Wanting a Witch

  Wanting a Witch

  A Winter Solstice Romance

  Lauren Connolly

  Copyright © 2020 by Lauren Connolly

  All rights reserved.

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  Visit my website at laurenconnollyromance.com

  Cover Designer: Book Cover Zone

  Editor: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

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  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  ISBN-13: 978-1-949794-09-0

  Created with Vellum

  For the women who fall in love with witches.

  Content warning: Discussion of suicidal thoughts.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Remembering a Witch Sneak Peak

  Remembering a Witch

  Also by Lauren Connolly

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  1

  KETA

  Ring the doorbell, you coward.

  My words of motivation could do with a positive spin.

  Ring the doorbell, you powerful goddess of the night.

  I smile to myself and reevaluate the entrance to the townhouse. The front porch light is on, creating a warm pool in the chill of the early morning darkness.

  Not that I’m particularly cold. Before getting out of my van, I shrugged on the puffy yellow coat I’d bought from a thrift shop last winter. But more importantly, I fed just a few days ago.

  The donor’s blood pulses through my veins with a subtle heat and a tingle of energy, which I pull on now to fuel my courage.

  Wooden porch steps creak as I mount them, the sound overly loud in the quiet night. But their chorus is nothing compared to the echoing ring of the doorbell. The chime reverberates through the house, and I pray to the gods that the owner doesn’t go straight to bed after her night shift.

  Luckily, my supernatural hearing doesn’t pick up any muttered cursing or threats. There’s just the muffled shuffle of footsteps a moment before the lock turns and the door swings open.

  Finally, after years of imagining, I get my first look—a good look, not clouded by pain or drugs—at Roe Fowler.

  The woman who saved my life.

  “Wow.” The word sneaks out before I consider how strange of a greeting it is.

  But my brain struggles to provide anything else.

  Because Roe Fowler is wow.

  Even wearing wrinkled scrubs that smell like anesthetic and sporting blocky rubber shoes that appear more durable than steel-toed boots, the woman is striking.

  Her mostly angular face has lush lips, the bottom one dipping slightly in the middle. An indent perfect for running a tongue along. I lick my own lips at the fantasy and try to formulate a coherent thought.

  The task is difficult to accomplish with her staring. Dark eyes beneath sharp brows examine me, slicing through my skin as if any barrier I try to erect between us would give as easily as tissue paper.

  “Can I help you?” The rasp of her voice drags across my eardrums in an erotic caress.

  I want you.

  The intensity of that thought shocks me out of my lusty disconnect from reality.

  I didn’t come to Roanoke to ogle a sexy woman. I have two errands to complete in this city, and neither involves eye-fucking Roe Fowler.

  “You already did help me,” I say. “That’s why I’m here actually.”

  Confusion crinkles the space between her brows, and I lose my breath at how the expression reveals she’s not only beautiful, but also adorable.

  What’s next? Kind? Intelligent? Funny?

  This is not a good time to find myself in front of my fantasy woman. I have things to do.

  “Do I know you?” Her eyes, the same intriguing blackness as the space between stars in a night sky, skim over me, searching for something familiar.

  I try not to let the lack of recognition dishearten me. I’m nothing like I was the day our lives first intertwined.

  “Not exactly. But we have met before. Kind of.” For some reason, I never considered exactly what I would say when I came face-to-face with the woman who had rescued me. “Remember the patient you had a few years ago who had been drained by vampires? The one you called your friend Uma about? Well …” I step back and spread my arms, letting her connect the rest of the dots.

  As a nurse, Roe has probably had lots of strange cases show up in her emergency room. Maybe I’m not the only victim of a supernatural attack she’s treated, but I know for sure that I’m the only one who was so far gone that she felt the need to call in Uma Latimer’s assistance.

  Vampires assaulted me. Then, one saved me.

  If there had been any other rescue missions, Uma would have told me.

  Until now, Roe has kept one hand on her door, as if ready to slam it shut if I were some kind of threat to her. An understandable worry when a stranger rings your doorbell at five in the morning. But now, her grip loosens, and she moves forward, gaze more intense than before.

  I have every ounce of her attention, and the sensation is intoxicating.

  “Keta?”

  The sound of my name from her mouth is more delicious than the blood of a woman drunk on pinot noir.

  Maybe she’ll let me record her saying it on my phone. That wouldn’t be a weird request, right?

  Stay on topic, I scold myself.

  “Keta Latimer, at your service.”

  I hold out my hand for her to shake, and after a moment of hesitation, she does.

  I wonder if the reluctance arises from surprise or because she wants to avoid touching me.

  Her palm is warm and rough where it clasps mine, and I command my grip to loosen after an acceptable amount of handshaking time has passed.

