Page 39 of If The Shoe Fits

Now, the fact is I expect him to grab at me like the Wolf he is, but he doesn’t do that.

Instead, he cups my cheeks tenderly, brushing his lips over mine in soft, gentle, teasing kisses.

The man gets me so worked up, I am actually the one who grabs onto his collar and tugs him down, practically shoving my tongue into his mouth.

“Nowthatis a proper hello, Mate,” he murmurs, licking back into my mouth and making me shiver with delight.

“Oh Wulfy, I missed you,” I confess.

“I missed you, too. But didn’t you hear my song?”

“Was that really you?” I ask, not even trying to hide my delighted smile.

“Of course, my Wolf is very protective of you. Plus, I had to chase away anyone else sniffing around my Witch.”

“Ha, as if. But what’s changed? I mean, have you discovered anything?”

“I’ll tell you all about it in a minute,” he says, but I’m not finished yet.

“But about Cyndi?—”

“Sweet Witch, we’ll have that discussion, too. Later. Right now, let’s see if we can prove your glass slipper theory either way. Okay?” he asks, leading me back inside, towards the slippers.

I bite my lip, scanning the ballroom and noting just how much more packed it’s gotten since I last looked.

The space is buzzing with energy—laughter, chatter, and the occasional outburst of frustration as eager Witches and Warlocks try their luck with the enchanted glass slippers.

Agatha is holding court near the display, clipboard in hand as she manages the growing line with the efficiency of a drill sergeant.

I watch as more than one hopeful Witch and Warlock wiggles, twists, and downright struggles to fit their feet into the magical shoes.

The slippers, of course, are charmed to shrink or grow depending on the wearer’s intention.

If someone is trying them on with genuine hope or innocence, the shoes adjust effortlessly.

But if there’s a hint of dishonesty or ulterior motive?

Well, let’s just say the results can becomical.

As I’m marveling at the scene—and trying to ignore the faint blush of pride creeping up my cheeks—a warm hand gently tugs mine.

Before I know it, Wulfy is tucking my arm into the crook of his elbow, steering me effortlessly through the crowd.

“You shouldn’t be doing this so publicly,” I whisper-scream, casting a panicked glance around us.

He doesn’t respond right away, his sharp amber eyes scanning the crowd as if searching for something or someone.

“Doing what?” he asks distractedly, though there’s a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

I lean closer, lowering my voice as I hiss, “Taking my arm like this! You’re drawing attention.”

At that, his smirk transforms into a full-blown grin. He stops walking, turning to face me with an expression so devilishly confident it makes my knees weak.

“I intend to take more than your arm,” he says, his voice low enough to send a shiver down my spine. “And everyone here is going to find out sooner or later.”

His grin softens into something more sincere, and he dips his head slightly, his golden eyes locking onto mine. “I’m fine with sooner.”

Before I can process his words, or the way my heart is doing acrobatics in my chest, he winks at me.

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