Page 37 of Who Owns You?

I settle into my seat and sip at my Guinness, enjoying the rich flavor on my tongue.

What does Charlotte taste like?

I jerk in my seat, squashing the thought as quickly as it emerges. I’m here to get away from the pest, to get her off my mind.

“Did you see that hot little feek who moved into the old castle?”

The unfamiliar voice saying those words is like a punch to the side of the head, and my eyes snap to the man who dared to say them. A bloke about twenty stands in a group of other men of similar ages, red faced and grinning. He holds a pint to his chest like it’s the only thing keeping him standing, waggling his thick dark eyebrows suggestively.

“The fat one?” another asks, disgust lacing in his tone.

White-hot rage begins to filter in. There are other reasons to put down the pretty pest, the least of which is how she looks. She’s annoyingly stunning.

“Sure, she’s fat, but she’s right pretty in the face,” the drunken idiot says, swaying slightly as he takes a step away from the group and toward the old jukebox in the corner.

Everyone knows to stay away from it as it only plays eighties hair metal, The Dubliners, and Sinéad O’Connor. I stand, forgetting my drink on the bar, and intercept him before he gets to the jukebox.

“Not on your life, mate.” The growl in my tone is unnecessary but slips out all the same.

The drunken fool looks like he’s about to wet himself as he looks up at me. Even being this human in appearance, I’m tallerthan most and far more muscular than him. His friend that insulted my pest stands, his own cheeks burning from his drinks.

“Let the man play his songs!” he hollers.

I roll my eyes, leaning across the older machine to keep either man from getting to it. My leather jacket squeaks slightly against the dusty glass displaying the CDs and vinyls inside.

“No.”

“‘Down by the Sally Gardens’ would be a good craic right now.” The drunkard laughs, his drink sloshing onto his shirt.

“Dubliners? How original.” I hold out a hand and gesture back to his table. “Take a seat and stay there, before I make you.”

“Outta my way, meathead.” He attempts to pull me off the jukebox, and it’s all the permission I need to grab him by the scruff and dangle him a foot off the ground.

Sparks of magic ignite under my skin, but I grit my teeth and force it down. Instead, I turn all the built-up ire I’ve been neglecting onto this unlucky arsehole. I toss him like a rag doll onto his table, sending pints to the floor. Glass shatters and drinks soak the floor. Some of my rage dissipates, but I want to make them bleed for talking about my pest.

The bar is suddenly quiet, the soft sloshing of the wasted alcohol onto the floor the only sound until someone clears their throat behind us. I don’t have to turn to know it’s Eloise. There’s a smugness to the sound that makes me grit my teeth.

“Never speak of her again,” I growl, shoving my hands into my pockets to keep from actually spilling any blood.

It would be too easy, and Darius would lose his mind.

I cast my gaze around, unflinching and unapologetic, before storming out of the shitty pub.

MARCUS

When I find my feet carrying me toward Charlotte’s room, I don’t stop them. I can’t fight the urge to be near her. With the mission starting tomorrow, I need to get all the time in with her I can—if she’ll take me. I scared her because, of course, I did. I never know when to stop talking, but normally that both gets me into problems and solves them.

How was I supposed to know she had no idea she was a witch? It’s strange that some supernatural beings spend most of their lives not knowing what they are, like Char has. My poor witch. The poor, beautiful woman who is my mate.

I press my hand firmly against my chest, trying to stop the hurried beating of my heart. She’s going to see us as hers soon enough. I just know it. We’re meant to be. The fates decided that long before any of us were even a thought in the universe. Or something like that.

When I stop in front of her door, I shake out my hand before hovering my fist in front of it, the courage to knock slowly draining from me. The last thing I want to do is push her further away. But she’s been spending time with the local witches and learning about herself, so she might want to speak with me again. Even if she has been mostly avoiding me…all of us, really. Julius has been making her breakfast and keeping her company, but whenever she sees the rest of us, she bolts to her room and locks the door.

“You can do this,” I say with a nod, hand drifting to the door and stopping short as my knuckles meet the wood.

The gentlest knock I’ve ever made sounds softly in the hall and, hopefully, in her room.

There’s no way she heard that, but I did try. I swallow hard and step back, wings restless against my back as I try to keep them tucked, to make myself smaller so she won’t be afraid. So she won’t run again.

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