She was fire and venom, chaos in a leather skirt. Probably losing her damn mind right now, especially when she found out I was the one Jameson sent to watch over her? Yeah, she was gonna lose a lot more than that.
Hell, she might even come after me with one of those pretty little witch knives she kept stashed behind the counter. But Jameson had made up his mind, and I didn’t argue with my President. She’d just have to deal with me being around whether she liked it or not.
And if I was honest with myself… a small, dangerous part of me didn’t mind the idea of being close to her again.
That dark spark between us was the kind that burned slow and deep, it had never really died. Maybe it was time to see just how much damage it could still do.
GRACE
New Orleans never really sleeps. The city just changes its rhythm by morning. The French Quarter hums with life again, delivery trucks rumble down the streets, and the air smells like strong coffee, old whiskey, and wet stone. Then there was the sweet smell of fresh beignets coming from one corner, while on the other the remnants of stale beer and urine.
My shop,Midnight Wytch, sits right in the middle of it all. The scent of sage and incense still hangs in the air, trying to cover the sour burn of spilled bourbon from the night before. The first rays of morning light creep through the windows, sliding across the wreckage inside. Broken glass glitters on the floor, herbs are scattered like dust, and a cracked potion bottle leaks a faint trail of oil that smells like rosemary and smoke.
I took a deep breath as I stood there with a broom in my hand, staring at the mess. This place was more than just a shop. It was mine. Every shelf, every charm, every rune carved into the counter. And now it was trashed. But I was a Desdemone, and we didn’t cry over chaos. You lit a white candle to purify the room, cleaned up the mess, and prepared to start over. Just don’t let the demons defeat you, as my Dad would say.
I stared, wide-eyed at the door, the wooden sign of theMidnight Wytchwas off one hinge and it swung slowly back and forth, creaking with every movement. I placed my hand on it, stopping it. Owning a witch shop in New Orleans should be enough to keep anyone busy, but I hit the genetic jackpot. Being the daughter of an exorcist and an empathic tattoo artist with a psychic streak meant my life was always teetering somewhere between magic and madness. Add in being a Royal Bastards MC princess…yeah, I’m biker royalty, and things never stayed simple for long. Last night proved that better than anything.
I took a steadying breath and pushed the door open. The smell hit me first—oil, herbs, smoke, and destruction. Glass and dried sage crunched under my boots as I stepped inside, the damage spread out before me nearly made me cry. Shattered windows let in thin streams of light that glinted off the wreckage. Broken potion bottles painted the floor in shades of amber, violet, and red, their scents mixing into something sharp and sickly sweet. Herbs, candles, and bits of spell parchment littered the counters and floor, all soaked in oil and dust.
I swore under my breath, grabbing the broom and pushing through the mess, each scrape of bristles over glass sounding like an insult. This place, my sanctuary, my creation, had been destroyed. The Bloody Scorpions had done a number on it, and the sight made my blood boil.
I’d built this shop from the ground up. Every shelf, every rune-etched window frame, every spell jar on those counters had my mark on it. I could’ve taken the easy route, a job in some stuffy classroom, lecturing a bunch of wannabe occultists and demon fanatics on the foundations of demonology and philosophy, all while collecting a steady paycheck as I preached theories about things I’d actually lived through. My parents would’ve loved that. But I’d spent my entire life surroundedby real magic and real darkness. I didn’t want to talk about it anymore. I wanted to use it.
So I openedMidnight Wytch, a place for people who didn’t just want answers. Folks who’d lost something, seen something, or just felt too damn broken to deal with life any other way. I helped them find balance, protection, and sometimes… even vengeance.
Now, standing in the middle of the wreckage, I could feel that balance tipping again.
The city hummed outside, restless as always. But here, everything felt very still and I had a bad feeling it wasn’t over.
When I first found this place, it was half-buried under Katrina’s wreckage, forgotten on some backstreet near the French Quarter. The roof was leaking, the walls were scratched up, and half the floorboards were warped beyond repair. But it had a vibe that I liked, something deep and familiar that called to me. With time, and a lot of patching and praying, it becamemyplace.Myhaven. Now it looked like I’d have to replace those damn floorboards again, thanks to that massive scorpion, some asshole tagged onto them.
I grit my teeth in anger. Those sons of bitches were going to pay for this, no question. Carving a scorpion right into the heart of my shop? They were just asking for a curse.
I picked up the broom again, angrily sweeping away the grime and dust. I’d fought too hard to let anyone, especially some Bloody Scorpions, try to tear it all down. They can come, bring their petty threats and stupid carvings, but I’m not scared. they’d be in for a rude awakening if they thought I’d scare so easily. Hell, they didn’t know who they were messing with.
I should have figured something was going to happen, especially since I’d seen them hanging around the property, pretty much scoping the place. I’d had a few taunts being thrown out at me, witch slurs under breaths and eventually, one of themhad smashed a window last week. I’d kept it quiet, making sure the Royal Bastards members hadn’t seen it. If not, all hell would break loose and I didn’t need that. They’d meant to frighten me. But they didn’t know my family and most likely didn’t have a clue as to who I was, because if they had, they would have thought twice before coming after me. This was Royal Bastards territory. Then again, club drama was always hovering over all of us, so this might have been a planned attack for another reason entirely. Maybe looking for leverage to start a fight. At this point I had no other choice, I had to make the call.
The broom hit the closet with a thunk, and I walked to the counter, feeling the glass crunch under my boots. My hands found my cell phone buried beneath the broken shelves and spilt potion bottles. Pressing the speaker button, I slid the button on my dad’s name. The phone barely rang twice before he picked up, his gravelly voice still half asleep.
“Grace,” he answered.
“Hi, Dad,” I said, my voice tight.
“It’s nearly six o’clock in the morning, honey. Everything okay?”
I paused for a second as I looked around me and tried not to sound as whiny as I felt. “The Scorpions hit the Midnight Wytch, Dad. They completely destroyed it, the place looks like ground zero. There’s broken windows, potion bottles smashed, shelves overturned, glass everywhere!”
“Whoa, just breathe honey. Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”
“Yeah, I guess I’m okay.”
“Good,” he let out a breath before continuing. “You sure it was the Bloody Scorpions.”
I looked down at the red scorpion that stood out against the dark floorboards. “Positive. Their name is all over it. Theyfucked up my shop and made sure I knewexactly who did it. It’s personal, Dad.”
“Shit,” he muttered. “Have you called Jameson?”
“Not yet. Honestly, it’s probably his fault this whole thing happened. I knew I shouldn't have listened to you. My shop was not meant to be a front for bikers.”
