Page 23 of Bewitched by the Fruit Bat King (The Bewitching Hour #3)

She laughed, the sound warming something long cold inside me. "That was improvisation, not Floramancy. Though I'm still impressed it worked on someone as powerful as you."

"You caught me off guard," I admitted. "It won't happen twice."

"Is that a challenge, Drake?"

"Merely an observation, Thorne."

Our eyes locked, the playful banter carrying undercurrents of something deeper.

The bond hummed contentedly, pleased at our growing connection.

For a moment, I allowed myself to imagine what it might be like to pursue this properly—courting her as tradition demanded, bringing her fully into my world with all its complications and dangers.

The moment was broken by the sound of trumpets announcing the pumpkin carving contest results. Willow's eyes lit up.

"That's our cue," she said, grabbing my hand without seeming to realize it. "Time to see whose pumpkin reigns supreme."

I allowed her to pull me toward the judging area, secretly pleased at her unconscious claim. Her hand felt right in mine, warm and vital against my cooler skin.

The crowd had gathered around a stage where three judges sat behind a long table.

Various pumpkins sat displayed on risers, each with a number rather than a creator's name.

I spotted mine immediately—a technically perfect rendering of Haven's Cross town square in relief, each building and tree carved with architectural precision.

It had taken three hours and specialized tools, but the result was undeniably impressive.

"Which one is yours?" I asked, scanning the remaining entries.

She pointed to a medium-sized pumpkin that seemed to be... glowing slightly? I narrowed my eyes. She'd enchanted it somehow, the carved flowers and vines appearing to move subtly in an unseen breeze. Clever witch.

"That has to be against the rules," I murmured near her ear.

"It's a subtle enhancement spell," she whispered back. "Completely within guidelines. Not all of us need fancy tools and vampire precision."

"Some of us prefer to win on merit rather than magical tricks."

"Says the creature who can literally turn into a bat."

"That's natural ability, not enchantment."

"So is my magic," she countered, eyes sparkling with competitive fire.

I was about to respond when the head judge, Mayor Henderson, stepped forward with an envelope. The crowd quieted expectantly.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this year's pumpkin carving contest had a record number of entries, and our judges have deliberated carefully," he announced. "In third place, with their beautiful rendering of Haven's Cross at sunset, number fifteen!"

A middle-aged woman stepped forward to claim a small trophy and envelope to polite applause. Neither Willow nor I clapped, both leaning forward slightly in anticipation.

"In second place, with an extraordinary technical achievement featuring architectural details of our beloved town square, number twenty-two!"

My pumpkin. Second place? I blinked in surprise as the crowd applauded. Willow's triumphant grin suggested she expected to hear her number called for first place.

"And our grand prize winner, with a heartfelt tribute to community and harvest, number eight!"

Neither of us moved. The crowd cheered as a young boy, no more than ten years old, bounded up to the stage with unrestrained joy.

His pumpkin, when spotlighted, was a simple but charming carving of stick figures holding hands around a central heart, with "Haven's Cross Family" carved in childish letters beneath.

I looked at Willow. She looked at me. And then, to my surprise, we both burst into laughter.

"We got beaten by a child," she gasped between giggles.

"Demolished," I agreed, finding myself genuinely amused rather than irritated. "My technical perfection and your magical enhancements, outdone by sentiment and wobbly letters."

"I love it," she declared, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes. "Best possible outcome."

I studied her face, flushed with laughter and genuine delight at our shared defeat. In that moment, with sunlight catching in her hair and her guard completely lowered, she was breathtaking. The bond hummed, stronger than ever.

"Come have a drink with me," I said impulsively, surprising myself.

She looked up, her laughter fading to a warm smile. "Isn't your hour almost up?"

I checked my watch, ignoring the seventeen notifications scrolling past. The merger, the board meetings, the empire I'd spent centuries building—none of it seemed particularly urgent compared to the witch smiling up at me.

"I think I can spare a little more time," I said, offering her my arm. "Unless you're eager to get back to your flower booth?"

She hesitated only briefly before slipping her hand into the crook of my elbow. "I suppose those flowers can sell themselves for a while longer."

As we turned toward the cider stand, my watch pinged one final time. Atlas's message was brief but clear: "Merger vote postponed indefinitely due to your absence. Board expressing significant concerns about leadership priorities."

I should have cared. This was a potential disaster, a threat to everything I'd worked for. Instead, I silenced the notifications completely and looked down at the witch on my arm, her face tilted up toward the autumn sun.

Some prices were worth paying, after all.