Season of the Witch (Claws Clause 2)

Great. He’d offended her to the point that he managed to cause a crack in Shea’s shields. A sliver of her masked scent tickled his senses, enough to make his cock harden even further. Even tainted with her annoyance and her frustration, Colt was drawn to her… which was exactly why he had to step back, putting more space between them.

The apology was halfway to his lips before he swallowed it. She’d only look hurt, assuming he didn’t mean it—or, worse, that the instincts that insisted that she was his mate were compelling him to pretend he was sorry.

What could he say?

What could he do?

Scowling, he jammed his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, falling back on his heels. “Forget it. I’m not here to be prescribed anyway.”

“Not a doctor. I don’t prescribe. I just make suggestions and prepare the herbs. It has nothing to do with witchcraft, you know. There’s all kinds of research and studies and centuries of history where so many different people found uses and benefits for grass.”

Oh, yeah. He’d definitely messed up alright.

Why was he always screwing up when it came to her?

The worst part about it all was that Colt thought he might genuinely be interested in Shea if fate hadn’t thrown them together like this. There wasn’t a damn thing about her that he didn’t like—except for the fact that she was a witch.

Maybe he could’ve gotten over that in time. His wolf kept stubbornly hoping that Colt would.

Maybe, but that wasn’t even his biggest issue.

Ever since he was a pup, he’d always hated the idea that his wayward cock could develop a mind of its own, pick out a female, and that was it. His life was sorted, his future planned. Colt had liked being alone. He’d never actually wanted a mate. He’d seen what losing Evangeline had done to Maddox, and he knew enough about Dodge’s history to realize it was a woman who led to his death all those years ago.

No, thanks.

Then to find out that the one woman meant for him—the one woman he could fully bond with, be happy with, start a family with—was a witch? Hell, even an Ant wouldn’t have been so bad. But a witch?

It wasn’t her fault. But neither was it Colt’s.

“I’m not here for any of your herbs, either,” he said.

“Well, I don’t know what else it could be. As you’ve told me countless times before, you’re a shifter. Apart from that one time gig, you don’t need me to help heal you.” She shook her head. “I really don’t think you’re the type of guy who needs to re-up his essential oils. You looking for some crystals?”

His jaw clenched, the muscles on his forearms popping as his hands balled into tight fists. Not because he wanted to lash out—not at the witch, never at her—but because, with that last flippant shake of her head, Shea knocked loose a raven-colored curl that fell in front of her face. He wanted to tuck it behind her ear so badly, he’d gnaw off a paw to get to her.

Which was exactly why he shouldn’t.

“No,” he said in a clipped voice.

“Then what are you doing here?” Her brow furrowed. Then, as if she just noticed the stray curl, she smoothed it back into place. Colt flexed his fingers at the loss. She frowned. “I thought we agreed to keep everything over the phone.”

What was he doing there? He wished he didn’t know.

Her voice used to be enough. The more he fought his wolf’s need to claim her, her soft tones only agitated the beast inside of him. The last few weeks in particular had been a constant battle. He managed to put his wolf off for a while, assuring his animal side that he needed to be strong enough to claim his mate. Getting thrown from the window of Evangeline’s old apartment had really messed him up.

The fact that it was a witch’s spell that shoved him through the glass was even worse...

His wolf didn’t care. It had never liked Priscilla Winters in the first place and it understood that Shea Moonshadow might be a witch, but she wasn’t anything like Cilla.

It was Colt who wasn’t convinced.

At least, while he was shut up inside of his work shed, using his crafting to distract him, Colt wasn’t convinced. With barely five feet separating him from Shea, he… he wasn’t so sure.

Dark curls. Twisted legs. A broken doll.

Blood everywhere...

Colt clenched his jaw tighter, grinding his molars. His canines ached to lengthen, the fangs begging to grow, his wolf anxious to show her some sign of its power.