Page 15 of If The Shoe Fits (A Howlin’ Good Fairytale Retelling #2)

chapter fourteen

T he night of the Harvest Moon Ball is finally here, and the energy in the air is downright electric.

Students are bustling around in their formal wear, laughter and chatter echoing down the halls as they make their way to the ballroom.

And me? I don’t know how many days it’s been since Wulfy and I did what we did in his office. I’ve officially lost track.

There’s been no contact since. Not a one.

He’s been every bit the perfect gentleman.

Respectful. Professional. Completely distant.

And yeah, I’m feeling salty about it.

I shouldn’t be, right?

I mean, this is technically what I asked for.

But every time I catch a whiff of snickerdoodle cookies or hear that deep rumble of his voice echoing down the corridor, I feel a pang of, well, something .

Longing?

Frustration?

Pure, unadulterated horniness?

All of the above, probably.

But hey, at least I had this whole glass slipper theory turned party game to keep me busy.

If there’s one thing I can say for myself, it’s that I know how to throw myself into a distraction.

Speaking of distractions, I am really decked out tonight.

My gown— my absolute favorite black gown —is made of sparkling black velvet that hugs my curves like it was tailored by some kind of magical fairy godmother.

The hemline floats just above the floor, just enough to showcase my strappy heels, and the fabric is ruched in all the right places, creating a flattering silhouette that even I have to admit looks damn good.

The halter top does wonders for the girls, making them look perky AF (thank you, magical tailoring), and the side slit adds just enough smexy to keep things interesting.

The dress is sophisticated, elegant, and just a little bit daring—all the things I wish I felt tonight.

Instead, I’m a bundle of nerves, biting my lip as I take one last look in the mirror.

Which is ridiculous, really.

This sure as heck isn’t my first school dance. I’ve chaperoned more than I can count over the years.

But something about tonight feels different.

The ballroom looks incredible. The new decorations Aggie and I ordered from Congo, after getting them begrudgingly approved by the Academy’s oversight committee, are everything we hoped they’d be.

The twinkle lights cast a soft, magical glow across the room, highlighting the glittering centerpieces and lush garlands draped along the walls.

The ancient crepe paper and disco balls are long gone, replaced with sleek, modern touches that make the space feel like something out of a fairytale.

“Not bad,” I murmur, surveying the scene as students begin to filter in.

They’re laughing, spinning around the dance floor, and snapping enchanted selfies by the photo booth we set up in the corner.

Agatha appears beside me, dressed in a stunning emerald gown and grinning from ear to ear. She always looks hot.

Like a 1950s pinup girl or something. But it’s her warm and sunny disposition that makes people like her. She’s truly a great friend.

“We pulled it off,” she says, giving me a little nudge.

“Yeah,” I reply, trying to focus on the satisfaction of a job well done instead of the hollow ache in my chest.

But then, I feel it.

A familiar warmth washes over me, prickling against my skin like static electricity. My pulse quickens, and I don’t even need to turn around to know who just walked into the room.

Wulfy.

“Um, yeah. It looks amazing,” I agree, probably repeating myself in my efforts to ignore him .

I take in the thousands of fairy lights glittering all over the ceiling and walls.

Midnight blue drapes are hung behind them, and the effect is like we’re floating beneath a perfect sky.

The heavy mahogany furniture is polished, as is the floor.

Tables with dark cloths, and stacks of floating candles atop light up the space gently, creating an otherworldly atmosphere. There are also beautifully carved pumpkins that sit as centerpieces with tall cattails and bouquets of colorful fall foliage placed about.

A dozen place settings adorn each table with the finest dishware and shiny crystal goblets. The cutlery isn’t silver. Of course not, with all the allergies and such. But I believe they might be plated with 24 karat gold.

The pièce de résistance, of course, is a large, lifelike replica of the Harvest Moon hanging where the usual chandelier would be in the center of the ballroom. The warm glow emanating from it is simply stunning.

Everyone stops to ooh and aah , and I feel pride for my part in all this. There’s a DJ playing dance music in the background, but nothing too loud or garish.

Wonderful scents are coming from where the caterers are prepping their trays to serve appetizers and pumpkin punch.

Everything looks perfect.

Smells better.

But I am nervous as all get.

Agatha is chattering away while people arrive, and I admit I am on pins and needles myself.

Wulfy is prowling the room, speaking to guests. But aside from one or two glances he hasn’t made any headway in my direction.

