Page 11 of My Hexed Honeymoon

After the bombshell revelation that I’m apparently some mystical key to a world I barely understand, Diego and I had gone to the reception with the other werewolves—not to celebrate, but to update the pack. It was an exhausting, tension-filled debrief, where almost every set of eyes in the room turned on me with varying levels of skepticism and distrust.

Did they doubt my skills or my fealty? Because honestly, me too, and I’m definitely talking about both fronts. Big surprise, feudal obligations don’t exactly inspire loyalty, and it’s not like there was any love lost on either side. With the wolves, I was a stranger and a witch. With the witches I was a dud and a bitch.

Lose, lose. Again and again. Is it any wonder I preferred animals and the forest?

Our footsteps echo against the wooden steps of the porch, blending in with the steady chirping of crickets. I step aside so Diego can open the front door, minding the bag with the plastic Tupperware container inside.

The in-house caterer packed me up a giant wedge of wedding cake, the only good thing to come out of the reception as far as I was concerned.

And the wedding, for that matter.

I plan to grab a fork and eat it in bed, possibly while crying.

Rather than pull a set of keys out of his pocket, Diego simply opens the unlocked door and sets the luggage that contains my few earthly possessions next to the tidy row of shoes.

While I’d inevitably noticed he smelled like sandalwood, bergamot, and something wild. His masculine scent combines with the pine-fresh air from outdoors, along with an underlying whiff of hickory and ash from the stone fireplace.

Before I can help myself, I inhale a lungful and hold it in, then struggle to play it cool, like I didn’t find the amalgamation a pinch intoxicating.

We push further into the wide, open concept living space with striking exposed beams, sparse rustic touches, and furniture that looks well-worn but comfortable.

At the flip of a switch, golden light bathes the area, highlighting that the top of the cabin appears to be a loft area with an overlooking balcony.

Diego rubs a hand over his jaw before lifting my luggage by the handle and crossing to the floating staircase that’s a mix of steel and wood. The entire space is a sleek mix of modern and earthy touches, and I’d totally compliment him on his taste if we had that kind of friendship.

If we had any relationship at all, really.

“Bedroom’s up here,” he says, and I halt my exploratory steps in his direction and swallow hard.

Getting right to it, I see,I want to snark, but my flailing courage keeps the words lodged in my throat. It’s too real, too scary. All the things I did my best not to concentrate on when my mother brokered this deal.

Having a supernatural air means having sex. With my husband.

Like an aristocrat on her way to the guillotine, I lift my head high, doing my best not to focus on how I’m about to lose it. Like on the walk over, our footsteps echo through the quiet, his rubber-soled tread much quieter than the now mud-and-jewel-encrusted heels on my feet.

Every few paces they snag on the front of my dress, until I gather up the mucked-up skirt in my fists and take the last few steps.

“You’re probably too big to fit through the slats,” I say, embarrassingly breathless by the time I’ve reached the top, “but if I slip and fall, I’m going to shoot right out the other side of the staircase, and then what?”

Diego turns and looks at me, a crinkle bisecting his brow. “‘Don’t fall’ would be my advice.”

I hope he caught my eye roll, because I made it extra big just for him.

Before I can come up with more sarcastic responses I won’t be brave enough to say aloud anyway, my gaze locks on the bed in the center of the three walls and A-frame ceiling. Not that it feels crowded, in fact, quite the opposite. With walls that are at least nine feet tall, it’s a vaulted space with darker wood walls, as espresso-colored as his eyes but with a hint of gray.

There’s no door, just the open-air balcony overlooking the bachelor pad living room, and most importantly…

One bed.

Covered in thick, downy white and charcoal-colored blankets.

It’s huge, the spotlight in a space meant for sleep and relaxation, but again,there’s only one bed.

Of all the things to break me, a king-sized bed with fluffy blankets and pillows shouldn’t what does me in, but tears sting my eyes anyway.

“Oh. Right.” My vision blurs, and I blink, blink, blink, gritting my teeth to prevent the saltwater from escaping down my cheeks.

He doesn’t get to see me cry.

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