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I understand Sybil’s caution only once it’s too late.

We end up drinking another glass of witch’s brew and gorging ourselves on the foods set out for this outdoor banquet.

It’s only once I’m sitting on a crypt alongside Sybil and several other housemates of ours, nursing my fourth glass of brew, that I feel the first stirrings of desire.

I shift a little to ease the sensation, only now remembering thatespiritus, the active ingredient in witch’s brew, makes witches extra lusty. For now it’s just an inconvenience, nothing too distracting.

Around us, ghosts and other witches sit on crypts and tombstones, enjoying one another’s company. Many have also taken to dancing around the graves.

“You guys thinking about going to the bonfire?” asks Yasmin, a petite witch with brown skin and curly hair cropped in a bob. She daintily eats a caramel-dipped apple in one hand and sips brew from the other, completely unaware that one of her tits has slipped out from between the linen bandage mummy dress she wears.

Next to her, Olga stands in a Victorian dress, her once-coiffed hair now tugged mostly loose and the high-necked collar of her dress gaping open, a few buttons missing. That’s not the only thing missing. Her Ledger of Last Words, a book dedicated to collecting the final words of the dying, is also absent tonight. Olga’s eyes are a little glazed from the witch’s brew, and she’s tugging absently on the back of her corset as though she might be able to loosen the lacing.

A wave of desire slams into me, this one much more insistent than anything that came before, and I white-knuckle my glass, nearly moaning at the throbbing sensation between my legs.

Mai, a witch with pale skin and wide, high cheekbones, eyes Olga. “You ladies can do whatever you like,” she says, “but I’m going hunting for wolves. I want to get eaten like I’m Little Red fucking Riding Hood.”

“Oh, count me in,” Sybil says from where she sits next to me on the crypt.

“Count you in for what?” I say dazedly, only half following the conversation.

I tug at the low neckline of the satin slip. Two hours ago, this felt like a wisp of an outfit, but now my skin is hot and overly sensitive, and the dress chafes in a way I cannot suddenly stand.

Around us, other witches have begun to strip, the outer layers of their costumes haphazardly tossed over the gravestones.

Sybil rubs her neck absently, her wings fluttering behind her. “Getting fucked by a lycan.”

My body viscerally tightens at that word.Fucked. Goddess, how muchespiritusdid they put in the brew this time? This is like a lust potion gone wrong.

I swim through the haze of my thoughts, finally refocusing on the conversation.

“Wait,what?” That’s her plan? “But the shifters…they’re still in seclusion.”

Sybil holds her thumb and forefinger close together. “They’re just a teeny tiny bit feral. That’s all. It’s not like it’s the full moon.” Her words slur together a little.

My skin is hot, so hot, and not even the chill in the wind can cool it.

“When I said I wanted to make bad decisions, I didn’t meanthat!” I say, shifting again. Damn this throbbing. I want to sob at the coiling sensation growing in me that demands all sorts of friction.

Sybil looks me up and down, her own cheeks flushed. “I think you need to go wolf hunting too, Selene. Or find yourself a pretty witch. You drank a lot of brew.”

I swallow and shake my head, hopping down from the crypt. Only as soon as I’m on my feet, the brew hits me all at once. I sway a little.

“Sacred Seven,” I say, my voice coming out breathier than usual. “The lycans are still observing it. And then there’s that—thatfae.” Unless the shifters chased him off, he’s likely still prowling the Everwoods.

“Oh!” Yasmin squeals. “You think he’s close by? I want to see him. Fairies are so pretty.”

“Only look for him if you want to marry him and have lots and lots of kinky fae sex,” Sybil says, smiling salaciously. “Apparently he likes girls wearing white, so your mummy costume will probably do the trick,” she says, tucking Yasmin’s boob back into her linen wrappings.

As Sybil and Yasmin discuss the nuances of becoming a kidnapped bride, I press my eyes together, my need rising. Goddess, but I’ve drank way too much. What was I thinking? The lust is no longer manageable. Nowhere near it. I was a fool to think otherwise. My desire has ratcheted up to a painful need.

Est amage, I feel how you ache…

Memnon,I nearly gasp down our bond. I should be irritated by his voice. Instead, my lust seems to find its target.

My king. My soul mate.

I don’t want to throw myself to the wolves or to the fae. I wanthim.