Witch, Please, He's My Cat: A Comedy Fantasy Romance, page 16
“-and you know what? I’m not mad about it.”
I glance at him. He’s staring out the window now, but I can see the side of his face, the jawline I never asked for but somehow built out of pure magical chaos. It’s stupidly sharp. Probably could slice fruit.
“I like it,” he continues, voice a little lower now. “This body. This form. It’s weird as hell, don’t get me wrong. Everything smells different. Everything hurts. But it’s mine. And I get to see the world through new eyes now.”
He turns back to me, golden-amber gaze narrowed with wicked curiosity. “You did a good job, Mira. Seriously. The detail work alone? Impressive. Functional thumbs, great legs, perfect dick-”
“I’m going to hex your vocal cords.”
“Don’t dodge the compliment,” he says, tilting his head. “You crafted this body from magic you didn’t even know you had. So the real question is-was this just your subconscious being brilliant, or were you imagining all this?” His hand drags down his chest slowly, obnoxiously. “Every inch. In detail.”
My hands are locked on the steering wheel like it's the only thing keeping me from veering into a tree.
He leans a little closer, voice silk-wrapped smug. “Tell me, Mira. When you remade me, did you use a reference? Or did you just… improvise?”
“I will throw you out of this car.”
“Good luck. I’m charming and heavy now.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And yet you still haven’t undone me.”
He rests his head against the window, exhaling like the whole world is his new playground and the Coven isn’t sharpening blades in our absence.
“Okay,” he says, with the tone of someone about to say something deeply unhelpful. “So once we get there-your tragic forest hovel or secret witch fortress or whatever-there are a few things I absolutely need to do in this body.”
“Oh gods,” I mutter. “Please tell me this list doesn’t involve nudity.”
“I’m already nude under my clothes,” he replies, smug as sin. “So technically, the answer is yes.”
I groan into the steering wheel.
“First,” he continues, holding up one finger like he’s outlining a military campaign, “I want to eat pancakes. Stupid, thick, stacked-high pancakes. With fruit. And syrup. And those little crispy edges that make your teeth stick together.”
“You realize you don’t even like sweet food.”
“I didn’t like sweet food as a cat,” he says, offended. “Now I want to bite into something that makes my arteries cry.”
“Great. You’re going to give yourself diabetes.”
“Then you’ll nurse me back to health. Or let me die dramatically in a puddle of syrup.”
I shake my head. “What’s next?”
He grins. “Chop wood.”
“You don’t know how to chop wood.”
“Which is why it’ll be so fun to learn. Shirtless. While glistening. With sweat. In slow motion.”
“I hate you.”
“You designed me,” he counters, unbothered. “Then I want to jump into a lake. Fully clothed. Just to see how dramatically I can emerge from the water while pretending I’m in a tragic romance novel.”
“You’re going to drown.”
He shrugs. “Worth it.”
“What else?”
He lifts another finger. “Learn to braid hair. Not mine-yours. Or maybe yours and mine. I want us to be the kind of fugitives that do emotional bonding braids by firelight.”
I nearly swerve again. “That’s the most unhinged thing you’ve ever said.”
“And I once hexed a squirrel for looking at you funny, so that’s saying a lot.”
I glance at him again. He’s beaming. Glowing with smug human potential. And I hate that it makes something warm uncoil in my chest. And even if he says it like a joke, it lands too hard, too deep-like maybe he means every stupid thing on that list.
Even the pancakes.
The road winds out ahead like a spell unraveling-long, uncertain, and carved through the kind of wildland the city forgot how to tame. We’re past the last of the ley-stone markers now, past the reach of Elderveil’s wards, and the air hums differently out here. Older. Wilder. Like magic that hasn’t been filed into legal categories or assigned a license.
Puck is now humming some siren ballad under his breath, legs stretched out like he’s completely at peace with being a walking magical crime. But I can’t focus on him. Not now.
Not when the world’s gone quiet enough that I can finally hear the thoughts I’ve been trying not to have.
