Page 48 of Bewitched by the Wicked Witch (The Bewitching Hour #4)

Sage

T here's something deeply satisfying about the aftermath of spectacular revenge and equally perfect reconciliation.

Six months into marriage, Callum and I had settled into a routine that involved considerably more magical transportation and significantly fewer assassination attempts than our courtship period, which I considered a marked improvement in our domestic arrangements.

"Ready?" Callum asked, extending his hand as shadows gathered around us in the moonlit forest clearing. We'd just finished dismantling another Pureblood Society cell operating three towns over, and I was eager to return to the comfort of my underground lair.

"Always," I replied, taking his offered hand as my magic wrapped around us both. The familiar sensation of shadow-stepping pulled us through space and deposited us directly into my sanctum, where the warm glow of enchanted crystals immediately soothed my frayed nerves .

I winced as I moved toward the mirror, catching sight of the bruises already forming along my ribs where that particularly enthusiastic fanatic had gotten in a lucky hit before Callum introduced him to the business end of a stunning spell.

"Let me see," Callum said, his voice carrying the gentle authority he'd developed over months of tending to my post-mission injuries. His hands were careful as they traced the darkening marks, his magic automatically flowing to ease the soreness.

"It's nothing fatal," I assured him, though I couldn't quite suppress a hiss of discomfort when I tried to reach behind myself. "Just bruised dignity and a dress zipper that's apparently determined to remain permanently sealed."

"Turn around," he murmured, his fingers finding the stubborn clasp with practiced ease. "You know, for someone who insists on wearing form-fitting mission attire, you're remarkably helpless when it comes to extraction."

"That's what husbands are for," I replied with the kind of satisfied smugness that came from having successfully trapped an extraordinarily capable warlock into permanent domestic service. "Among other things."

The dress pooled at my feet, and I caught his reflection in the mirror as his gaze traced the constellation of old scars and fresh bruises that mapped my recent adventures in creative justice. His expression held the kind of reverent appreciation that never failed to make my pulse quicken.

"My magnificent wife," he said softly, pressing a gentle kiss to my shoulder. "You're absolutely devastating, even when you're battered and probably plotting revenge against inanimate clothing."

"The zipper had it coming," I replied, turning in his arms to face him properly. "And I'm only battered because someone insisted on charging headfirst into that warehouse instead of waiting for my perfectly reasonable plan involving strategic cursing and creative use of shadow magic."

"Your plan involved significantly more potential property damage," he pointed out, his hands settling on my waist with possessive certainty. "I was being fiscally responsible."

"How disappointingly practical of you," I murmured, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw with fingers that trembled slightly from exhaustion and the familiar stirring of desire that seemed to follow every successful mission.

"Though I suppose someone has to maintain our reputation as responsible members of magical society. "

"That someone being me, since you're still actively plotting the downfall of anyone who looks at you sideways," he said with fond exasperation, his thumbs tracing circles against my skin in the absent way that had become his habit over the past months.

"Only the deserving ones," I protested, though the argument lost some of its force when he found that particular spot just below my ear that made me forget whatever point I'd been trying to make.

What followed was the kind of gentle reunion that had nothing to do with desperate passion and everything to do with the quiet celebration of coming home safely to each other.

His touch was reverent as he mapped familiar territory, careful of bruises while still claiming what was his with the confidence of someone who knew exactly how much he was loved in return.

Before he could respond with what I was certain would be some charming but ultimately unnecessary romantic declaration, I grabbed his shirt and pulled him toward our bedroom, shedding clothes as we went with the efficiency of people who'd had considerable practice in this particular activity.

Our clothes fell away piece by piece as desire consumed us both. The door shut behind us with a soft click, and then his lips were on mine, urgent and demanding. I responded with equal fervor, pouring all the love and passion I felt into the heated press of our mouths.

Callum backed me toward the bed, every step a collision of breathless kisses and grasping hands.

When we reached the mattress, he caught me around the waist, lowering me onto the soft surface with a reverence that made my breath hitch.

His golden hair caught the afternoon light streaming through the lace curtains, creating a halo around features sharpened by desire.

"My magnificent witch," he growled appreciatively, his hands sliding up my thighs with possessive certainty. "You're absolutely devastating."

I basked in his praise, arching my back as his deft fingers found the places that made me gasp and writhe beneath him. The careful control I maintained in public dissolved completely, replaced by something wild and demanding that had been waiting all day for exactly this moment.

"You know," I managed between increasingly desperate kisses, "for someone who was terrified of public rejection, you're remarkably confident in private."

"That's because here, in our bed, I know exactly who I am," he murmured against my throat, his words sending delicious shivers down my spine. "I'm the man who gets to love Sage Blackstone for the rest of his extremely fortunate life."

"Stop talking," I panted, reaching for him with hands that trembled with need, "and start proving it."

What followed was the kind of passionate reunion that would have scandalized proper society and probably set off every magical detection spell in a three-mile radius.

We moved together with the desperate intensity of people who'd spent too long apart and intended to make up for lost time with impressive thoroughness.

My magic slipped free as passion overtook careful control, stars spinning across our skin while shadows danced along the walls. The headboard struck the wall in rhythm with our movements, and I dimly realized that Cosmo's complaints about noise were about to become significantly more justified.

"Callum," I gasped as pressure built to impossible heights, "I can't... I'm going to?—"

"Look at me, Sage," he commanded, his voice rough with his own approaching release. "I love every magnificent, formidable part of you."

