Witch, Please, He's My Cat: A Comedy Fantasy Romance, page 20
I groan and drag a pillow over my face.
“And don’t think I didn’t notice your thighs shaking. You’re going to be sore tomorrow. You’re welcome.”
The pillow muffles my laughter. Gods help me, I’m going to let him do it again.
And probably again after that.
Because this isn’t just sex.
This is the start of something entirely unmanageable. Something that wears my ruin like a grin and asks for compliments afterward. Something that purrs and bites and then-just once-asks softly if he was enough.
And for all his chaos, all his flaws, all the sarcastic, sexy idiocy that is him-
He was.
He is.
And we are officially in very, very dangerous territory.
Chapter Eighteen
The morning after sex with my familiar should have been awkward, or at the very least, filled with the soul-crushing shame of someone who just let a magically mutated ex-cat take her apart like a spellbook in heat. But no. I woke up sore, smug, and spooned by a man who purrs in his sleep and kicks like he’s dreaming of revenge on a mouse cartel.
We should’ve been doing important things today. Like cleaning the kitchen, which currently looks like a cursed alchemy final went off in the cupboards. Or re-warding the back windows, which are one suspicious draft away from letting in something winged and legally vengeful. But instead, Puck had decided we needed “environmental intelligence.” Which, translated from Familiarese, meant wandering aimlessly until we found something shiny, edible, or hexable.
So here we are, an hour into a “strategic reconnaissance mission,” and I’m sitting cross-legged in a patch of sun-warmed moss while my newly bipedal companion tries to catch fish with his bare hands.
No. Not hands.
“Arm hands.”
He corrected me earlier when I pointed that out-grumbling that “just because they look like hands doesn’t mean they don’t miss the elegance of claws.” Which is deeply ironic, considering the elegance in question is currently thrashing knee-deep in a stagnant pond, swiping at trout like they owe him rent.
“Puck,” I call, resting my chin on my fist, watching as his fifth attempt ends in a spectacular face-first dive into a clump of swampweed. “You are not a cat anymore.”
“I have instincts,” he snarls, emerging from the water looking like a very sexy, very angry drowned rat. Algae drips from one eyebrow. “And one of them is that I should be able to catch something that dumb with a pulse.”
“Your instincts also include knocking things off counters and biting people who wake you up too early.”
He pauses mid-swipe, eyes narrowing. “That last one is still valid. I will bite you.”
“I’m sure you will. You’ll probably lecture me on my rune placement while doing it.”
He sloshes toward the shore, dripping, furious, and somehow still stupidly hot even with pond scum clinging to his collarbone. He flops dramatically onto the moss beside me, water soaking through my already-questionable secondhand cloak.
“I came close.”
“You did not.”
He rolls onto his side, props himself on one elbow, and stares at me like I’m the unreasonable one. “You didn’t see it. There was a moment. A twitch in my peripheral vision. My prey blinked.”
“It swam.”
“Same thing.”
I reach out and pluck a bit of moss from his shoulder, flicking it back into the pond. “So this is your survival strategy now? Fish-hunting and confidence?”
He stretches, long and languid like a sun-warmed predator, his bare chest slick and speckled with scratches from an overambitious lily pad encounter. “No. My survival strategy is to charm the pants off my witch, convince her to go on an extended walk that’s definitely not a date, and then get naked in a field after impressing her with my unparalleled aquatic prowess.”
“You fell in,” I deadpan.
“And came out glistening.”
The thing is-he’s not wrong. The sun catches on his skin like a flirty enchantment, his wet hair curled around his ears in dark tendrils, his golden eyes a little too bright for comfort. He’s still Puck. Still smug, still insufferable, still far too pleased with himself for someone who’s failed to catch a single fish. But now there’s more.
This isn’t just the familiar I used to trip over on the way to the bathroom. This is the man-shaped result of a spell that shouldn’t have worked, that shouldn’t still be working, and the longer we stay out here in this gods-damned beautiful wilderness, the more I realize how easily he’s adapting.
