Page 18 of If The Shoe Fits

Glittery black smoke swirls around us, coiling and snapping like a living thing.

My magic surges, wild and untamed, and before I can stop myself, a bolt of lightning shoots from my hand, zipping through the air with pinpoint precision.

It hits Mr. High-and-Mighty Tremayne smack in the chest, right where his pitiful excuse for a muscle—his so-called heart—should’ve been.

“That is quite enough!”

Principal Tremayne jolts back in his chair, the impact sending him sprawling against the desk

His whiskey-colored eyes widen in shock, and he instinctively rubs the smoldering spot on his chest where my spell left its mark.

But I am way too furious to care.

“First of all,” I begin, my voice trembling with righteous indignation, “you know nothing about me. I take my job very seriously, and I’m not sure what your conniving little offspring has told you, but I can guarantee you, it’s pure fiction, Principal Tremayne!”

His eyes narrow, but instead of retreating, he stands.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Taking up all the available space with his dominating presence.

“Call me Wulfy,” he corrects, his deep voice a low, rumbling growl.

I freeze as he steps around the desk, his movements deliberate and predatory, his glowing golden eyes locked on me like a hawk stalking its prey.

The sound of his rumbling chest sends a shiver skittering down my spine.

It isn’t just a growl. It is something primal.

“W-What are you doing?” I sputter, trying to sound firm, but my voice comes out breathy and uncertain.

His large hands grip my waist before I can back away, pulling me flush against the hard, unyielding planes of his chest.

My magic fizzles out in an instant, as if his mere presence is enough to smother it.

Okay, what the heck is going on?

But I can’t find the words to speak that question into existence.

My mind is blitzing out possibly from all the heat.

His body radiates warmth. It’s seeping into me like sunlight on a winter’s day.

“Shifters run hotter than most beings,” he explains, his voice low and rough as his head dips toward my neck.

“Principal Tremayne, let me go,” I demand, though I can hear the conviction in my tone wavering as soon as the words left my lips.

I tilt my head, giving him room. Even my traitorous body is attuned to him, granting him better access.

When his lips brush my throat, a soft gasp leaves my lips before I can stop it.

His touch is electric, and I damn near swoon when his warm breath tickles the skin above my pulse.

“I don’t think you want me to let you go any more than I want to,” he murmurs, his lips grazing the sensitive spot just beneath my ear. “Sweet Witch.”

“I don’t understand,” I tell him, my voice barely more than a whisper.

---