Page 37 of A Match Made in Coven (Paranormal Romance #2)

Donatello ignored the comment and took Andromeda’s elbow, careful to keep his grip firm but not painful as he guided the witch toward the exit.

Up close, she smelled like vanilla and something floral but earthy—lavender maybe.

It was distracting. She was distracting, even in rumpled loungewear, and with that death glare she was directing at him.

“Is this necessary?” she asked, lifting her cuffed hands.

“Standard protocol,” he replied. “But they’re just dampening cuffs. You can still access your magic for basic self-defense if needed.”

“Oh, how thoughtful.” Her words dripped with sarcasm. “Do I get a complimentary cavity search too, or is that extra?”

“Don’t tempt me,” he muttered before he could stop himself, then regretted it when her eyes widened.

Better get this over with fast. He pushed the witch out of the house.

Sarah Michelle stopped behind them on the porch and raised her hands, whispering an incantation at the splintered ruins of the front door.

Wood fragments floated upward, spinning and knitting together like a complex puzzle solving itself.

Within seconds, the door stood intact again, faint fracture lines marking where it had been repaired.

“It’ll hold for now.” Sarah Michelle ran a hand over the seams. “But we’ll need to replace it. I’m sending the bill to SMPD.”

“Suit yourself.” He’d never admit it, but he hadn’t meant to cause so much damage.

When he’d arrived at the address listed on the warrant and sensed the strength of the wards, his first thought had been that the suspect was barricaded inside, destroying evidence.

Dark magic homicides were rare, and he’d been running on adrenaline since discovering the body four hours ago.

He guided his charge down the porch steps, past the glamour he’d cast to hide the scene from human eyes, to his department-issued black SUV parked at the curb.

The night air was cool against his skin.

Salem after dark pulsed with electricity—a hum of magic that throbbed underneath the quaint New England facade the town presented to tourists.

Tonight, that current felt especially charged—oppressive and tight.

“Watch your head,” he warned as he helped Andromeda into the back seat. She shot him a withering glare but ducked without comment. The familiars had followed them outside, despite his orders. The hedgehog waddled across the sidewalk while the ferret darted around Sarah Michelle’s ankles.

“No,” Donatello repeated firmly, snapping his fingers. “Back inside. Now.”

“This is an outrage,” the pincushion huffed. “I demand to accompany my witch!”

“Demand all you want, but from inside the house,” Donatello replied, closing the rear door once Andromeda was settled. “Unless you’d rather be arrested for obstruction of justice.”

“You can’t arrest a familiar,” Sarah Michelle pointed out, stooping to whisper something to the ferret.

“Try me,” Donatello said. “I’ve had a hell of a night.”

Callidora straightened up, nodding at the two animals. “Don’t worry, I’ll handle this.”

The ferret snickered before scampering back up the walkway. The hedgehog was more reluctant, his tiny face screwed up in self-righteous indignation.

“I am her solicitor, and I have a right to be present.”

“Then you can make your way to the station with your own means of transportation.”

“It’s okay, Quill,” Callidora repeated. “I’ve got this.”

The little beast nodded solemnly before turning with as much dignity as his stubby legs allowed and following the ferret.

“Your roommate has the most pretentious familiar,” Donatello muttered, circling to the driver’s side.

“Takes one to know one,” Sarah Michelle muttered, sliding into the passenger seat.

Donatello started the engine and pulled away from the curb, the streets of Salem semi-deserted. Streetlamps cast pools of amber light on the wet pavement, and the occasional nocturnal pedestrian hurried past, head down against the fall chill.

“So,” Sarah Michelle broke the silence after a few blocks. “What’s going on?”

“I can’t discuss the case now. Not with you. And not in front of her.” He pointed his thumb backward.

“But—”

“No buts. Another word, and you’re out of my car, too, Callidora.”

The cabin fell silent after that. Palpable tension radiated from both women. Sarah Michelle took out her phone and started texting madly to hex knew who.

While the other witch…

He glanced in the rearview mirror, and whiskey-colored eyes glared at him, burning with a combination of anger, fear, and determination that gripped something low in his gut and twisted.

She dropped her gaze first, but the impression of those fierce eyes remained, challenging every assumption he’d made about a quick conviction. So much so that Donatello wondered if he was making a terrible mistake.

Chapter Three

Detective Hot-and-Hostile

ANDROMEDA

The interrogation room was chilly. So cold that Andromeda’s arms prickled with goosebumps under the light fabric of her sweatshirt while the metal chair leeched what little warmth she had left. She was dressed for a cozy movie night at home, not for rotting in a walk-in freezer.

She was grateful to SMPD for the complimentary cryo treatment, but she preferred her facials without felony charges.

Andromeda ran her palms over her arms to warm up, hoping the gesture wouldn’t broadcast her misery. Her wrists still bore faint red marks from where the magical dampening cuffs had dug into her skin. At least they’d removed those.

She stared at the giant mirror that dominated half the wall to her left.

The one-way glass reflected her disheveled appearance—wild blonde hair escaping the wreckage of a once-cute messy bun, day-old mascara smudged under tired eyes, ice cream stain still visible on her sweatshirt.

Perfect. She looked deranged enough to have committed a murder.

Was Sarah Michelle watching her right now?

Andromeda squinted at the mirror, wondering if her roommate was standing on the other side with her arms crossed, giving Detective Hot-and-Hostile a piece of her mind.

Or was she busy pulling strings, calling in favors, doing whatever detectives did when their roommates were falsely accused of killing someone?

“Come on, Shelly,” Andromeda whispered, teeth chattering. “Get me out of here.”

The door flew open with enough force to make her jump.

But instead of her best friend, Detective Malatesta strode in with the confident swagger of a man who’d never questioned a decision in his life.

He’d removed his stunner-proof jacket, revealing a tactical black shirt that hugged him like a second skin.

The leather straps of his chest holster cut clean lines across muscle, accentuating the breadth of his shoulders and the narrowness of his waist—he was a 3D printout from collective female fantasies.

Andromeda hated that she noticed his good looks. Hated even more than she didn’t seem able to tear her gaze from that sculpted chest.

He carried a manila folder and a steaming cup that flooded the sterile room with the rich aroma of coffee.

The scent made her stomach growl—she hadn’t eaten anything since the ice cream, and that felt like a lifetime ago.

And right now, she’d drink troll sweat if it meant she could go back to feeling her toes.

But he didn’t offer her any refreshments.

“Hello, Miss Swan.” His tone was formal and his gaze assessing as he settled into the chair across from her.

“Hello, prick,” she replied, managing a smile that was all teeth and zero warmth.

To her annoyance, the corners of his mouth twitched upward. He placed the folder on the table unhurriedly like they had all the time in the world. And maybe he did with his warm cup of coffee and long-sleeved shirt that looked like it could actually conserve body heat.

He smiled fully then—a cocky, self-assured grin that said her barbs barely registered. “Save your energy. Your insults are cute, but I’m immune to sarcasm.”

“Wasn’t being sarcastic.” Andromeda leaned forward, matching his smile with one of her own—sweet enough to cause cavities. “And I’m immune to douchebags, so we should be fine.”

He clicked his tongue, a sharp sound of disapproval that shouldn’t have sent a thrill down her spine, but did. What the hell was wrong with her? Stockholm syndrome didn’t set in this fast.

Instead of responding to her provocation, he flipped open the folder and began his interrogation...

Want to watch Detective Malatesta grill Miss Andromeda Swan? Grab your copy of A Curse for True Love now...