What the hell am I?
I grip the steering wheel harder, like maybe if I hold on tight enough I won’t spiral out of myself.
Half witch. Half familiar.
It sounds like a punchline. Like a myth told to scare apprentices. I grew up thinking I was just like every other girl in the outer districts-too much magic in my blood and not enough control. But now I know there’s something beneath my skin that isn’t entirely human. Something my mother passed on when she turned her bonded companion into the man she loved and then broke every law to keep it secret.
They had me in the woods, in the dark, away from the records and rituals, and hoped no one would ever notice that my magic pulses strange when the moon’s too close or that my spells sometimes feel instead of function.
It makes sense now-why certain runes always sparked under my touch, why I could sense storms before they hit, why my bond with Puck always felt like more than it should’ve. Why losing him, even briefly, felt like ripping muscle from bone.
I was born of a bond that shouldn’t exist. Raised in lies because the truth would’ve gotten me killed.
And now that same truth is rising to the surface, undeniable, burning with every mile we put between us and the only home I’ve ever known.
My parents died trying to protect me from this.
From myself.
I glance at Puck.
He catches my eye, gives me a look that’s too smug to be safe, and says, “You’re brooding. It’s adorable. I didn’t realize your brooding face looked so constipated.”
“I’m thinking,” I mutter.
“Same thing.”
I don’t answer. Because I don’t know how to explain that I don’t know where I begin anymore. That I’ve never felt less certain of my magic, my future, my self.
Because if I’m not just a witch- Then what the hell am I supposed to become?
Puck flips the visor down and examines his reflection like he’s searching for imperfections in a masterpiece. He ruffles his hair, smooths it back, then ruffles it again. The smug is practically radiating off him in waves.
And all I can think is- What the hell is he going to become?
He’s always been powerful in subtle ways. His magic wasn’t flashy like mine-no fireballs, no luminous glyphs-but it felt everything. He’d shudder when a spell went wrong. Flinch before a ward snapped. He could curl beside me at night and know when I was dreaming too loud. He was my barometer, my buffer. He was tuned to me.
Now he isn’t just tuned to me.
He’s separate.
He has his own magic now-his own body to hold it, his own pulse to feed it. And according to Hexie, that power will only grow the longer he remains like this. His bond to me still exists, but it’s twisted now, reshaped by whatever I did that night in the flat. That spell.
Gods. That spell.
It wasn’t just transformation. It was creation. I didn’t shift him. I rebuilt him. Gave him bones and blood and breath and choice.
And I didn’t know what I was doing.
What happens when his magic strengthens enough to overwhelm mine? What happens when his instincts stop aligning with mine entirely? When he’s more man than cat-more creature than companion?
Will he outgrow me?
Or worse… will the bond break entirely?
I think of the way he fought that ogre in the bar, how fast he moved, how lethal he was without even trying. The grin on his face when blood slicked his lip. The easy delight in his bruises, the way he rolled his shoulders like he was testing new armor.
He liked it. Not just the fighting-but the freedom. What the hell did I unleash?
I glance at him again. He’s watching me in the mirror now, his golden eyes flicking up to meet mine like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. His mouth curves into a smirk. The kind that used to precede him pouncing on a cursed frog or batting a potion off a shelf just to ruin my day.
Only now?
Now that mouth talks.
That smirk asks.
That body acts.
And gods help me, I think it’s already too late to undo what I’ve done.
Chapter Fifteen
The house-if we’re being generous-is a tragedy preserved in wood. It sits half-sunk into the hillside like it gave up on standing proudly sometime during the last equinox. Its roof leans at an angle that suggests either a slow collapse or that the building itself is trying to curl up and die in peace. Moss climbs its sides like eager rot, swallowing what once might have been charm beneath a layer of green decay.
