Witcha Gonna Do? (Witchington #1)(4)
Tilda sinks down into her chair, barely missing getting her wavy red hair caught in the dragon’s blood tree’s branches. “Why does this keep happening?”
“You say that like you don’t enjoy having tea with me.” Rubbing the tip of my thumb against my pinky, I amp up the spell just enough to make the couple at the next table look around to see where it is coming from. However, Tilda shows no reaction. “There has to be something about our encounters that has you going to great lengths to make them happen.”
“I would never,” she says with a huff that sends her red bangs flying upward.
“And yet we’re still meeting.” I flash a smile her way and am rewarded with a distinct blush that brightens her cheek.
Perfect. We are right on course for today’s test.
As every witch knows, strong emotions increase magic’s power—something I learned the hard way. It is the reason why my family was exiled; a power like ours not kept in check was seen as too dangerous for the Council, which values control above all else. Luckily for me, emotions have no value or point beyond fucking everything up.
Teasing Tilda always seems to get to her emotions fastest, and with the clock ticking on the Council’s deadline, I don’t have time to waste. “How did you manage it? Did you offer to transcribe Griselda’s biography?”
Her cheeks turn even more pink. “Yes, but that was for her to work her matchmaking magic, not for her to set me up with you.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a shimmer in the air near the dragon’s blood tree. Using the movement for cover, I straighten the cuffs of my custom-made shirt and watch the interplay between Tilda and the flora. It only takes a few seconds to realize the damned tree has taken a liking to her. She leans forward and it moves with her. At one point, the end of a twig-sized branch curls around a stray lock of her red hair. When she unwinds it, barely seeming to realize what’s happening, and moves her chair farther away from the branch, it seems to hang down in dejection.
Odd. So very odd.
Caught up in working out what that could mean, it takes me a moment to realize she’s about to leave, ending the date—observation—scientific research opportunity.
Yeah, one you spent extra time getting ready for in front of the mirror because she’s just an assignment.
Some days I really despise that voice of reason inside my head.
Tilda opens her purse and picks up the phone on the table, the rainbow-hued notebook with the fuzzy pink pen attached, as well as the bits and bobs scattered about and tosses them inside. “Anyway, you are the last man I’d ask to be set up with.”
“What’s wrong with me? I’m tall, handsome, a noted expert in the field of historical magic.” Not a lie, every Council agent needed a rock-solid cover. “Women absolutely love me.”
Not this one.
Tilda rolls her eyes as she shoves the last of her stuff into her huge purse. “You forgot full of yourself, snobby, and annoying.”
I shrug off her stinging words that aren’t even close to the worst anyone has ever said about me. “The salt balances out the sweetness.”
“And the arsenic ruins the whole dish.” Tilda stands up, glaring at me, and pushes in her chair, signaling that the date is officially over. “You are the most odious man in the entire Witchingdom.”
Damn it. I’ve come here for one reason and have failed—again—to conduct the third and fourth tests required to prove she is a true null because Tilda is a most distracting woman. One who is walking away from me without a goodbye or a single look back while I sit here like an eejit, unable to look away from her.
“Damned distracting,” I mumble to myself.
Then, the air shimmers like the horizon in the desert half a second before the dragon’s blood tree makes its move, sending branches shooting out after her with lightning speed. I don’t think, don’t even breathe, I just jump up, race across the bakery, and grab Tilda, yanking her out of the way. It would be a neat rescue if her feet didn’t tangle with mine, sending us both tumbling backward toward the glass bakery case that will slice us to ribbons if we crash into it.
“Sarsum,” I yell out, calling up the simple spell that will save us from falling.
My magic snaps like a whip, sending us flying in the opposite direction, spinning us with a power I hadn’t intended. We sail through the air above the tables and the gawking witches. It is as if I were a teen again, unable to control the power coursing through me as my family’s own magic escaped.
A vibrating humming fills me, and in an instant, all of my senses are heightened to a nearly impossible level. Every single one is focused on Tilda as the magic that has been my family’s curse escapes from my tight control as soon as I wrap my arms around her to protect her as we fly through the air.
Suddenly, her every reaction to me comes into focus. The way her pulse quickens with desire as she wets her full bottom lip. The intoxicating sweetness of her scent as her body responds to mine. The curve of her tits, the dip of her waist, the round curve of her ass all mesmerize me.
Grinding my teeth, I try to pull it all back, stuff the duíl attraction magic back into the mental lockbox I spent years developing, but I can’t. The connection with Tilda is too strong. Check that. It’s the most powerful thing I’ve ever felt in my life.
This has never happened with anyone else. Holding my breath, I concentrate on the tips for control my mother taught me when she helped me understand that our duíl magic does not manifest false attraction, it only emphasizes the truth that’s already there. I try the deep breathing, the visualizations, and the meditation chants—none of it works.