I draw in a slow breath, trying not to get distracted by the way his abs flex when he reaches behind him for the flask he stole from my bag.
“We’re supposed to be laying low,” I mutter, eyes flicking around the clearing. “Not playing splash-and-sulk.”
“This is low,” he says, uncorking the flask and taking a lazy swig. “See? Lying. On moss. Low.”
“You have algae in your teeth.”
“I had algae in my teeth. Past tense. And now I’m hydrated, sun-kissed, and slightly drunk. Name one Bureau hound who can find that suspicious.”
“They’re going to trace the aura residue. My spell. Your transformation. It’s going to light up like a cursed flare when they sweep for anomalies.”
“Then we move again,” he says, too calm. “We’ve got the spells. You’ve got the wand. I’ve got a flawless sense of direction and the thighs of a forest deity.”
“You also have no patience, no pants, and no clue what you’re doing.”
“I caught feelings,” he says, mock solemn. “That’s more dangerous than fish.”
I glare. “Puck.”
He leans in slightly, just enough to brush his nose along my jaw, the damp heat of him distracting and deliberate. “What?”
“We can’t keep pretending this is just... camping.”
“I’m not pretending,” he says, voice lower now. “I’m improvising.”
There’s something in his tone I don’t have the strength to parse right now. Something that curls low in my gut and whispers maybe this isn’t just another flirtation. Maybe it’s not even a game. Maybe the look he gives me-half-lidded, too knowing-isn’t about seduction at all.
It’s about choosing to stay. Even when he knows what it’ll cost.
The pond ripples behind us. Birds call overhead in tongues I half-recognize from old druidic glossaries. The land out here smells older than the wards we used to keep civilization from bleeding into magic. Everything’s quieter. Wilder. Off-grid in a way Elderveil never allowed.
It’s dangerous. Exposed. Reckless.
And it might be the first time in years I’ve felt like I could actually breathe.
But that doesn’t mean we’re safe.
“We should head back,” I say, already rising.
“Let’s stay a little longer,” he says, flopping dramatically onto his back. “I want to try catching a bird with my hands next.”
“You couldn’t catch a fish.”
“Fish are slippery. Birds are arrogant. I can work with that.”
I snort, but I don’t argue.
Because for all my panic, all my logical alarms blaring at full volume, I want this moment too-him at ease, the world briefly untangled, and the hot, infuriating thing beside me looking up like I’m not the witch who cursed him.
But the only thing that ever let him loose.
I let him keep talking about birds.
It’s easier than admitting the quiet’s gotten into my blood.
Puck, half-wrapped in moss and ego, is still scheming his avian conquest while I sit with my knees tucked to my chest, eyes on the treeline but not really seeing it. The pond behind us is still, deceptively serene, like the whole world’s holding its breath.
We’re safe here.
That’s what my aunt said. Safe like they were, once. When my mother fled the coven. When she changed her familiar, took his hand instead of a leash, and disappeared into the woods like love was a spell that could outrun consequences.
This is where she brought him. Where they hid. Where the Bureau stopped looking. And now I’m sitting in the same moss, heart kicking against my ribs like it knows I’m repeating a story I was never meant to finish.
I don’t remember her face. Not my mother’s. Not my father’s. Just impressions-too vague to hold on to. The sound of laughter half-swallowed by time. The smell of rosemary and lightning. A hand brushing mine, too large to be hers, too warm to be safe. Then nothing.
My aunt told me the truth in a cramped kitchen lit by emergency wards and the sharp edge of her disappointment. My mother broke the bond. Transformed her familiar. Fell in love. And for that, she was marked. Branded a traitor. Her magic cut from the record like it could be erased clean.
I grew up with rules etched into my bones. Familiars are bound, not loved. Spells are sacred, not personal. Magic doesn’t care how you feel-it only cares what you want.
