Page 37 of If The Shoe Fits

It’s one thing to suffer from unrequited love. The aching, slow-burning kind that creeps into your chest at night and refuses to leave.

I’ve been there. I know that pain.

But this? This would be worse.

Because what if—after all his talk about us being fated mates, after all the growly declarations and tender moments—he just changes his mind?

What if he wakes up tomorrow and decides I’m not what he thought I was?

How do I recover from that?

My stomach twists at the thought, the pterodactyls doing a full aerial show inside me.

“So, should we start a queue for the slippers? I can grab my tablet and take cell numbers,” Agatha says, pulling me from my spiraling thoughts.

I blink at her, trying to shift gears. “Oh, I doubt that will be necessary,” I say, scoffing as if the very idea is ridiculous.

But the last word catches in my throat as she smirks and spins me around.

My eyes land on the display we set up earlier—the delicate glass slippers I magically fabricated, perched on a luxurious velvet rug, sparkling under the soft glow of the twinkle lights.

And behind them?

A line.

Do my eyes deceive me? Because there are roughly *three dozen people* already queued up to try my shoes, and the ball hasn’t even officially started yet.

Holy. Goddess. Of. Pumpkin. Spice. Goodness.

“Oh my,” I murmur, my voice faint as I clutch my hands over my stomach.

The pterodactyls are back. And they’ve brought reinforcements. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest, my pulse racing as I stare at the crowd of people eagerly waiting to shove their feet into the magical shoes I created.

This is happening. This isactuallyhappening.

My theory. People are interested in my theory.

“Holy Hecate,” I whisper, feeling the nausea rise. “I think I’m gonna puke.”

Before I can fully give in to the wave of panic threatening to consume me, a warm, steadying weight settles over my trembling hands.

“Just breathe, Sweet Witch,” a familiar voice murmurs.

I freeze, my heart skipping a beat as the warmth seeps into me, grounding me, chasing away the worst of my nerves. Slowly, I turn around, and there he is.

My Wulfy.

Eep! Not mine.

I mean, I don’t know if he is—oh the hell with it.

He looks amazing.

No.

He looks like every sinful thought I’ve ever had come to life.

He’s wearing a black-on-black suit that must have been custom-tailored to his wide shoulders and broad chest, the fabric hugging his impressive physique in ways that should honestly be illegal.

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