Page 4 of Warrior Witch

Chad #2 smirked at me, holding out a crisp twenty dollar note. “How about we skip all of these formalities, and you just step aside, sweetheart.”

I crossed my arms over my chest and took a lean against the doorframe.

“Tell me, Chad—”

“My name’s not Chad.”

“Do you like your balls, Chad?”

Chad #2 frowned as though I’d given him the sphinx’s riddle to solve.

“What—?”

I lifted a hand and let a line of electricity dance across my fingertips.

“Because I have a policy. If an asshole calls me sweetheart, I surgically remove the contents of his sack. Don’t worry, it’s completely non-invasive, and has a one hundred percent success rate in ensuring complete sterilization so that there’s no next gen douchebags coming from your line.”

Chad #2’s Andrew Jackson sagged in his hand in much the same way I imagined his limp dick sagged at the hooting and hollering of his boys in response to my very earnest offer. His eyes flashed yellow briefly before he backed up to a safe distance.

“Screw you, bitch. You couldn’t handle this.”

Oh look, he was grabbing the less-than-a-handful that was his junk.

“Come on, boys, this place sucks, anyway.”

As the Chad brigade moved off down the road, they continued to vocalize their dislike of Cassandra’s Bane.

Fucking idiots.

“Fucking idiots.” The deep chuckle that followed the statement washed over me like bathwater. Warm and sensual, I felt the urge to melt into the body beside me. He smelled of petrichor, of earth and ozone and the promise of cleansing rain, and a smile hitched the corner of my mouth a moment before I felt the pinch of a blade at my back.

“Cute party trick, but now we need to have a chat, you and me.”

Motherfucker. How dare he interrupt my attraction by being… from the corner of my eye, I caught a familiar patch on his leather jacket and barely suppressed a sigh. If it wasn’t the consequences of my own actions. Looked like Kevy-bear held a grudge.

“Walk. Around the corner, and don’t try anything funny if you want to keep your insides on the inside.”

I turned my eyes to the overcast sky and decided to play along for now. I was hilarious, damn it, and best believe I was fully capable of looking after my own insides. Aaand now the word inside had lost all meaning. Great.

Stumbling around the corner and into the alley that still bore the black marks of my power discharge from the night before, I found the nice-smelling jerk had brought friends.

“Hello, boys,” I called, ignoring the sharp implement digging into my skin.

As one, the group glowered at me like I’d hurt their leader. Oh…wait.

The guy behind me finally retracted the stupid knife, and I got my first good look at him. Dark hair, darker eyes, and a delicious number of tattoos.

Bad Harlow. Stop ogling the bad guy. Focus on something else until you fry the bastards.

Looking around the small group, something occurred to me, and I couldn’t suppress my gasp of delight.

“Oh my gods. Do you guys all have matching clothes? Like… did someone have to put in an order so you could all wear the same thing? That’s so cute! It has your little logo on it, too!”

“Shut it, witch,” a beefy blonde guy growled from the back of his motorbike.

“I’m sorry, but like, did someone do it on Canva? Or did you have to send away to some other company to…” My taunt fizzled out as the clouds parted and Bike Boy’s blonde hair shifted to a blood red.

“Witch.”

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