And now I’m sitting here with my legs cramping, watching Puck throw stones at birds and brag about his reflexes, and I can’t stop thinking: was this how it started for her?
Not with declarations. Not with destiny. Just a slow slide into disaster disguised as affection.
I curl my fingers into the moss beneath me, digging past the softness, past the charm-soaked surface. The land hums faintly with residual magic. Nothing overt. Just old enchantments folded into soil, the kind of protective weaving done by witches desperate to keep something sacred.
They thought they could hide.
And now I’m hiding too.
Except this time, it’s me who broke the rules. Me who cast the spell. Me who blurred the line between command and consent until I ended up tangled in a bed with a familiar who kisses like he was born with that mouth and looks at me like the bond between us is the punchline to a very dangerous joke.
Puck flicks water at a dragonfly. Misses. Sits up, dripping and panting and entirely too pleased with himself.
“I think that one dodged,” he says, pointing after it. “Which is rude. I was clearly the superior predator.”
I glance at him, trying to school my face into something that doesn’t scream I’m spiraling over ancient family trauma and potential magical collapse. “You’ve caught nothing.”
“Incorrect.” He tosses a flat stone at my feet. “I caught your attention. I caught a mild cold from the pond. And I caught you looking at my ass at least three times while I was knee-deep in algae. I’m calling that a personal best.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Your idiot,” he says, too fast, too easy.
I look away before that lands. Before the words can settle into something warm and stupid and dangerous.
He’s acting like nothing has happened. And maybe that’s what terrifies me most-how calm he is. Like none of this surprises him. Like of course this is where we’d end up.
The daughter of the witch who loved her familiar.
The familiar who never stopped watching her fall.
“Hey,” he says suddenly, voice less smug now. “You good?”
I glance at him, startled by the shift. He’s studying me, eyes sharp beneath wet lashes, the faintest thread of concern tugging at the corners of his mouth.
I force a smirk. “Trying to figure out if I should drown you for breakfast.”
He leans back with a grin, hands behind his head, completely unbothered. “You’d miss me by sunset.”
I probably would.
That’s the problem.
Because it’s not just lust anymore. Not just mischief. It’s something else, creeping in between kisses and arguments, something older than either of us is ready to name.
And I wonder, not for the first time-did my mother feel it too? That flicker of ruin when love stops being theoretical and starts carving space into your ribs?
Maybe this place isn’t cursed. Maybe it’s just honest. Because out here, without wards and walls and Elderveil’s glamour to hide behind, the truth’s harder to outrun.
I’m not ready to fall in love with Puck. But gods help me-I think I already am.
He’s watching me like I’m being unreasonable by not immediately diving into the shallow fantasy he’s built around fish, moss, and the undeniable appeal of being mostly naked outdoors.
I shift, brushing a pine needle off my knee, trying to mask the way my thoughts keep dragging me back to bloodlines and buried stories.
“You’re doing it again,” he mutters, not looking at me.
I glance over, wary. “Doing what?”
He lifts an arm, waves it vaguely in my direction like I’m an entire thesis he doesn’t have time to footnote. “That thing. The brow thing. The internal doomsday calculus where you decide you’re doomed, I’m cursed, and we’re both probably going to die in matching magical explosions.”
I scowl. “You’re not exactly helping.”
He sits up with a groan, rakes a hand through his soaked hair, and gives me a look so flat it could level mountains. “Mira. You have me.”
I blink. “Is that supposed to be comforting?”
“It’s supposed to be factual.” He rises to his feet, water dripping down his legs like liquid attitude, and plants his hands on his hips like a highly offended nymph who was promised snacks and got feelings instead. “I’m very capable. Surprisingly warm. I’ve been human for less than a week and already excelled at physical combat, public sex appeal, and catching exactly zero fish.”
“You forgot bar brawls and making everyone around you want to stab something.”
“Exactly. I am a multi-talented disaster.” He tilts his head, smirking now. “And you, little witch, are spiraling.”
“I’m thinking.”
