Page 13 of Once Upon a Curse for True Love (Paranormal Romance #2)

Bad Hair Day

DONATELLO

He wouldn’t talk to the witch. Donatello was mad at her. She’d cursed him. He’d sit in his car and sulk under his beanie for the entire drive. Even if traffic crawled at a troll’s pace.

“So what got you into hacking?”

Curse the ley lines, he was weaker than a half-drowned pixie fledgling.

Andromeda’s head snapped toward him, surprise flashing across her face before an infuriating smirk tugged at her lips. She’d probably expected his silent treatment to last longer than a coffee break. But his curiosity was stronger than his pride.

“I thought we weren’t speaking,” she said, eyes gleaming with triumph. “You know, because of your makeover.”

Donatello’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel. “That you caused.”

“I’ve told you already, detective. No evidence I did anything to your…”—she waved a hand at his beanie—“lush locks.”

“You touched my shoulder yesterday, and my entire scalp chilled over like it had been dunked in liquid nitrogen.”

“Maybe you’re developing male alopecia?”

He shot her a withering look. “My hairline is perfect.”

“Perfectly pastel.”

Donatello pursed his lips to keep from smiling. Not because she was funny—she wasn’t—but because her expression had brightened with such unabashed delight that it was contagious.

“Anyway, your curse-work is impressive.” Maybe he could trick her into confessing. “Delayed hit. Left no traces. Elegant craft.”

“Thank you,” she replied automatically, then caught herself. “I mean, of course, there are no traces. I didn’t curse you.”

“Sure.”

Silence fell between them again as traffic inched forward. Boston loomed in the distance, sunlight glinting off glass skyscrapers. Donatello adjusted his beanie, making sure every strand of lilac remained hidden. He’d tried three counter-curses and two magical shampoos this morning, all useless.

“I stole a broom when I was twelve,” Andromeda said suddenly.

Donatello glanced sideways. “What?”

“You asked how I got into hacking.” She shrugged, looking out the window. “It started with stealing a broom.”

A prickle of interest pushed through his annoyance. “So you were a delinquent even back then?”

“I prefer ‘independent thinker,’” she corrected, smirking. “It was my neighbor’s racing broom—top of the line, way too advanced for a kid. But I was convinced I could handle it.”

“Let me guess,” Donatello said, navigating around a delivery truck. “You couldn’t.”

“I got about thirty feet up before I lost control.” Her voice thinned, stretched taut over the memory. “Fell like a stone. Broke twenty-seven bones—both legs, one arm, several ribs, my collarbone. The healers said I was lucky to be alive.”

She described that pain like it was nothing, but it twisted in Donatello’s chest. He pictured her as a child—all skinny limbs and wild blonde hair, lying broken on the ground.

“Your parents must have been terrified.”

“Terrified, furious, gutted.” She traced a pattern on the window with her fingertip.

“After that, they became super protective. I was basically under house arrest for the next six years. Couldn’t go anywhere without supervision.

But I had my computer and darknet access.

” Her smile returned, this time tinged with nostalgia.

“With that, my bedroom didn’t feel like a cage anymore.

My playground moved online.” She glanced at him.

“Hacking was… figuring out puzzles nobody could solve. It was a rush to be great at something.”

Donatello nodded, a little too familiar with that flavor of loneliness. “So you went from breaking bones to cracking firewalls.”

“Less painful, equally thrilling,” she confirmed. “Your turn, detective. Why law enforcement? You seem too…” She squinted at him appraisingly. “I don’t know, too cocky for a public servant.”

“Grew up reading detective novels,” he said, surprising himself with the honesty. “My father had this collection of supernatural noir—wizards solving crimes in foggy cities, witches tracking down magical artifacts. I devoured those books.”

“So you wanted to be the hero?” She was watching him with an intensity that made his skull warm underneath his beanie.

“I wanted to catch the bad guys,” he corrected. He winked at her, lightening the mood. “Plus, the uniform helps with the ladies.”

He’d meant it as a joke, but when color rose in her cheeks, his smile sharpened.

Donatello stared at that blush, mesmerized by the way it softened Andromeda’s resting witch face.

For hex’s sake. His taste in women clearly included danger, defiance, and minor curses.

And that was becoming a problem.

Andromeda cleared her throat, breaking the moment. “Eyes on the road, detective. I’d rather not add ‘caused a traffic accident’ to my rap sheet.”

Donatello refocused just in time not to miss their exit on the highway. Down the road, the HexaCore building dominated the skyline—sixty stories of gleaming black glass and brushed metal in the shape of a giant hexagonal crystal rising from the concrete.

“Subtle,” Andromeda muttered as he pulled into the underground parking structure.

“Nothing says ‘we’re a successful tech company’ like compensatory architecture,” Donatello agreed, earning a genuine laugh from her that coiled deep inside him.

They rode the elevator in silence, the tension between them shifting from antagonistic to something more… complicated that made Donatello even forget about his hair situation.

In the lobby, the receptionist barely blinked when Donatello flashed his badge, but her gaze snagged on the beanie, reminding him why he should keep Swan at arm’s length.

The receptionist led them through a maze of glass offices until they reached a corner suite with sweeping harbor views.

A man was already inside, standing by the window like he owned the vista.

He introduced himself as Xavier Thornfield, head of cybersecurity, and they got to the reason for their visit fast. Thornfield admitted HexaCore had an ugly history with Arcanet.

A manager who was later fired had approached the hacker off the books to embed a secret tracking code in one of their apps.

When the CEO found out, he pulled the plug.

Arcanet wasn’t compensated and retaliated by locking down their servers and demanding ransom.

The company paid it and washed their hands of him.

Donatello asked a few follow-up questions, but Thornfield had little else to offer. His story seemed consistent—the corporate version of ‘bygones.’ Nothing that would suggest a motive for murder more than a year later.

Another dead end.

Just as they were getting back to the car, Donatello’s phone rang. He checked the display—the station calling—and answered.

“Malatesta.”

He listened for a minute, his pulse quickening as the lab tech described their findings. “We’ll be right there.” He ended the call.

“What is it?” Andromeda asked.

“They may have identified our cursed object.” Donatello couldn’t keep the excitement from his voice as he unlocked the car. “A simple hard drive—they say it’s emitting residual dark magic matching the signature from Arcanet’s body.”

“Today wasn’t a total bust at least,” she said, settling into the passenger seat.

“Mmm.” Before he started the engine, he glanced at her sideways. “Could you do me the courtesy of fixing my hair?”

The smile that bloomed across her face was radiant—not mocking or smug, but genuinely delighted. It transformed her features, softening the sharp edges and lighting up her whiskey-colored eyes in a way that made his chest tighten.

“I’ve told you, detective. I didn’t give you the makeover, so I can’t make it go away.”

Such a beautiful liar.

Donatello shook his head while smiling. Hex it all, it could be worth keeping his hair that ridiculous shade of purple just to see that smile again.