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Bo

Mor said the Halloween Ball is a Folk Haven tradition.

One she plans to participate in.

When I asked Anthony about what I should wear—since he is the most fashionable Shelly—he told me not to worry about it.

I figured that meant that even though it’s called a ball, it’s not actually a dress-up event.

Like maybe I should just put on my newest pair of jeans and make sure that I have an ironed button-down.

The Shelly sisters, I found out when I officially moved in a week ago, do not own an ironing board.

Or an iron.

Or at least, they didn’t.

Now, they do.

I showed Mor the closet I stored it in.

“Oh. Thank you. I guess it’s good to have one on hand,” she said.

Maybe she has a spell to do away with wrinkles, but I, a mere monster, do not.

So, the day before Halloween, I made sure to iron my dress shirt—and my jeans, too, for good measure.

But the moment I walk into the kitchen to find Jack leaning on the counter, dressed head to toe in a black suit as he eats straight from a box of cereal, I realize all my preparation was nowhere near enough.

“It’s, uh … black tie?” I ask, hearing the defeat in my voice.

I’ve never even touched a black tie, much less owned one to wear.

Jack might have a spare he could lend me, but not an entire suit.

I mean, even if the wolf did, he’s a leaner build than I am.

I’d bust the seams.

Gods, I’m going to embarrass Mor.

If she’s dressed half as nice as Jack, I’ll still look like a can of Coors next to a bottle of prosecco.

Side note: buy Mor multiple bottles of prosecco to apologize for this.

“Yeah,” Jack says in a disinterested tone, definitely not internally panicking like I am.

“Go talk to Anthony.”

I don’t see how that will help.

He was the first one I asked.

The one who told me not to worry about it.

Did the witch just assume I had a suit in my closet?

Maybe that’s how fashionable the former model is.

He couldn’t fathom my wardrobe wouldn’t have at least one formalwear outfit.

And even if I find the Shelly and explain to him that, no, I don’t have anything nicer than jeans because I’ve only just started to save up enough money to shop somewhere other than a thrift store, it’s not like he’ll be able to do anything about it before the ball.

He and Broderick are also slim, compared to me, as well as shorter.

Mahon’s build is like mine, but I doubt that bear shifter has formalwear.

Shoulders slumped in dejected embarrassment, I trudge toward the front of the house, planning on going upstairs and confessing my misstep to Mor.

Will she ask me to stay home?

Not likely. She’ll probably assure me this doesn’t matter.

Tell me to come in my jeans and shirt.

She might even dress down to match.

I won’t let her do that.

I know her fairy-tale-loving heart is probably all about a fancy ball gown.

I should’ve known …

“Bo! There you are.” Anthony hustles toward me, dressed in a perfectly fitted crimson suit.

“You need to get dressed.”

Once again, I stare down at my perfectly ironed shirt and jeans that I was proud of not too long ago.

“I am,” I mumble.

He rolls his eyes.

“Hilarious. Here. It was a rush job, but Esme helped me out.”

Anthony offers me a black garment bag I didn’t notice him carrying over his shoulder.

Hesitantly, I accept it.

“What is this?”

“Your suit for tonight,” he says with an implied duh .

“I made the family’s outfits. Except for Jack. He insisted the suit he wore last year was fine, the heathen. Go put that on and tell me if it fits weird. It shouldn’t. Esme has a magicked mannequin. But I like to be sure.”

In a daze, I walk to the downstairs bathroom and lock myself in.

There’s a hook on the back of the door, where I can hang the bag.

When I unzip it, I have to swallow a couple of times.

The suit is a rich, dark blue velvet.

The shirt and tie are both black.

And when I slip the ensemble on, the whole thing lies on me like a second skin.

There is a knock on the door.

“Let me see!” Anthony demands.

I huff an incredulous laugh, new confidence in my spine when I step out of the bathroom.

The witch leans back, running an assessing eye over me.

With quick movements, he undoes my tie and redoes it in a perfect knot.

“Good. Do you have any other shoes?”

Our gazes both drop to my work boots.

“Here. I think we’re the same size.” Jack materializes next to me, holding out a set of black loafers.

Not as nice as his shiny black dress shoes, but better than my boots.

“That’ll do it. I’m going to go check on my sisters.” Anthony jabs a finger at me.

“Don’t spill anything on that.”

“Yes, sir.”

He smirks and disappears up the stairs, leaving Jack and me alone.

“You didn’t know he was making you a suit,” the werewolf says, not a question.

“No.”

He holds my eyes.

“You’ve been adopted. You’re part of the family.”

“I think I’m starting to get that.” My throat is tight on the words, as I’m barely able to handle the honor.

“Jack,” Ame calls from somewhere above us.

“Anthony is making me wear heels. You need to stand at the bottom of the stairs to catch me in case I fall.”

The normally taciturn man breaks out into a wolfish grin.

“Coming!”

He claps a hand on my shoulder and drags me along with him.

And I’m glad he does because after Ame comes teetering down in her dangerously tall shoes and fatally—for Jack anyway—short dress, I get to watch my witch descend in a glorious sapphire-blue gown.

Crystals trace patterns over the rich-colored fabric.

Mor has styled her hair in thick curls spilling over one shoulder, leaving the side of her neck exposed—and that is exactly where I aim my kiss.