“Thinking is the gateway drug to spiraling. That’s how you get Bureau anxiety and overdue curse reports.”
“Gods, you’re obnoxious.”
“And strong.” He grins wider. “Don’t forget strong.”
He steps toward me, all glinting water and absurd confidence, and before I can properly decode the gleam in his eyes or the slight bend in his knees-
He scoops me up.
Effortlessly. Like I don’t have half a dozen spells charged in my bag and the residual pride of a girl who absolutely does not get manhandled.
“Puck-”
He’s already moving, already laughing, already carrying me toward the pond like we’re reenacting a romantic forest ritual and not an imminent act of war.
“Put me down,” I snap, gripping his slippery shoulders. “I swear to every minor god in this hemisphere-”
“You’re wound so tight you’re going to hex yourself into early menopause,” he says cheerfully. “I’m doing this for your emotional health.”
“Puck-don’t you-”
And then I’m flying.
Arms flailing, shriek caught in my throat, dress twisting around my legs, the cold slap of reality-and pond water-hitting me all at once.
I go under with a splash loud enough to scare every bird within a half-mile.
The water’s freezing. Not dangerous, but enough to make every nerve in my body scream. I surface with a gasp, hair plastered to my face, mouth already opening to summon the full force of witchy wrath.
“Feel better?” he calls.
I launch a ball of pond muck at him. It hits his chest with a wet smack.
He grins wider. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
The water clings like regret-cold, viscous, completely unforgiving. My teeth chatter. My dress is plastered to every inch of skin I’ve ever tried to keep dignified, and the way Puck is standing on the edge of the bank, arms crossed, shirtless and beaming like he’s posing for a cursed romance card deck, does not improve my mood.
“You look radiant,” he calls, voice thick with amusement. “Positively baptized.”
“I’m going to drown you,” I snap, slicking hair back from my face and glaring with enough venom to curse six generations.
He just grins wider. “Little witch, if you wanted to get me wet, you could’ve just asked.”
“I swear to the stars, Puck-”
But he’s already moving.
He jogs toward the edge of the pond and launches himself in with the grace of a very large, very smug animal. Water explodes outward, cold and chaotic, and I shriek-actually shriek-as I try to backpedal through lily pads and dignity.
“Stay back!”
“No.”
“I mean it!”
“Do you?” he croons, surfacing with wicked delight, hair slicked back, eyes glowing like gold spun through water. He stalks through the shallows with ridiculous ease, cutting through the surface like he was grown here, forged in moss and mayhem. “Because I smell something squirmy. Something delicious.”
I splash water in his face, immediately regretting it when he licks a drop off his lip like it’s the start of a meal.
“Puck.”
“Yes, my twitchy little hex-maker?”
“Stay. Back.”
He lunges.
I shriek again, spinning and trying to escape, which is laughable given the resistance of ankle-deep mud and the fact that my soaked dress weighs as much as a small demon. His hand wraps around my wrist before I can get two full steps away, yanking me back against his chest with all the subtlety of a cat pouncing on a mouse already halfway to therapy.
“You’re terrible,” I gasp, squirming as his arms wind around my waist, his body warm against the chill that still clings to my skin.
“I’m a cat on the prowl,” he murmurs against my ear, voice low and thick and utterly delighted with himself. “You ran. I chased. Classic dynamic.”
“You are not a cat anymore.”
“Incorrect.” He nuzzles into the crook of my neck, mouth brushing the skin there in maddening little grazes. “I’m whatever makes you squeal like that again.”
“I squealed because you body-slammed me into a cursed pond.”
“I call that foreplay.”
I elbow him. Lightly. He groans dramatically, like I’ve stabbed him through the heart with a decorative wand.
“You’re going to regret this,” I say, twisting in his grip.
“You’re going to try,” he says, tightening his hold just enough to pin me against him. The contact is sudden, solid, and too warm to be ignored. His breath is hot at my temple. “But Mira?”