Standing in the auditorium and pretending nothing happened between us has been hell and I admit I skipped the last few daily announcements. Aggie has reported increased visits to the faculty lounge whenever my breaktime rolls around, but coward that I am, I’d been taking them at my desk.

No, I haven’t seen much of him at all lately.

But every night I hear a Wolf howl outside my window. And when I go to bed beneath my floral sheets and sky blue comforter, and I secretly hope it’s him.

Wulfy .

Hopefully, after tonight, I’ll know for sure.

It’s one thing to suffer from unrequited love. The aching, slow-burning kind that creeps into your chest at night and refuses to leave.

I’ve been there. I know that pain.

But this? This would be worse.

Because what if—after all his talk about us being fated mates, after all the growly declarations and tender moments—he just changes his mind?

What if he wakes up tomorrow and decides I’m not what he thought I was?

How do I recover from that?

My stomach twists at the thought, the pterodactyls doing a full aerial show inside me.

“So, should we start a queue for the slippers? I can grab my tablet and take cell numbers,” Agatha says, pulling me from my spiraling thoughts.

I blink at her, trying to shift gears. “Oh, I doubt that will be necessary,” I say, scoffing as if the very idea is ridiculous.

But the last word catches in my throat as she smirks and spins me around.

My eyes land on the display we set up earlier—the delicate glass slippers I magically fabricated, perched on a luxurious velvet rug, sparkling under the soft glow of the twinkle lights.

And behind them?

A line.

Do my eyes deceive me? Because there are roughly *three dozen people* already queued up to try my shoes, and the ball hasn’t even officially started yet.

Holy. Goddess. Of. Pumpkin. Spice. Goodness.

“Oh my,” I murmur, my voice faint as I clutch my hands over my stomach.

The pterodactyls are back. And they’ve brought reinforcements. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest, my pulse racing as I stare at the crowd of people eagerly waiting to shove their feet into the magical shoes I created.

This is happening. This is actually happening.

My theory. People are interested in my theory.

“Holy Hecate,” I whisper, feeling the nausea rise. “I think I’m gonna puke.”

Before I can fully give in to the wave of panic threatening to consume me, a warm, steadying weight settles over my trembling hands.

“Just breathe, Sweet Witch,” a familiar voice murmurs.

I freeze, my heart skipping a beat as the warmth seeps into me, grounding me, chasing away the worst of my nerves. Slowly, I turn around, and there he is.

My Wulfy.

Eep! Not mine.

I mean, I don’t know if he is—oh the hell with it.

He looks amazing.

No.

He looks like every sinful thought I’ve ever had come to life.

He’s wearing a black-on-black suit that must have been custom-tailored to his wide shoulders and broad chest, the fabric hugging his impressive physique in ways that should honestly be illegal.

His amber eyes are warm, glowing faintly in the low light as they sweep over me, and the corner of his mouth tilts up in a soft, almost reverent smile.

“You look beautiful, my Dora,” he says, his voice low and rough and impossibly sincere.

For a moment, all I can do is stare. My brain is stuck on a loop of he called me beautiful, he called me beautiful , while the rest of me tries to remember how to function.

“Wulfy,” I manage, my voice a little breathless, “what are you doing here?”

“Making sure my mate doesn’t pass out before the night even starts,” he teases gently, his hand still resting over mine.

I open my mouth to argue, but the words don’t come. Because standing here, looking into his golden eyes, feeling the warmth of his touch.

I can’t decide if I’m more terrified or completely, utterly enchanted.

He puts an emphasis on the word beautiful that sure sounds like fuckable in my sex addled brain.

“You look beautiful, too,” I say.

Wulfy smiles even wider, his brilliant white teeth positively dazzling. I clear my throat and try to satisfy my longing for him by simply looking my fill.

“Now, that won’t do,” he says, frowning as he invades my space.

“What are you doing?”

But he doesn’t stop.

He dips his head and drops a quick kiss on my lips.

I can hear Agatha gasp, and I know that means she saw it.

“That’s better.”

“Um, I’m going to go start the ball rolling,” Aggie says, and I can definitely hear the glee in her tone.

We’ve already been through the protocol for the slipper trials a million times, and I trust she knows what she’s doing.

What I don’t know is what the heck Wulfredo Tremayne is doing right here and now and in front of all these people.

I glance around as he takes my hand and drags me towards a door that leads out onto the terrace, and yeah , more than a few heads are turned our way.

I see a few smirks and some knowing grins.

More than a couple of shocked glances.

Not to mention a smattering of students who are all elbowing one another.

Undoubtedly making crude jokes.

One blonde head is more noticeable than the rest.

