The Witch And The Werewolf
The werewolf's fate rested in the witch's hands . . .Mireio Malory is a quirky witch who’s on a quest to complete a dark spell that will grant her immortality – at the expense of using a live vampire's heart in the spell. She's ready to conjure that dangerous and life-changing spell, until she meets a lone werewolf and beekeeper.Lars Gunderson has secrets of his own. His alpha allure is obvious, but Mireio senses that there’s something more to him than his raw sexiness. When Lars entrusts her with a devastating revelation, Mireio has to make a choice. Will she now sacrifice the most potent magic she’s ever worked on to be with the man she loves?
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The werewolfâs fate rested in the witchâs hands...
Mireio Malory is a quirky witch whoâs on a quest to complete a dark spell that will grant her immortalityâat the expense of a live vampireâs heart. Sheâs ready to conjure that dangerous and life-changing spell when she meets a lone werewolf and beekeeper.
Lars Gunderson has secrets of his own. His alpha allure is obvious, but Mireio senses that thereâs something more to him than his raw sexiness. When Lars entrusts her with a devastating revelation, Mireio has to make a choice. Will she sacrifice the most potent magic sheâs ever worked on to be with the man she loves?
Her fingers clutched his shirt and the connection zinged his every nerve ending, sending scintillating tingles all over his skin.
It was as if together they created a sort of sensual electricity. And Lars couldnât get enough of her mouth, her tongue, her sighs.
Pressing a hand against her back, he coaxed her forward and bowed to continue the kiss. Her moan said everything he was feeling: yes, yes, all the yeses in the world. This tiny witch felt so right in his arms. He had to thank the gods for putting him in her backyard, even if it had been a strange night that had scared the hell out of him.
MICHELE HAUF is a USA TODAY bestselling author who has been writing romance, action-adventure and fantasy stories for more than twenty years. France, musketeers, vampires and faeries usually populate her stories. And if Michele followed the adage âwrite what you know,â all her stories would have snow in them. Fortunately, she steps beyond her comfort zone and writes about countries and creatures she has never seen. Find her on Facebook, Twitter and at www.michelehauf.com.
For Jeff. Our souls agreed to this.
Contents
Feet floating up so her toes peeked out of the frothy bubble bath, Mireio Malory wiggled the little pink beads as she sang to the music filling her bathroom. She sang along with the Meghan Trainor tune about loving herself and not having time for a man because she was all about having fun. A fitting theme song for Mireio at the moment.
Guys were great, but she didnât have the time to focus on a relationship if her plans to achieve immortality came to fruition. A simple spell could prolong her life a hundred years, guaranteed. But to actually perform that spellâwhich involved drinking the blood from a live vampireâs beating heart? Sheâd been avoiding the spell for years, but she couldnât do that anymore. It was time to honor her departed mother, and to take back her power.
Baths were a common ritual for her in the evenings, after a long day of work at the brewery, or after sheâd flexed into a few yoga moves and watched an episode of Bones on Netflix. Born a witch, yet pretty darn disappointed sheâd not been born a mermaid, Mireio honored her water magic by feeding her bodyâs innate craving for water. Surely she owned the biggest bathroom in the city. It was hexagonal, tiled like a Moroccan temple and the big round marble bathtub sat at the center of it all. It was the size of a hot tub, but there were no bubble jets in this tub beyond the sensory explosions from her homemade bath bombs.
Singing loudly, she blew a handful of bubbles skyward and laughed when some landed in her pinned-up red hair. The water was starting to cool, and sheâd been in for forty-five minutes. Her fingers and toes were pruned, providing her tractionâif she were an amphibian. Or a mermaid.
With a reluctant sigh, she rose from her watery haven and reached for a toasty towel hung over the towel warmer. It wasnât the wet porcelain tile floor that almost caused her to slip upon exiting the bathâit was the scream.
And a very familiar scream at that.
âReally?â Mireio wrapped the towel around her ample curves and padded wet tracks to the back window to peer out, though she knew she couldnât see into her neighbor Mrs. Hendersonâs yard from here. The windows were also fogged.
She often mentally compared her neighbor to Mrs. Kravitz, the nosy neighbor on the 1960s TV show Bewitched. They didnât look at all similar, but they possessed the same snoopy, and unwelcome, curiosity and annoying voices.
Yet another scream, this one curling the hairs on the back of Mireioâs neck, prompted her to use the side door in the bathroom that walked out onto the patio.
Pushing open the screen door, she leaned out into the cool spring air and scanned her backyard. It was close to midnight, yet her yard was always illuminated from the house light above the door where she stood, and the dozen solar lights pushed into the lawn at five-foot intervals that framed the backyard.
