m breathing as hard as that time I outran a trio of trolls looking for a donation for their bone broth—but I made it, and that’s all that matters.
Or at least I think so until I look up and each of the twenty-ish people in the room are staring at me with open curiosity—except for Tilda. Judging by the look on her face as she adjusts her glasses with more disgust in such a small gesture than I’d known is possible, I’m lucky she has no clue just how powerful she really is.
After a few seconds of silent gawking, everyone turns back to the groups of people they’d been talking to before I rushed in, shooting glances my way.
Tilda marches over to me, looking every bit like a warrior witch ready to inflict brutal and significant damage. I have no doubt that she overheard what I said to Cassius, and man, is she ever pissed.
It shouldn’t be hot.
It so fucking is.
That last spell definitely messed with my head, because watching her walk over to me is the hottest thing I’ve ever encountered. It isn’t just the way her jeans-covered hips sway as she stalks over or the pouty swell in her pink bottom lip as if she just got done biting it. It isn’t even the very definite curve of her tits that no oversized sweatshirt can hide. It’s the woman herself, all of her, and the glimpse of who she is behind the sanitized version of herself that she shows the rest of the world. Tilda is all Sherwood—confident, demanding, powerful, smart, cunning, and so much fucking trouble that I don’t know whether to fight my way out of here or kiss her.
I am so fucking screwed.
She doesn’t stop until we’re practically toe to toe. She smells like extra-butter popcorn, the kind at the movie theater that should come with an addiction warning, and her eyes are so blue behind her glasses that I can’t help but picture her running naked through the woods.
No.
Wait.
What in the hell is wrong with me? This isn’t me. At least not with Tilda Sherwood. She’s too this and I’m too that and the only thing I need to be focused on right now is keeping my parents safe, keeping the Council from torturing her, and not having the wrath of the entire Sherwood clan fall on top of me when they find out—and eventually they will—what I know and who I’ve told.
She puts on a smile as she glances around at the other witches in the room, giving a wave here and a head nod there, but that melts away when she turns her focus back to me. “What are you doing here?” she asks, getting the words out from between clenched teeth.
My dick twitches and my fingers itch to reach out and sweep the hair that escaped her ponytail back behind her ear. All of this is weird as shit, but I can’t deny it. What Witchingdom may think of as love spells are actually just lust spells focusing all that free-floating desire on one person with the theory that from there something real will happen. It’s part of why witches like me with duíl magic are considered so dangerous—we supposedly can create love. We can’t, but that doesn’t stop the rumors and the—
Oh fuck.
That explains it. Why didn’t I realize it sooner? The almost-kiss, the blast of her powering up my duíl magic, and the fact that I can’t stop thinking of her since.
You feckin’ eejit, Connolly. She didn’t just supersize your magic. You cursed yourself with your own damn duíl powers.
Locking down all of the implications of being under a lust spell with the worst woman in all of Witchingdom that I could be magically connected to for who in the hell knows how long, I fall back under the armor of smarm that I built back in The Beyond and have worn ever since.
“Oh, Tilda.” I give her nose a playful tweak because I can’t stop myself. What is next? Will I pull her pigtails? “That sounds like you missed me.”
“Why would I ever do that? I’m nothing, remember?” If she’d realized she could have flames shooting from the side of her face by simply touching someone doing a fire spell, she would have at that moment. “I’m only a null who doesn’t matter.”
Oh yeah, she definitely overheard the BS I sold to Cassius.
Okay. I knew she’d be pissed when she saw me, but her anger may be exactly what I need to clear my head until I figure out how to break my own curse. All I have to do is annoy the fuck out of Tilda and she’ll take a few steps back so I can breathe and think again.
She inches closer, the move putting her feet between mine, and plants her palm on my chest above my heart. The whole world stills as every part of me focuses in on her.
I swear I can feel the air crackling around us and there’s no one—absolutely no one—in that room but us. She looks up at me, her eyes dilated and her lips parted. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she wanted me to dip my head down and kiss her, reach lower and cup her ass as I lift her up so she can curl her legs around my waist.
“You need to leave,” she says as she grasps my shirt, holding tight and not letting go so there is no way I am going anywhere even if I want to.
“Can’t.” I shrug, knowing it’s gonna push all her buttons. What can I say, I am a desperate man holding on by the thinnest thread of self-control. “The dome’s down.”
“This is what I get for agreeing to Mom’s overprotective demands.” She lets out a harsh groan and tugs on my shirt, pulling me closer to her, obviously as caught up in the duíl spell as I am. “You don’t belong here.”