Page 13 of Bewitching Her Monsters
I don’t see any family grimoires passed down through generations lying about, not that I’d expect witches to leave their spell books out in the open and unguarded.
But with how reckless this witch appears to be with her life, I wouldn’t have been surprised to find them next to these romance novels.
I glance at another title. Uh…Monster Lovers’ Manual?
What the actual fuck?
Is this witch into screwing monsters? Or is it just research for her seduction magic?
Either way, the true beast inside me perks up.
The more I discover about this woman, the more confused I am. I rub my forehead to ward off the severe headache coming on.
Waking up her laptop with a touch of a key, I’m happy to find that she doesn’t have a passcode to log on. I do my best to bind my magic so that I don’t fuck up her electronic device. I have to see what information she has on us.
Most low-powered witches and warlocks are able to use computers with minimal issues. But almost all supes have some problems, if not actually blowing them up. Since my magic is more tied in with my shifting and not as active as other supes, I can usually use electronics sparingly. That ability fails if I get riled up or otherwise engage my limited magic.
I scan her desktop files and see a shared user folder labeled ‘BAR GUYS’ and today’s date. I click on it and skim through her notes.
She has described all four of us in detail. Also, she was trying to figure out what we were talking about. And she isn’t far off, but her language is a bit flowery for what I’d expect from a spy or assassin. I skim over most of it, because she goes on quite a lot about our bulging muscles and strong jawlines.
She describes Flint asstony, I’m an alphahole, Maxum is hot as hell, and Calder hassmolderingeyes. I chuckle at that.
There’s no way she’s not on to us. But why she would take weird notes likethisis beyond my comprehension.
I glance at the romance books on the shelves. But iflustis her magic, then maybe it does make sense. I’ve never run across a lust witch. However, my hardened cock very much wants to learn more—much, much more.
I shouldn’t be having this lustful reaction right now. Yesterday, I lost the one person who meant the most to me in this world. My heart is broken—so my physical response to herhasto be a manipulative spell she cast around us at the bar.
The smart thing to do is to take off now and warn the others. But I don’t want to risk losing my position here, where I can spy on her without her knowledge.
Besides, I need to know if she’s the one who killed Osen.
6
INVITED
JADE
My sleep is restless and filled with strange dreams. I’m not sure if it was the late-night greasy cheese sandwich or the new animal energy in my home.
Still in bed, I stare at my ceiling, allowing my mind to wander and dream up some more details about my new characters. I find some of my best ideas come when I’m in the in-between headspace somewhere before falling asleep and just after waking up.
Half-awake, I groan when I hear a knock at my front door.
This flipping early!
Checking the clock, I see it’s past noon. Oh… so no longer morning. I suppose I can’t be this indignant about a midday visitor.
I can’t believe I slept this late. Not that I usually get up at the crack of dawn. Being single and fueled by inspiration and manic writing episodes, I’ve become unreasonably flexible with my sleeping patterns.
I figure whoever is at the door is just here to save my naughty soul. So I close my eyes, hoping they will realize it’s a hopeless cause, and move on when I don’t answer their call to salvation.
I’m fairly certain that upon my death, I’m going to the Underworld and chatting up Tartarus about writing smut.
The knock comes again. Hmm. Maybe I ordered something that needs a signature? I didn’t think ‘Living The Smut Life’ stickers would require that level of security. But what do I know?
I slide into my comfy sweatpants, since last night I’ve felt weirdly underdressed wearing only tight leggings around my new dog. I pull up my long, gray-streaked brown hair into a messy bun and check myself in the mirror. Not horrible for forty, but too many of my younger years had been wasted on Rob and other ex-jerks. It’s time I wish I hadn’t wasted.
