Beguiled

by Darynda Jones

  Praise for Darynda Jones

  “Magically delicious! Darynda Jones knocks it out of the park with Betwixt. If you love Charley, you’re going to be be obsessed with Defiance. Hilarious, heartwarming and oh so addictive.”

  Robyn Peterman ~ NYT and USA Today Bestselling Author

  "Darynda Jones brings her original style to paranormal women's fiction, and I for one couldn't be happier. Also, maybe be wary of inheriting from strangers...or not. Go get this book!"

  Michelle M. Pillow, New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author of the Warlocks MacGregor series

  “This series takes readers on a heartwarming, spellbinding journey packed full of intrigue. Ms. Jones has outdone herself with this gem."

  Mandy M. Roth, NY Times & USA TODAY Bestselling Author

  Beguiled

  Betwixt & Between Book Three

  Darynda Jones

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  BEGUILED: A PARANORMAL WOMEN’S FICTION NOVEL

  (BETWIXT & BETWEEN BOOK 3)

  ©2020 by Darynda Jones

  Cover design by TheCoverCollection

  EBook

  ISBN 10: 1-7343852-3-5

  ISBN 13: 978-1-7343852-3-6

  Print

  ISBN 10: 1-7343852-6-X

  ISBN 13: 978-1-7343852-6-7

  “I’M NOT THAT TYPO GIRL”

  Sadly, all books have typos. Including this one. If you see any and would like to let us know, please email us at writerlyd-books@yahoo.com. No pressure! THANKS SO MUCH!

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce or transmit this book, or a portion thereof, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author. This book may not be resold or uploaded for distribution to others. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  www.DaryndaJones.com

  Available in ebook, print, and audio editions

  Created with Vellum

  For Dana

  For putting up with me.

  :)

  Contents

  Beguiled

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Annette

  THANK YOU!

  Beguiled

  Newly indoctrinated witch, Defiance Dayne discovers there’s more to life after forty than she'd ever imagined possible. Especially if one is a charmling, one of only three in the world, with enough magics to make her a target for every power-hungry warlock out there. When one of them sends a hunter to town, she knows it’s time to take her talents seriously before the hunter takes her life.

  She decides she has three things to do before she can die. Find out who killed her beloved grandmother, teach her BFF the finer points of spellcasting before she blows up the world, and figure out how serious her relationship with the Adonis living in her basement really is. If it’s heading in the direction she’s hoping for, she can die happy. Though, admittedly, she’d rather not. Die. Happy or otherwise.

  None of that will matter, however, if she can’t figure out how to foil the supernatural assassin who’s been sent for her. Until then, it’s business—and hopefully romance—as usual. Now if she can only figure out how to tame a lacuna wolf.

  One

  What doesn’t kill you gives you a lot of unhealthy

  coping mechanisms and a really dark sense of humor.

  —Meme

  Anticipation—or possibly terror—washed over me in unrelenting waves. Whatever the emotion, it caused my stomach to clench. My pulse to quicken. My lungs to seize. The man walking up the stairs toward my bedroom was the sexiest thing I’d seen since first discovering boys in kindergarten. I was an early bloomer. The fact that this particular boy lived in my basement was a definite plus. But at the moment, the heavy footsteps treading purposefully toward my door caused a flush of warmth to spread throughout my chest. And my nether regions.

  Mostly my nether regions.

  Wearing only a T-shirt that proclaimed Witches do it on the fly, I curled my fingers into the sheets on either side of me and held my breath.

  He knocked softly before easing the door open, and the man standing at the threshold took my breath away. He crossed his arms over a wide chest—thankfully it was his—and leaned against the frame. Auburn hair streaked with gold brushed the tops of his shoulders. Olive irises canopied with thick lashes shimmered in the low light as they studied me. A full, sculped mouth held steady even as his strong jaw flexed.

  And the kilt.

  He wore a dark leather kilt, a khaki T-shirt, and heavy work boots. With his hair, his build, and the tattoo ink lacing over his forearms and up one side of his neck, he defined that rare quality known as panty-melting sex appeal.

  “Ms. Dayne,” he said, his voice smooth, deep, and intoxicating.

  “You heard me?” I asked, both surprised and impressed. I’d barely whispered the words that summoned him here. And he’d been downstairs, probably in his basement-level apartment.

  “I heard,” he confirmed. “And the answer is very.”

  I blinked, trying to get past the fact that he literally dripped sensuality. “Very?”

  “You asked how well I hear.”

  My fingers twisted further into the sheets beneath me. “Yes, but I barely whispered it.”

  “Thus the very.”

  I untangled my fingers and scooted up until I sat against my headboard, my legs stretched out before me, my T-shirt suddenly way shorter than I remembered. I tugged at the hem self-consciously.