  “You took Uma’s last name?” Roe asks with a note of something in her voice I can’t interpret.

  “She said I could. And after Uma brought me back to life, I figured she was basically my new mom.” Plus, I wanted to get rid of all the things connecting me to my life before the attack.

  New name, new me, new chance at life.

  Life as a vampire.

  “Uma always wanted a daughter,” Roe murmurs.

  “I…” Words fade from my mouth as I absorb what she just said.

  After living with Uma for six years, I thought I knew most everything there was to know about the vampire. But I guess everyone has their secrets. “Is that why you called her that night?”

  Roe crosses her arms and leans on her doorframe. “No. I called her because you were dying, and human medicine wasn’t going to save you. Neither was my magic. Only a vampire could, and she’s the only vampire I know.”

  When I was nineteen and didn’t care about my life, something like luck or fate landed me in the emergency room where Roe Fowler was working. A normal nurse would have had to watch me succumb to my wounds. But this nurse also happens to be a witch. Because of her knowledge of the supernatural world, I’m alive today.

/>   Well, more like undead. But I don’t feel the need to make the distinction.

  “Everything you did for me, that’s why I’m here.” Stepping closer, I hold her eyes with mine, hoping she can see the depth of sincerity in my soul when I speak. “Thank you.”

  Roe blinks and then tears her stare from mine, glaring at the porch beneath my feet while running an agitated hand through her hair. “I did my job.”

  “No.” I want to take her hand again, rub my thumb over the well-earned calluses. “You could have gone the easy route. Kept up your human ruse and let me die. But you risked everything by letting Uma turn me and then sneak me out. And now, I have so much more than I ever thought I would because of you. And I know this is years late—I’m behind on a lot of things—but I needed to tell you in person that you are amazing, and every day, I’m thankful for you.”

  Roe swallows, and I watch the muscles move in her throat. Goddess, that is not a good place for me to be staring. The fantasy of my fangs slowly sliding into her flushed skin has my gums aching. My fangs want to descend.

  Maybe I should’ve written this all in a note, like Uma suggested. My vampire mother said that Roe didn’t do well with gratitude, but I was insistent that I deliver my thanks in person. Besides, I had to come to Virginia anyway. This trip has two missions. One of thanks and one of forgiveness. The first is easier, which is why I started here.

  But now, I don’t want to leave.

  Which means I probably should.

  Roe still hasn’t said anything, seeming content to just stare at a spot on the ground while I stumble through my awkward thanks.

  “Yeah … so … that’s it.” I shove my hands in my pockets and step back. “Just came to tell you that.”

  “You’re leaving?” she asks, as if we had made plans to hang out and I was suddenly canceling at the last minute.

  “Yes? I mean, that’s why I came. I was just waiting for you to get home from work, so I could talk to you, and then I thought I’d head out.”

  Roe stops avoiding my gaze, the confused wrinkle back between her brows. “Waiting for me?” That’s when she tilts her head, peering over my shoulder. “In that?”

  She points across the street, and I know what she’s gesturing toward.

  “Yep. I got here around midnight and just hung out. Then, you came home, and I tried to catch you before you went to bed.”

  Roe studies me. “You spied on my house all night in a creepy van?”

  “Whoa. Pump the brakes.” I plant my fists on my hips and scowl at the witch. “I was not spying. I was waiting. And my van is not creepy.”

  Her gaze flicks behind me and then back to my face, unconvinced. “Sure.”

  Indignation drowns out some of my infatuation. “It’s not! Okay, maybe the outside isn’t sunshine and rainbows.” In fact, the paint job is a matte black with darkly tinted windows. “But inside, it’s comfy and cozy and the opposite of creepy. There are throw pillows in the back, for goddess’s sake.” I spent months refurbishing my van into a home on wheels in preparation for a cross-country road trip, and not even a woman as devastatingly gorgeous as Roe Fowler is allowed to insult it.

  The witch only blinks at me, and I let out a huff.

  “Whatever. I didn’t come here to get your approval on my vehicle. I came to say thank you, and that’s done. Have a nice life.”

  Just when I’m about to turn and stomp back to my perfectly lovely van, her low voice stops me with a question.

  “Do you drink tea?”

  2

  KETA

  Roe is soaking wet, and I’m sipping on a cup of chamomile.

  Unfortunately, I don’t have a view of the wet witch because she’s upstairs, showering off her night of work, while I sit like a good little vampire at her kitchen table.

  I’m not sure why I agreed to come in for tea. I don’t normally drink anything—other than B negative. Now, I’m going to have to use a bathroom in a few hours, which is something I don’t usually have to worry about. All my supernatural body needs is a healthy dose of blood once a month, and I’m set on nutrients for a while.