And she looks angry.

Double eep!

“Stop! What are you doing?” I hiss at him.

“I’m saying hello properly,” he growls, right before he backs me into a corner that is adequately hidden behind a large potted shrub.

Then he’s bending down, and I’m so damn needy for him, I lift my face accepting what I know is going to be one hell of a kiss.

Now, the fact is I expect him to grab at me like the Wolf he is, but he doesn’t do that.

Instead, he cups my cheeks tenderly, brushing his lips over mine in soft, gentle, teasing kisses.

The man gets me so worked up, I am actually the one who grabs onto his collar and tugs him down, practically shoving my tongue into his mouth.

“Now that is a proper hello, Mate,” he murmurs, licking back into my mouth and making me shiver with delight.

“Oh Wulfy, I missed you,” I confess.

“I missed you, too. But didn’t you hear my song?”

“Was that really you?” I ask, not even trying to hide my delighted smile.

“Of course, my Wolf is very protective of you. Plus, I had to chase away anyone else sniffing around my Witch.”

“Ha, as if. But what’s changed? I mean, have you discovered anything?”

“I’ll tell you all about it in a minute,” he says, but I’m not finished yet.

“But about Cyndi?—”

“Sweet Witch, we’ll have that discussion, too. Later. Right now, let’s see if we can prove your glass slipper theory either way. Okay?” he asks, leading me back inside, towards the slippers.

I bite my lip, scanning the ballroom and noting just how much more packed it’s gotten since I last looked.

The space is buzzing with energy—laughter, chatter, and the occasional outburst of frustration as eager Witches and Warlocks try their luck with the enchanted glass slippers.

Agatha is holding court near the display, clipboard in hand as she manages the growing line with the efficiency of a drill sergeant.

I watch as more than one hopeful Witch and Warlock wiggles, twists, and downright struggles to fit their feet into the magical shoes.

The slippers, of course, are charmed to shrink or grow depending on the wearer’s intention.

If someone is trying them on with genuine hope or innocence, the shoes adjust effortlessly.

But if there’s a hint of dishonesty or ulterior motive?

Well, let’s just say the results can be comical .

As I’m marveling at the scene— and trying to ignore the faint blush of pride creeping up my cheeks —a warm hand gently tugs mine.

Before I know it, Wulfy is tucking my arm into the crook of his elbow, steering me effortlessly through the crowd.

“You shouldn’t be doing this so publicly,” I whisper-scream, casting a panicked glance around us.

He doesn’t respond right away, his sharp amber eyes scanning the crowd as if searching for something or someone.

“Doing what?” he asks distractedly, though there’s a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

I lean closer, lowering my voice as I hiss, “Taking my arm like this! You’re drawing attention.”

At that, his smirk transforms into a full-blown grin. He stops walking, turning to face me with an expression so devilishly confident it makes my knees weak.

“I intend to take more than your arm,” he says, his voice low enough to send a shiver down my spine. “And everyone here is going to find out sooner or later.”

His grin softens into something more sincere, and he dips his head slightly, his golden eyes locking onto mine. “I’m fine with sooner.”

Before I can process his words, or the way my heart is doing acrobatics in my chest, he winks at me.

Fucking. Winks.

Those sultry, bedroom eyes of his practically knock me flat. And just when I think I might survive the moment, he leans in and drops a quick, feather-light kiss on my lips.

And doesn’t that just beat all?

It’s nothing scandalous, nothing that should turn my world upside down. Just the briefest brush of his lips against mine.

But it’s more than enough.

There goes my Witchy heart .

I stand there, frozen, my mind scrambling to catch up with what just happened. Around us, the crowd continues to mill about, oblivious to my internal meltdown.

“ R elax, Sweet Witch,” he murmurs, his voice warm and teasing as he pulls me closer. “Goddamn, Beautiful, you’re glowing.”

I blink up at him, my lips tingling from his kiss and my pulse pounding in my ears.

“Glowing? What are you talking about?”

“Literally glowing,” he says, chuckling softly as he nods toward my hands.

I glance down and realize, to my horror, that my fingers are sparking faint trails of blue and silver magic— completely unbidden and completely out of control.

“Oh, for the love of—” I mutter, clenching my fists and willing the magic to stop.

Wulfy just laughs, the deep rumble of it sending another shiver through me.

“Come on,” he says, steering me toward a quieter corner of the room.

“Let’s get this over with then we’ll find a spot where you can glow all you want without scaring the guests.”

And just like that, I’m completely, utterly undone.