The combination of his words and the perfect angle of his movements sent me spiraling over the edge, pleasure crashing through me in waves that left me clinging to him as the only stable point in a universe suddenly composed entirely of sensation and starlight .

He followed moments later with a hoarse shout, his body shuddering against mine as we collapsed together in a tangle of sweaty, satisfied limbs.

"I love you, Sage Blackstone-Renshaw," he murmured against my hair, his voice soft with adoration as he lifted my hand to press a gentle kiss to the ruby ring. "My wife, my partner, my wonderfully not so evil witch."

"I love you too," I replied, settling against his chest with the boneless satisfaction of someone whose engagement had been celebrated in thoroughly appropriate fashion.

"Though I should probably warn you that if you keep making grand romantic gestures, I might have to start reciprocating.

And my idea of romance tends to involve significantly more creative cursing than most people are comfortable with. "

"I look forward to it," he said with the kind of grin that suggested he meant it. "Life with you is never going to be boring."

A soft buzzing sound from my bedside table caught our attention, and I couldn't help but laugh at the timing.

"Shall we investigate your former replacement?" I asked with mock seriousness. "Just to ensure it's still in proper working order?"

"Actually," he said with the kind of heated look that suggested our celebration was far from over, "I was thinking we could incorporate it into future activities. Though perhaps we should invest in a quieter model, for Cosmo's sake."

"Poor Cosmo," I chuckled, already reaching for him again. "He's going to need therapy after living with us. Or at least very good earplugs. "

"I love you, Mrs. Renshaw," he murmured afterward, as we lay tangled together in the aftermath of thoroughly appropriate marital celebration. "My partner, my wife, my wonderfully reformed evil witch."

"I love you too," I replied, settling against his chest with the boneless satisfaction of someone whose marriage had been built on a foundation of mutual respect, spectacular chemistry, and shared appreciation for creative problem-solving.

"Though I should probably warn you that 'reformed' is a generous term.

I'm still plotting elaborate revenge against that zipper. "

"I look forward to witnessing your victory," he said with the kind of grin that suggested he meant it. "Life with you is never going to be boring."

As we lay there in the warm glow of my sanctum, surrounded by the tools of my trade and the evidence of our successful partnership, I marveled at how perfectly we'd learned to fit together.

Six months of marriage had taught us to work as a team, combining his strategic thinking with my creative approach to problem-solving in ways that made us considerably more effective than the sum of our individual parts.

"You know," I said thoughtfully, tracing lazy patterns across his chest, "who would have thought the evil witch of Old Hollows would end up with such a perfectly domestic happy ending?"

"Anyone with functioning eyes," he replied, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. "You were never really wicked, Sage. You were just waiting for people to see past the thorns to the extraordinary woman underneath."

"How delightfully poetic," I said with the kind of amusement that suggested I had opinions about his romantic metaphors. "Though I prefer to think of myself as more of a Venus flytrap: beautiful, dangerous, and perfectly capable of devouring anyone foolish enough to underestimate me."

"Lucky for me," he said with obvious satisfaction, "I've always been drawn to dangerous women."

The peaceful domesticity of our post-mission celebration was interrupted, as peaceful domesticity often is, by family drama arriving via text message. Callum's phone buzzed with the particular urgency that suggested someone, somewhere, was having a very bad day.

"It's from my cousin Mira," he said, frowning at the screen in a way that suggested the message contained more complications than our newly settled life was prepared to handle.

I leaned over to read the text, noting the familiar tone of academic desperation mixed with supernatural dread that seemed to run in magical families:

Callum, Professor Drayden has ruined my career over his obsession with something called the Chrysalis Shard.

The university is exiling me to catalog artifacts in some village called Evermist for the winter.

I suspect this is about more than academic politics.

The place has a strange reputation. Wish me luck. - M

"Well," I said, setting aside my post-mission satisfaction with the calm of someone who'd recently survived multiple murderous conspiracies and felt reasonably prepared for whatever fresh chaos the universe might provide, "that doesn't sound ominous at all."

Callum ran his hand through his hair in the gesture I'd learned meant he was calculating the probability of family-related disasters. "Mira's brilliant, but she's always been too curious for her own good. And this Professor Drayden..." He shook his head. "Something about this feels wrong."

"Family is family," I said pragmatically, squeezing his hand. "Even the distant, potentially doomed kind. We should keep an eye on this situation."

"Agreed. I have a feeling this isn't the last we'll hear about Evermist."

I looked at my husband, this man who'd fought councils and mobs and bureaucratic nightmares to find his way back to me, and felt a familiar stirring of the protective instincts that had gotten me labeled as wicked in the first place.

"You know," I said thoughtfully, "it occurs to me that we've recently gained considerable experience in dealing with academic conspiracies, mysterious artifacts, and villages with strange reputations."

Callum's smile was equal parts love and apprehension. "Are you suggesting we might need to take a trip?"

"I'm suggesting," I replied with the kind of smile that had been giving people nightmares for years, "that anyone foolish enough to threaten your family is about to discover why crossing a reformed witch is still a spectacularly poor life choice."

After all, Sage Blackstone-Renshaw might have found her happily ever after, but that didn't mean I'd forgotten how to be dangerous when the situation called for it. Some skills, like creative cursing and protective fury, never really go out of style.

And if some professor with delusions of academic grandeur thought he could manipulate young witches without consequences, well, he was about to receive a very educational lesson in why the Blackstone family had such an interesting reputation.

This wicked witch might have found love, but she certainly hadn't lost her edge.

The End