The front door hangs crooked on its hinges, split in the middle like someone once tried to kick it in-or out-and then thought better of it. A protective ward etched into the wood has cracked down the middle, pulsing faintly as we approach, its glow weak and sour like old citrus. The porch is warped, a series of groaning, half-rotted planks threatening to swallow our ankles whole with each step. One of the posts is held up by what looks like a tree root that's grown up and wrapped around it like it felt sorry for the architecture.
And gods, the windows. They’re mostly intact, but the glass is warped, old, the kind that distorts light and makes everything outside look haunted. Which is great, because everything outside is haunted-or at least cursed adjacent.
The forest surrounding the cabin is thick with gnarled sycamore and wyrmwood, their bark rough and veined with glowing blue moss. Vines droop low, tangled with sleepy ward-chimes and what looks suspiciously like a wind-dried garter belt. The air is sharp with the scent of pine and old smoke, the kind that clings to old stories and unburied truths.
Puck stands beside me, hands on his hips, eyebrows climbing higher with every passing second.
“This is where you were born in secret love and raised under the watchful eye of doomed romance and tragic potential?”
I glare at him, too tired to punch him and too emotionally frayed to argue. “This is what safe looks like.”
He snorts. “Safe looks like a health hazard. I’m pretty sure that porch is a lawsuit waiting to happen.”
“No one’s going to sue us, Puck. We’re fugitives.”
“Then great,” he drawls, stepping up to the porch and stomping once. The whole thing creaks like it’s about to drop into hell. “Let’s get tetanus and die here instead of from magical execution. Very on brand.”
I sigh and reach for the wards, hands glowing faintly as I press my palm to the faded glyph carved into the doorframe. The magic hums, sluggish but present, then flickers like it’s recognizing me. Or at least my blood.
The door creaks open-of its own accord.
The smell that hits us is damp. Old herbs, rusted metal, mildew, and something faintly sweet, like honey turned to vinegar.
Puck leans in and sniffs. “Is that… lavender death rot?”
I groan. “Welcome to my inheritance.”
We step inside together, into the place where my mother once dreamed of a future and where that dream turned to ash.
And for better or worse, it’s ours now.
The floor groans under Puck’s weight like it resents his very existence. He lifts one foot, peering down at the sagging boards beneath him, then lifts a brow at me with a slow, unimpressed drag of his gaze around the main room.
“Charming,” he deadpans. “Is the collapsing floor an aesthetic choice or part of your elaborate plan to kill me before the coven can?”
I shoot him a glare and step around a fallen beam that’s been haphazardly shoved against the far wall, likely years ago. The main room is wide, vaguely circular, with a fireplace so soot-choked it might as well be a solid wall. Cobwebs glisten in the corners like malicious lace, and there's a single chandelier hanging from the ceiling-still enchanted, flickering dimly with half-life like it's not sure whether to give up or catch fire.
“I think it’s… fixable,” I say, uncertainly.
Puck bends at the waist, picks up a dried bundle of herbs from the windowsill, and sniffs it. He immediately recoils. “Fixable? Mira, this house is haunted by disappointment.”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“This wall is held together with mud and wishes. And not even good ones. The desperate kind. The kind whispered at 3 a.m. into the bottom of a wine bottle.”
I step into what used to be a kitchen. A large iron stove sits at an angle, half-buried in old ash, with a cauldron resting beside it like it died mid-spell. Glass jars line the shelves-clouded, some cracked, their contents fossilized into unidentifiable horrors. One jar looks like it contains a single petrified eyeball suspended in viscous gray.
Puck peers in. “That one’s looking at me. I’m not even being metaphorical.”
He pokes it with the tip of his finger.
“Stop that,” I hiss. “You’ll wake something up.”
“Good,” he mutters. “Then it can explain what this smell is. Is that… mildew and betrayal?”
I ignore him and make my way to the back room. A bedroom. Maybe. Hard to tell, with the mattress half caved in and vines crawling through a crack in the wall like nature itself gave up on respecting boundaries.
Puck steps in behind me, arms crossed, eyes flicking to the carved runes over the bedframe. Old sigils for fertility and protection, cracked but still faintly glowing.