  He dropped his gaze to watch me tug and my hands froze. The question now became: Could I get off the bed without exposing the jay-jay? Not that he hadn’t already seen all that I had to offer. We’d had an amazing encounter where I’d reached a level of euphoria I hadn’t known existed, but we had yet to seal the deal. And it was a deal I most definitely wanted to seal.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about his mouth when he kissed me. His tongue when he brushed it over the most sensitive parts of my body. His long fingers when they slid inside. Yet he stayed glued to the spot.

  Fine. If he wouldn’t come to me, I had no problem going to him. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood.

  He pushed off the doorframe and walked closer, only to walk past me and head toward the bottle of Patrón I had on my nightstand. The one I’d bought on a whim since I didn’t drink tequila. He took it to a small side table between the two floor-to-ceiling windows the massive room boasted, now black with the darkness of a moonless night, and poured us both a drink.

  Okay. This could work. I was a little wound up with all the happenings of late. I could use a drink after the most eventful times I’d ever had in my life.

  The last six months had turned my world upside down. First, I’d been bequeathed a house by a total stranger. A stranger who turned out to be a powerful witch. And my biological grandmother. And no longer dead.

  Long story.

  And the house turned out to be inhabited by my biological grandfather, who’d died at the hands of said grandmother—at his behest. Then I learned I was also a witch. But not just any witch. A charmling. One of only thr
ee in the entire world. So there was that. Then I accidentally brought my grandmother out of the veil, fell into a state of suspended animation for six months, and turned my best friend into a bird.

  It had been a strange few days. For me anyway. While I’d taken possession of the house—aka Percival—six months ago, I’d only been conscious for a few days during those six months. The months of respite and the new powers I’d acquired had discombobulated me. On one hand, I felt like I’d only been in Salem for about a week. On the other, I felt like I’d been here my entire life. Like I belonged here, in this very cool town famous for its witch trials and in this very cool house covered in vines and black roses.

  Roane handed me a drink, then waited. But I wasn’t born yesterday. When he didn’t drink from his own tumbler, I narrowed my eyes and sloshed the clear liquid in my tumbler in front of his face. “Is this poisoned?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Are you trying to kill me?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Would you tell me if it were?”

  “I’d like to think so.” One corner of his exquisite mouth tilted up, and I had to give praise to whoever invented the lopsided grin. They deserved a Nobel Prize in chemistry for creating more covalent bonds than all the oceans combined.

  Despite his affirmations, I still wasn’t totally convinced, so I traded glasses with him.

  He laughed softly and took a sip, leaving me to wonder if he hadn’t poisoned his own glass in anticipation of my figuring out his devious plan with my keen intellect and expected me to switch glasses all along. If only I’d spent the last few years building up an immunity to iocane powder. Then I might have a chance.

  “My grandmother was poisoned right under two perfect noses, yours and Percy’s.” I leaned closer and poked him in his chest. “Mighty convenient if you ask me. Not that anyone ever does.” I lifted the glass to my lips and said “No idea why” into the tumbler before downing the entire contents in one huge gulp.

  My chest exploded. The combustible liquid scorched my throat, set my esophagus on fire, and doubled me over. Coughs wracked my body for a good five minutes along with a couple of gags and an occasional horrifying sound similar to someone trying to start a chainsaw. Humiliation surged through me as I tried not to barf on my grandmother’s Persian rug.

  After an eternity of hacking while trying to retain a matching set of lungs, I took several deep breaths, straightened, held out my tumbler, and said, “That was good. Can I have another?” My voice was a little strained, but I thought I pulled the whole thing off rather well.

  He stood there, a humor-filled grin on his face, and took my glass before granting me an unequivocal “no.”

  “Really?” I feigned disappointment. “It’s so… smooth.” Clearly, I needed to drink more.

  After setting the glass on the table, he turned back to me. “I thought you drank Patrón.”

  “No, I bought it in celebration of my divorce being finalized about a year ago because that was my ex’s favorite. I’m not a big drinker.”

  That lopsided grin reemerged. “I would never have guessed.”

  “I like wine,” I said in my defense. “And champagne. And mudslides because chocolate.”

  He nodded and went to sit in one of two chairs covered in clothes, one chair holding the freshly washed selection and the other displaying the only-worn-a-day options.

  “Let me get that,” I said, rushing around him to gather them up.

  “It’s okay.” He leaned back.

  I tugged. “No, really, I can move them.”

  He leaned back harder. “No.”

  “But these aren’t clean.”

  “They’re better,” he said. “They smell like you.”

  I stopped and stood back, horrified. “Like, in a bad way?”

  “There is nothing bad about the way you smell.”