“I don’t know how to explain how beautiful you are,” I mutter, struggling even to say that much with her standing before me like a vision.

“That was good.” She pats the lapels of my suit.

“And I don’t know which version of you I like better—fancy suit-wearing Bo or worn-jeans-and-a-flannel Bo.”

“Gotta be this one, right?”

“You look good, baby.” Her fingers stroke the fabric.

“But it’s the man in the clothes I love.”

I’ll never get tired of her saying things like that.

“I love you too. So gods damned much.”

There’s a chittering noise near our ankles, and I glance down to find a raccoon tugging at my pants leg.

Mor’s familiar wears a shiny blue bow tie and an expectant expression.

“Charm is coming with us?”

She shrugs.

“I’m not about to stop him.”

Mor finally settled on a name for her familiar when the creature fell asleep on a book of charms. The chunky critter fully engulfed the book, and Mor didn’t even realize it was underneath him until she picked the raccoon up.

All of the Shellys and their mates pile into a limo Anthony booked us for just this purpose.

I battle the urge to pull Mor close into my side because I don’t want to muss her pretty dress.

When we arrive at the location of the Halloween Ball, there’s a crowd of other cars parked in the field and a host of mythics in formalwear, making their way down a candlelit path toward a lakeside pavilion.

When we enter the space, I’m briefly mesmerized—and slightly creeped out—by the golden spiders spinning metallic spiderwebs above our heads.

All part of the decorations, Mor assures me.

Lanterns float among the glittering strands, and fog swirls around our feet, matching the curls of smoke that drift from the tops of drinks on floating trays.

The night is pure magic.

“Bo,” a musical voice says to my right, and I turn to find the second to last person I want to talk to.

Sev is the first, but luckily I haven’t caught sight of him.

“Georgiana,” I greet in response, resting my hand on top of Mor’s when I feel my witch’s fingers dig into my forearm.

I really don’t want the woman I love to get in trouble for punching a tit on such a beautiful night.

Georgiana wears a long white gown that is weirdly like a wedding dress.

It has me wondering where her husband has wandered off to.

Wouldn’t mind seeing Dr. Stormwind and thanking him for the glasses.

The siren’s smile is tight, her eyes pleading.

“I wanted to apologize. For my behavior toward you.”

Mor sometimes refers to herself as a bitch witch, and I wonder if maybe a bit of her snark might be rubbing off on me.

Because instead of quietly accepting the crumbs Georgiana is offering, I meet her eyes and give her back all the hurt she laid on me.

“Which time? When you used to fuck me in secret and never acknowledged me in public? Or when you stole something and abandoned me when I tried to help you? Or when I was finally free and knew no one but you, and you left me again?” I’m on a roll now and the woman from my past gapes like she’s never seen me before.

“Wait, no, you’re probably apologizing for kissing me when you’re married, and I didn’t consent. Is it that one?”

Despite my scathing words, I’m truly curious which one of the many ways she hurt me Georgiana finally deemed bad enough to deserve an apology.

But I’ve stunned her silent.

So, my witch picks up the conversation.

“Georgiana, you’re going to leave Bo alone, or I will make it my mission to visit every Of the Wing constituent and let them know exactly what you’ve done to my mate.”

Warmth floods my body at that last word.

We haven’t gone through an official ceremony yet, but there’s so much surety in Mor’s voice I have no trouble believing we will.

This finally cracks through the siren’s stupefaction.

“You live in Of the Wing territory by my leave.”

Mor steps in front of me, towering over the smaller woman.

“Try to pry me out of that house and see what happens. That is my home and my roots run deeper than a bird like you could understand.”

There’s chittering that sounds like agreement, and we glance down to find Charm, paws orange with a substance that looks like pumpkin pie filling, is leaving colorful prints all over the bottom of Georgiana’s dress.

The siren lets out and unattractive shriek, yanks her skirts away from the familiar, and stalks off through the crowd, multiple heads turning to watch her go.

The raccoon stares up at us with innocent eyes, and I bark out a laugh.

“Thanks, Charm.”

He babbles something only he can understand then waddles back toward the food table.

“You okay?” My witch asks, eyes creased in concern.

I lift her hand and press a kiss to the back.

“With you defending my honor? Always.”

Mor smiles, small at first, then wide and bright.

“How do you feel about dancing?” Her gaze flicking between me and the dance floor.

“I doubt I’m any good, so you might need to be the one to lead,” I admit.

In another lifetime, knowing my feet would fumble and struggle to find a rhythm would have kept me far from the couples swaying to the beat.

But I’m done living my life based on fear and shame.

And when my witch’s face lights up with happiness, I know I’ve chosen right.

She twines our hands together, her fingers caressing the webbing I’ve always been self-conscious of until she kissed the self-doubt away in our bed.

I let my heart guide my steps.

Mor gazes up at me. Her brow creasing.

“What’s the matter?” I ask.

“I was just thinking of the last ball. And how you weren’t here. I’m sorry, Bo. That it took me so long to face the statue garden. That you had to wait so long on me.”

I dip my head, breathing in her rose-herb scent and sighing out my contentment.

“Mor Shelly,” I whisper against her moon-pale skin, “I would’ve waited a lifetime if it meant I ended up with you.”

“I love you, Bo.” She doesn’t whisper, speaking the words in a strong voice that is undeniable.

And I’m the luckiest monster to have ever lived.