Page 16 of The Witch & the Hound
Every damn time.
The dots popped back up on my phone just as I was getting ready to shove it in my pocket and stomp out of the tea room.
I should have thought. About safety. About you first. It’s not an excuse, but I didn’t think. I’m sorry.
My stomach twisted. I’d half expected silence, half expected a brush-off. But this, an apology, blunt and sincere, hit harder than it should have.
I typed back before I could overthink.
So next time you’ll bring condoms to dinner?
Three dots. Then:
Next time I’ll make sure I don’t leave you walking to the apothecary in the morning.
I bit my lip, grinning into my teacup.Big words for someone who couldn’t even resist soup and sourdough.
His reply was instant.Soup was good. Bread was better. You were the best.
Heat flushed my cheeks. I typed, deleted, re-typed, and finally settled on:Smooth, Barghest. Did you practice that line in the mirror?
Tail writes my best material,he shot back.
I nearly snorted.
The old biddy across the room gave me another dagger-eyed look. I smiled sweetly and texted:Tell your tail if it ever tries anything in public, I’ll hex it.
His reply came with a laughing emoji I wouldn’t have thought he knew how to use.Tail says hexes are welcome if they come with kisses.
I groaned, half horrified, half delighted.You’re impossible.
And still texting you.
He wasn't wrong. And despite the morning-after tea, the judgmental biddy, and the fact that I still didn't know if we could accidentally create the first barghest-witch hybrid in history...
I was still smiling.
Chapter 9
Maggie
By the time I got home from the apothecary, I’d shaken off most of the shame-circle tea room vibes. Mostly. The biddy’s dagger-eyes still lingered, but Bram’s last text,Hexes are welcome, if they come with kisses, was enough to make me laugh out loud as I unlocked my door.
The house smelled faintly of last night: wine, sweat, sex, and the rosemary soap I’d unmolded yesterday. It was comforting and a little overwhelming, like living in the middle of my own contradictions.
I scrubbed the kitchen down first. Counters, pots, the faint ring left on the butcher block from the wine glass he’d nudged out of the way. Then I tied my curls up and got back to work. Orders didn’t fill themselves, even if I was sleep-deprived and sore in ways that made sitting down feel like a second job.
The workshop out back was warm and fragrant, afternoon light streaming through the windows. Racks were lined with bars wrapped in paper, labeled in my cramped handwriting. Some still needed curing, some needed to be cut, some were already boxed up, ready for shipping.
I stacked them carefully, muttering under my breath about how half the town wanted “witchy” soap but would side-eye me for being too witchy in the flesh.
My phone buzzed on the workbench.
What are you doing?
I smiled, thumbs smudged with lavender dust.Cutting soap. You?
A pause.Walking the store. Tail hates when kids knock over the toy aisle.
