Page 71 of Do You Even Hex, Bro?
I step under the spray, allowing the hot water to pound away the tension in my back and shoulders. The scent of jasmine and sandalwood fills the air as I lather my hair with a shampoo that I’m sure cost more than my entire food budget for the week. I can't remember the last time I indulged in anything this luxurious.
Kyle always insisted that simple was better. Organic, unscented products only. For "magical clarity," he claimed. Just one more way he tried to control every aspect of my life, right down to how I smelled.
I take my time, enjoying the simple pleasure of being clean. When I finally step out, wrapped in a towel so soft it feels like a cloud, I feel almost human again.
After dressing in jeans and a simple green t-shirt—my wardrobe options remain severely limited to what I could grab in my haste—I attempt the glamour spell. It slides into place easily, more easily than it has in days, thanks to Villeneuve's elixir and a decent night's sleep.
In the back of my mind, I can't help but wonder if it has something to do with my close proximity to my theoretical mates. But that's something I try not to think about too deeply, for my sanity's sake.
I study my glamoured reflection, wondering not for the first time who the woman staring back at me really is. The real Regina has scars, inside and out. The glamoured version is a fantasy. Kyle's fantasy, really. His perfect, unmarred witch. The spotless, flawless Thirteenth.
I shake off the thought. The glamour is a tool, nothing more. A shield I choose to wear in a world that judges too quickly and too harshly. Maybe someday, I’ll be ready to face that world without it. Probably not, but… maybe.
What I do know is today isnotthat day.
When I check my phone again, there's a new message from the group chat.
OTHER NERD: Morning, beautiful. Breakfast is ready when you are.
Delicious smells greet me as I descend the stairs. Coffee, bacon, and something sweet baking. Suddenly hungry, I follow thescent trail to the kitchen, where I find three of the four wolves in various states of morning routine.
Rowan stands at the stove, methodically flipping pancakes while monitoring a pan of sizzling bacon. His sleeves are rolled up to reveal muscled forearms dusted with dark hair. Micah sits at the kitchen island, hunched over a mug of coffee, glasses slightly askew and hair sticking up at odd angles. He looks barely awake, eyes half-lidded as he stares into the dark liquid like it’s a scrying mirror.
And then there's Sean doing rapid-fire pull-ups on a reinforced bar spanning the other entry to the kitchen.
The domestic scene is so unexpectedly normal—for wolves, at least—that I pause in the doorway, unsure how to enter without disrupting it. But Sean freezes halfway through a pull-up, wolf senses detecting my presence before I've made a sound.
He drops to his feet, his face flushed and sweaty. "One thousand and seventeen!" he announces with exaggerated triumph, as if he'd planned to stop exactly at that moment. "Morning, Regina! Didn’t, uh, didn’t see you there."
I can't help the snicker that escapes me. "Good morning."
"More like thirty pull-ups,” Rowan mutters without turning from the stove.
“Bullshit,” Sean grumbles at him, grabbing a towel and swiping at his flushed face.
"Good morning," Micah practically slurs into his coffee, still looking half-asleep as he blinks blearily at me. "Sleep okay?"
"Surprisingly well," I admit, stepping fully into the kitchen.
Rowan glances over his shoulder, offering a small smile that warms his usually serious face. "Breakfast is almost ready. Hope you're hungry."
"Can I help with anything?" I ask, feeling awkward just standing there while he works.
"Absolutely not," he says firmly. "But these two can make themselves useful and set the table. Our… potential future mate doesn't need to lift a finger."
I appreciate him hesitating, but for some reason, I don’t really care. "Really, I don't mind helping," I protest weakly. I’ve never been good at being on the receiving end of hospitality. It’s awkward as fuck.
Sean is already gathering plates from a cabinet. "House rules, witchy woman. Guests don't cook or clean."
"But I'm not—I don't even know if I'm staying, so?—"
"Table. Sit." Micah finally rouses himself enough to point at the large farm table in the adjoining dining area. He gives me a groggy grin. “Resistance is futile.”
I reluctantly take a seat, watching as Sean arranges plates while Micah manages to haul himself off his stool to collect silverware. "Where's Killian?" I ask, noticing the pack alpha's absence.
"Still running," Rowan answers, transferring pancakes to a serving platter. "We all go for morning runs, but he has more energy to burn than the rest of us."
"Man's a machine," Sean agrees. "Twenty miles minimum, every morning, usually before dawn. Says it helps him think."