“Oh,” he says flatly. “Of course your parents got it on in a cottage like this. Very rustic. Very doomed fairytale. Were there woodland creatures cheering them on?”
I whirl around. “Do you ever shut up?”
He grins, full of sharp teeth and arrogance. “Not unless bribed. Preferably with fish. Or sex.”
“Not happening.”
“Then enjoy the commentary. You brought me here, Mira. You get the full experience.”
I step over a cracked floorboard that’s clearly planning a future ankle injury and brush cobwebs off the rusted sconce on the wall like optimism alone can bleach out two decades of decay. The dust sticks to my fingertips, clings like guilt.
Still, I square my shoulders and force the kind of smile that’s held together by spite and denial.
“It’s not that bad,” I say.
Puck barks out a laugh that could peel paint.
I ignore him. “It just needs a little… cleansing. A few wards re-anchored. Maybe a structural reinforcement charm or twelve. Some elbow grease.”
Puck crosses his arms and leans against the doorway, careful not to let too much of his weight hit the frame like he’s worried it might buckle from the strain of his disappointment. “You’re adorable when you lie to yourself.”
“I’m being optimistic.”
“You’re being delusional. This isn’t a fixer-upper, Mira. This is a haunted exoskeleton held together with trauma and damp wishes.”
I stalk back into the main room, kicking aside a pile of dried leaves-or possibly bat wings-and point to the hearth. “We clean out the fireplace, re-ward the windows, clear out the mold-”
“That’s not mold,” Puck mutters, squinting at a dark smear on the wall. “That’s probably sentient.”
“Then we’ll name it and charge it rent.”
He snorts, but I keep going, voice rising with the force of my desperation. “The bones are good. The roof just needs realigning. And we’ve got the spellbooks. We have food. Running water-if I can reconnect the siphon to the spring line-”
“That’s not running water, that’s swamp essence.”
“It’s manageable!” I shout, then breathe in and try to center myself, magic tingling under my skin. “We’ll clean. We’ll enchant some heat back into the stones. I’ll brew something that doesn’t explode, and you’ll sit there and be smug and beautiful and unhelpful.”
He tilts his head. “So… Tuesday?”
I throw a pillow at him. It disintegrates in a puff of mold and what might have once been lavender.
We both cough.
He waves a hand through the air and grins like I’ve proven his point.
And still-I smile. Because somehow, impossibly, this feels like the start of something. Messy, crumbling, cursed…
But mine.
“Ours,” I whisper under my breath, too soft for even him to catch.
Puck rolls his shoulders like he’s about to go chop down a cursed oak with his bare hands and then make passionate love to a stack of firewood. He strides across the room with newfound purpose, picks up a half-rotted chair, and flexes dramatically like lifting broken furniture is somehow a heroic act of masculine defiance.
“I’ll handle the man stuff,” he declares, dropping the chair onto what used to be a rug but now resembles a flattened cryptid. “You focus on the witchy bits. Spells, wards, unhaunting things. Leave the heavy lifting to me.”
I blink at him. “You do realize I can levitate a boulder with one word and half a middle finger, right?”
He waves a hand dismissively. “Sure, but where’s the fun in that? I’ve got arms now, Mira. Use me.”
“I’m trying to, but you keep getting under my feet.”
He stands with an indignant huff as I push past him toward the back wall, where an entire bookshelf is tilting dangerously like it’s mid-suicide pact with gravity. I reach for the spell etched into the woodgrain, only for Puck to sweep in front of me like an overzealous butler on a redemption arc.
“I’ve got it,” he says, throwing his back into the shelf with a grunt and a half-snarl that’s so dramatic I can’t tell if he’s in pain or just cosplaying competence. The shelf shudders, then shifts-barely. He makes a show of groaning like he’s hauling a stone giant uphill.
“By all means,” I mutter, dusting my palms. “Please continue your mating dance with the furniture.”
