Page 8 of If The Shoe Fits (A Howlin’ Good Fairytale Retelling #2)

chapter seven

O kayyyyy.

It’s pretty clear that Wulfy Tremayne is fully aware of my ongoing battle with his darling little angel, Cyndi.

His jaw is tight, his shoulders stiff, and his amber eyes practically glowing with a fiery intensity that’s—well, let’s just say it’s distracting.

He’s obviously upset.

And judging by the way his fingers are drumming against the desk, he’s expecting an explanation.

I should’ve seen this coming. I mean, of course the Principal wants to know why his precious spawn has been crying big, fat tears all over his suit jacket.

But what I wasn’t expecting was the low, guttural growl that accompanied his first question.

Nor was I expecting that growl to make my panties practically disintegrate on the spot.

“I’m s-sorry, Mr. Tremayne,” I stammer, cursing the wobble in my voice. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

His amber eyes narrow, and he leans forward, his broad shoulders looming over the desk like some kind of supernatural predator about to pounce.

“Don’t play coy with me,” he snaps, yanking his glasses off and tossing them onto the desk with a roughness that shouldn’t be as attractive as it is.

Can I go next? Pretty please?

I clear my throat, trying to muster some semblance of composure.

“I’m not playing, sir,” I reply, my tone as even as I can make it. “I really don’t know?—”

“You know,” he cuts me off, his voice sharp enough to slice through steel. “I just don’t get you.”

Excuse me?

“Everyone says you’re this terrific person. A fantastic teacher. You take all the misfits and outcasts under your wing. Oh, poor Professor Troy, whose heart was broken when her husband died too young.”

I blink, stunned, as he spits the words like venom.

Where is this even coming from?

“But maybe,” he continues, his voice dipping lower, “the other rumors are true, too. Maybe you’ve been alone so long your heart has turned to stone!”

Wait. Did he just ? —?

The man of my literal dreams— the one I’ve spent more hours fantasizing about than I’d ever admit —just called me cold-hearted? Me? The woman who spent more Saturdays than I can count tutoring students?

Why only last weekend I helped a struggling Were-tween who couldn’t get her transformation spell right for eight hours. Unpaid.

I sit there, stunned into silence, my mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air.

Surely, I misheard him.

Surely, the universe wouldn’t be this cruel.

But no, he’s standing there, chest heaving, his words hanging in the air like the world’s worst breakup song.

For a moment, I consider saying something equally biting, something to remind him that his precious Cyndi has been terrorizing half the student body—and me.

But instead, all I manage is, “Did you just call me cold-hearted?”

Embarrassment and anger war within me, an overwhelming tide of emotions crashing together like stormy waves.

Sparks of magic dance across my fingertips, snapping and crackling with an energy that feels foreign and wild.

They aren’t the usual cool, steady blue I was used to—this is black.

Angry. Furious.

How dare this man assume to know anything about me?

How dare he presume to call me cold-hearted and accuse me of hurting his child?

“Is it not bad enough my daughter has no mother figure in her life?” he thundered, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “But for you to target her? To take out your own lonely existence on her? That is inexcusable!”

The words hit me like a physical blow, stealing my breath.

My chair scrapes against the floor as I shoot to my feet, knocking it backward with so much force it clatters to the ground behind me.

“How dare you,” I spit, my voice trembling with unrestrained rage.

Glittery black smoke swirls around us, coiling and snapping like a living thing.

My magic surges, wild and untamed, and before I can stop myself, a bolt of lightning shoots from my hand, zipping through the air with pinpoint precision.

It hits Mr. High-and-Mighty Tremayne smack in the chest, right where his pitiful excuse for a muscle— his so-called heart —should’ve been.

“That is quite enough!”

Principal Tremayne jolts back in his chair, the impact sending him sprawling against the desk

His whiskey-colored eyes widen in shock, and he instinctively rubs the smoldering spot on his chest where my spell left its mark.

But I am way too furious to care.

“First of all,” I begin, my voice trembling with righteous indignation, “you know nothing about me. I take my job very seriously, and I’m not sure what your conniving little offspring has told you, but I can guarantee you, it’s pure fiction, Principal Tremayne!”

His eyes narrow, but instead of retreating, he stands.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Taking up all the available space with his dominating presence.

“Call me Wulfy,” he corrects, his deep voice a low, rumbling growl.

I freeze as he steps around the desk, his movements deliberate and predatory, his glowing golden eyes locked on me like a hawk stalking its prey.

The sound of his rumbling chest sends a shiver skittering down my spine.

It isn’t just a growl. It is something primal.

“W-What are you doing?” I sputter, trying to sound firm, but my voice comes out breathy and uncertain.

His large hands grip my waist before I can back away, pulling me flush against the hard, unyielding planes of his chest.

My magic fizzles out in an instant, as if his mere presence is enough to smother it.

Okay, what the heck is going on?

But I can’t find the words to speak that question into existence.

My mind is blitzing out possibly from all the heat.

His body radiates warmth. It’s seeping into me like sunlight on a winter’s day.

“Shifters run hotter than most beings,” he explains, his voice low and rough as his head dips toward my neck.

“Principal Tremayne, let me go,” I demand, though I can hear the conviction in my tone wavering as soon as the words left my lips.

I tilt my head, giving him room. Even my traitorous body is attuned to him, granting him better access.

When his lips brush my throat, a soft gasp leaves my lips before I can stop it.

His touch is electric, and I damn near swoon when his warm breath tickles the skin above my pulse.

“I don’t think you want me to let you go any more than I want to,” he murmurs, his lips grazing the sensitive spot just beneath my ear. “Sweet Witch.”

“I don’t understand,” I tell him, my voice barely more than a whisper.

“Neither do I,” he growls, his lips trailing up my neck, leaving a searing heat in their wake. “But I have to kiss you.”

His golden eyes burn into mine for half a second before his lips claim mine in a kiss that is as fiery and demanding as the man himself.

Every nerve in my body lights up at once, and for a moment, all I can do is cling to his shoulders and kiss him back, lost in the overwhelming sensation of him.

But as quickly as it starts, reality crashes back down.

My hands press against his chest, though not with much force.

“Wait,” I breathed, my lips tingling. “This doesn’t make sense.”

“It doesn’t have to,” he murmured, his voice still rough as his lips hovered just over mine. “But I know one thing for certain.”

“ W hat’s that?” I manage, my heart pounding so loud I was sure he could hear it.

“I’m not letting you go. Not now. Not ever.”

I moan as his lips seal over mine.

I can’t believe this is happening. Wulfredo Tremayne, the hottest dang Werewolf in all of Castor’s Corner, is kissing me like his life depends on it.

And I am letting him.

“Wait a second,” I moan, pushing against his immovable chest.

“What is it, Beautiful? You taste so good. I’ll stop if you want me to, but I have been dying to get my hands on you since the first moment I saw you,” he says.

And that’s when I know something is wrong.

MY heart is pounding, and more than anything I do not want him to stop. But I must get to the bottom of this.

Oh my Goddess.

What if my powers did something to him?

“Principal Tremayne, we need to talk.”