Page 47 of How to Flirt with a Witch

Freddie leans his head down to search my face. “I can see why Nat likes you. You’re smart. Intuitive.”

Adrenaline shoots through me. I grit my teeth, jerking back. “What do you want?”

His grip burns. How hard do I fight? Do I kick and scream despite the risk of being bitten?

“To get you to change your mind,” he says evenly, forcing me closer.

My heart is beating out of my chest, trying to escape while the rest of me is trapped.

I pull back. “I said I’m not interested!”

Freddie stumbles. Hisses in frustration. Shakes his hair back from his face and keeps holding tightly. “You’re causing a scene—”

“Let go!” My lungs constrict. I can’t breathe. Can’t think.

The dog growls, the noise vibrating through the air and crawling under my skin.

My arm tingles, my fingers going numb.

“Katie—” Freddie says through his teeth.

“Help!” My voice tears through the haze closing in around me.

I’m trapped. Suffocating. He’s on me like a leech, refusing to let go until I follow him to wherever he wants to take me.

“Madsen!” someone roars from the far end of the alley, the sound slicing through the haze.

Freddie and I freeze, and he snaps his head around, keeping a painful hold.

A dark figure storms toward us, backlit by the distant street lamps. Her tall frame is an impressive sight, her ankle-length trench coat billowing open, her hair lifting in the wintry wind.

Natalie.

Chapter 12

The Madsens

As Natalie advances onus, the dog leaps forward with a snarl, hitting the end of his short leash. Freddie lets go of me to hold onto Wyatt with both hands.

“Get the hell away from her,” Natalie shouts, waving an arm. Her green trench coat is open over an olive sweater and jeans, items glinting in her inner pockets.

Relief washes over me so intensely that my knees weaken. Breathing fast, I back away from Freddie, moving deeper into the alley and closer to Natalie. My arm throbs where he grabbed me.

Freddie sneers, not bothering to tell his dog to back down. “Why? Who’s she to you?”

“Does it matter? You were grabbing her.”

Each time I’ve met Natalie, she’s been calm, cool, her voice a purr—but now, she swells with anger, her expression contorts, and her voice is hoarse. I guess I do have every reason to fear Freddie Madsen.

Freddie leans back against his dog’s pull, still holding on with both hands, as if to show that all he needs to do is let go. “We were just talking.”

“Like hell,” I snap.

A nasty smile curls Freddie’s lips.

Natalie clenches her fists at her sides as she stops beside me, a few steps away from Freddie and the snarling dog. Her nostrils flare, her chest heaving. “I know what you’re here for, and you’re too late—”

Freddie lets go of Wyatt. “Get ’em!”