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Marcus’s face falls while Julius, the green bastard, looks seven different shades of relieved over the whole thing. He’s the person who makes this castle more home than residence, so Iknow he must be itching to get back to making his simmer pots or gossiping with Eloise while the pair knit doilies. Marcus grabs hold of Julius’ current ball of yarn and tosses it up with a whoop, unspooling the material a few meters.

My eyes linger on the faces of my nest-mates. Something in their expressions is tense in a way that makes me want to take it all back and just let the damned witch have her way with our home, but I swallow that down. I seem to be the only one in the logical camp of“Do not let the witch have our home”when normally we’re mostly in sync. Julius is supposed to be the logical, smart one, Darius is supposed to do what’s best for us as a whole, and Marcus is supposed to follow the other two with a smile and a shitty joke.

“Now that the secret of supernatural-kind is out, our lives will be vastly different when we leave this attic. Be ready for it,” Darius says, his tone flat but his eyes betraying that something of importance is bubbling away in his mind.

Chapter 1

CHARLOTTE

“Doyou know why I’ve called you into my office, Ms. Ryan?” my boss, Samuel Broadhurst, asks in that condescending tone all pretentious assholes use when they’re talking to a subordinate.

Anger prickles down my spine, so I bite my lip, trying to appear thoughtful as I take steadying breaths in through my nose and out through my mouth.

“I believe I’m due for my six-month review, sir,” I bite out, an irritated flush rising to my cheeks.

“Correct,” he snips out, sniffing a little as he turns in his overstuffed swivel chair.

The man has been in the advertising business for over three decades, and it shows. His office is like stepping into a museum of what once was cool and hip, the bright colors reminiscent of the sixties and seventies with too many textures. The rug under my feet is shag, and the couch in the corner is some kind of crushed velvet—all in colors that make my eyes hurt.

He had an expert eye for what made a good marketing campaign, but suddenly I’m seeing his industry cataracts.

He’s not my direct supervisor. He’s my supervisor’s supervisor, so this is a big deal, or itwouldbe a big deal if he hadn’t pinched my ass by the water cooler last week and made a comment about all the delectable meat on my bones.

“You see, Charlotte, there are a lot of areas in your portfolio that I find lacking,” he says, pulling a large manila folder out from somewhere under his desk.

He slaps it down with a performativethunk,and the contents spill onto the desk space between us.

All the ad campaigns I’ve worked on in my six short months here fill the space between us. Embarrassment heats my cheeks, but I’m proud of these photos. These are hours of hard work and overtime. My supervisor loved these, but clearly Mr. Broadhurst found them lacking.

“I don’t see the issue, Mr. Broadhurst.”

“Ah, ah. Please, call me Samuel,” he croons.

“Um…right, well, what’s wrong with my campaigns? These were all approved by Scarlett.”

“Yes, but Scarlett’s eyes and my eyes are two very different sets, and you see, she may see perfection in these, but I see a stunning lack of vision and fire.”

I jerk back in my chair, a little gasp escaping my lips at the severity of his words. These ads are already running, so there is no pulling them back and reworking them. The clients have paid and were happy, but Mr. Broadhurst is the one with the problem.

“I don’t understand, the clients all approved of these?—”

“And the client is hardly ever really right.” He scoffs. “These are fine, amateur at best, but you could really flourish if you were being mentored by me.” Mr. Broadhurst gives my body a lecherous look.

It all clicks then. This entire meeting is bullshit.

“Scarlett is my boss and mentor.” I skirt around what I really want to say. I need this job so badly it hurts.

“Well, Scarlett,” he sneers, “is my underling, and she doesn’t yet have the skills I possess.” Mr. Broadhurst tosses his arms out and braces his hands on his desk.

The sharp cut of his lime-green suit is too perfect, and it shows all the imperfections of the man underneath. The sweat stains under his arms are clear when his jacket stretches to accommodate his grandiose motions. He’s trying too hard to be high fashion for a time that has come and gone.

“Sir, this is not really something I think is necessary. I enjoy working with Scarlett.” I try to keep my tone soft and submissive when all I want to do is scream.

He’s a creep who hasn’t stopped eyeing my breasts in every meeting, who grabs at my ass and tummy when he thinks no one is looking, and who’s just out of his dang mind if he thinks I’m interested.

He stands abruptly and rounds his desk before leaning against it so his cock is level with my face. The nearly concave crotch of his pants tells me there is much to be desired in the dick department, but I swallow nervously anyway.

This is not happening. Itcan’tbe happening. There must have been something in the smoothie I had for breakfast or some kind of hallucinogenic in the hairspray I borrowed from Kennedy.