  A rush of excitement laced through me. I walked over to the chair opposite him, scooted the clothes over, and sat on the edge of the seat. My throat still burned, but I think it was more from the coughing and gagging than the tequila.

  “So you can smell as well as you can hear?”

  He kept his glittering gaze locked onto mine. “Wolf.”

  “Right.” And he was a wolf because of me. Because I’d used one of the noble beasts to bring him out of the veil. He’d been killed—by his sadistic father, no less—when he was five. I was three. At his traumatized mother’s behest, I’d used my magics to find him, but I was too late. His father had already taken his life.

  I brought him back, but to do so, I had to use something living near him. And that happened to be a wolf pup his father had captured.

  Thus, a wolf shifter was born. Something that, until a few days ago—or months, depending on how much sleep one got—I would never have dreamed was possible.

  An actual shifter. A werewolf… in a non-horror-movie kind of way.

  “So,” I said, suddenly at a loss for words, possibly because I wanted nothing more than to crawl onto his lap and plant my mouth on his. “How have you been?”

  His gaze slid over me as though out for a leisurely stroll. “Better after the coughing fit you just had.”

  My face warmed. “Sorry about that.” I gave him two thumbs up. “All better now.”

  “You misunderstand.” He took another sip, smiling wickedly from behind the tumbler before continuing. “I knew you had a nice ass, but damn.”

  “Oh.” The warmth on my face turned into an inferno. I tugged at the hem of my T-shirt again. “Thank you. Would you like it?” The words left my mouth before I could stop them.

  “Yes.” His expression turned appreciative, but he kept the tumbler in his hand. Made no move toward me or any move to suggest he wanted me to come to him.

  If I were brave, I would walk over and straddle him on the chair. Sadly, I’d never been known for my bravado. Broccoli salad, yes. Bravado? Not so much. I bit my lower lip and said instead, “Then it’s yours.”

  “Always.”

  I glanced back. “Always?”

  “That’s why I’m here.” He set the tumbler aside at last, leaned forward onto his elbows, and steepled his fingers. “I think we need to be honest with each other.”

  My stomach clenched again, painfully this time. I was so bad with honesty, and this conversation was not going in the direction I’d hoped.

  “I’ve never been good at sharing,” he continued.

  “Oh… okay.” Again, not the direction I was expecting, but…

  “I want you all to myself.”

  My lungs stopped working.

  He tilted his head and studied me before adding, “Forever.”

  That sounded ominous. “Say, you’ve never been a serial killer, have you?”

  “Wolves mate for life.”

  Ah. Of course they did. And I was up for mating. So very up for mating.

  He lowered his voice, and said, “I want to know everything about you.”

  That was just asking for trouble. “Okay, what do you want to know?”

  “Everything.”

  This could take some time. “Could we maybe narrow that down a bit?”

  He pierced me with a stare so glitteringly intent, it took my breath away. “Everything.”

  I swallowed hard. “You already know me better than most.”

  “I want more.”

  “More Patrón?” I guessed.

  “More of you.”

  I held out my hands, acquiescing. “I’m all yours.”

  He leaned closer and softly tapped an index finger on my temple. “I want in.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I want to be let past the gates. You can keep the wall up.” He leaned back again. “I’m fine with that. I understand it better than most. I just want to be on the other side of it. With you.”

  Frustration grated along my nerve endings. “Look, I want you. And you want me, right?” When he gave me the barest hint of a nod, I said, “Then I
don’t get the problem.”

  “I’m selfish. I want all of you. Not just your body.” He dropped his gaze to my chest. “I want that.”

  “My boobs?” I looked down at them, then back. “Hon, they are all yours.”

  “I want your heart.”

  “Trust me, my heart is nothing to write home about.”

  “I’ve done my homework.”

  I sank back into my chair and covered my face with my hands. “There was homework? No one told me.”

  “A charmling and her mate have an unbreakable bond. Whoever she chooses is hers for life.”

  I peeked from between my fingers as he spoke.

  “I want to be the one you choose.”

  “Then we don’t have a problem. Done. I choose you.” I held out my hand to seal the deal.

  He smiled. “Not hardly. Marry me.”

  My jaw hit the floor. I was certain of it. He could’ve thumped me on the head with a paper towel tube and I would’ve been less surprised. Shock ricocheted from nerve ending to nerve ending like electricity arcing over my skin. “I… I don’t understand.”

  The subtle grin that softened his features sent a pang of longing straight to my core. “It’s this ceremony where two people who really like each other stand in front of an officiate and make a promise—”

  “I know what marriage is.” I stood and paced along the floor in front of the windows. “Trust me, Roane. I’ve been through two and… and you do not know what you’re asking.”