  But when Roe gave me an opening, a reason to stay in her presence for even a short moment longer, my offense at her comments about my van evaporated, and I followed her inside. She left me with a mug of steaming water and a handful of tea bags before going to shower and change.

  “My van is amazing,” I mutter to the empty chair across from me.

  Okay, my affront didn’t disappear completely.

  Little does Roe know, I could have been way creepier. I successfully suppressed the urge to pull out my camera while I was waiting. The moonlight hit the roof of the witch’s house in an interesting way, and I considered trying to capture a shot of the glowing shingles.

  Taking pictures of her house in the middle of the night while sitting in my van would have pushed me from waiting to spying.

  Luckily, the commonsense portion of my brain determined I didn’t need to verbalize that argument.

  I’m about done with my drink when footsteps sound on the stairs, and a second later, Roe joins me in the kitchen.

  Dear goddess of the night, did she get hotter?

  The nurse dispensed with her scrubs, now sporting a very professional-looking set of pajamas. The shirt has actual buttons. And a collar.

  My nicest bedclothes are barley opaque enough to hide my nipples. Mainly, I sleep in threadbare castoffs that would get me arrested for public indecency if I went outside in them.

  However, even with the nicely ironed bedtime attire, Roe’s outfit change reveals an edgy tilt to her appearance. The woman has tattoos twining up from her wrists. The designs stretch so far, I can’t see an end as they disappear under her sleeves.

  “I like your arms.” The idiotic words blurt from my soul.

  At this moment, I doubt anyone would believe that I ever got paid to flirt with people.

  I did. I was good at it.

  But to be fair to myself, Roe Fowler was never one of my clients.

  That I know of.

  She leans back on the counter, crosses said arms over her chest, and raises a single eyebrow as she stares at me.

  The pose is so sexy, I almost melt into a gooey puddle of lust at her feet.

  Instead, I continue to run my mouth. “Your tattoos, I mean. I like the tattoos on your arms. Those are words, right? The language used by witches? I’ve seen it in spell books before. It’s beautiful. I always thought the letters looked like plants. Like they grew on the page instead of someone having written them down.”

  Shut up, I scold myself.

  Roe’s lips tighten, but I can’t tell if she’s fighting a frown or a smile.

  “There’s a witch in Colorado,” she says after a moment of silence. “Great with a tattoo gun.”

  Of course. I can imagine how the covens would be in an uproar if someone asked a human artist to write in the sacred script. Even if only witches can read the words. An innate ability all of their kind are born with.

  There was a time that I longed to decipher the meaning of the letters more than I wanted anything else in the world. Many nights, I would bring on vicious migraines as I stared at the nonsensical lines for hours.

  Despite never discovering the secrets of the language, I still find the mysterious text enchanting. More so when etched into the skin of a gorgeous woman.

  “What do they mean?” I ask before realizing my mistake. My entire body tightens in defense, bracing for her rejection.

  Instead, Roe stretches both her arms out, slowly rotating them so I can view every inch.

  “Spells to draw power and store it. My family’s magic is mainly fueled by suffering.” She grimaces.

  “The Fowlers get a bad reputation for that?” I guess. As a blood drinker, I can commiserate.

  People don’t like strangers feeding off them, especially when they’re in pain.

  Roe runs a palm along her forearm. “Some ancestors deserved it. The ones hungry for p
ower caused suffering just to get more.” She finger-combs damp strands of hair out of her eyes, and I catch a tart yet sweet scent in the air. “But I find plenty on the job.”

  A hospital has to be overflowing with people radiating physical and emotional pain.

  “And you’re a healer?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, you’re like a solar panel,” I offer with a grin.

  Roe tilts her head, gaze back on me.

  “You draw energy from people because they’re hurting and then use that to heal them,” I explain. “You’re a renewable resource!”

  A sardonic smile tugs up the corners of her mouth. “You could say that.”

  For a time, the curves of her face mesmerize me. With my eyes, I trace the sweep of her brow, the angle of her chin, the dip in her bottom lip.

  I want her.

  “How’s Uma?” she asks, pulling me out of my inappropriate staring.

  Gathering my thoughts, I try to pretend I wasn’t just fantasizing about the taste of her skin against my tongue.

  “She’s good. Teaching night classes. Her students love her.” But then, everyone loves Uma. “Sad to see me go. I’m going to miss her.”

  The woman claimed the vacant place in my heart where a mother’s love should go. But I couldn’t live under her roof forever. There are things I need to do. Loose ends from my past I need to knot up, so I can move on and build a life.

  “I miss her too,” Roe murmurs, as if to herself, fiddling with her collar.

  “She tutored you for college, right?”

  “Yes. But she has been around my whole life. Like an aunt.”