When Atticus came downstairs into the kitchen, Marga was sitting at the cooking island, glaring at him over her bowl of cereal. Ever since that other witch and Blondie—whom he’d successfully stared down in Marga’s room—had left, Atticus was in an exceptionally good mood, and after taking his first shower in twenty years, he was humming under his breath and walking with a bounce in his step. Much to Marga’s annoyance, as he could tell by the look she gave him. He met her glower with his biggest grin and enjoyed the following nervous tic of her eye. Ah, he’d never tire of teasing the hell out of her. It was just too much fun.

  She’d showered as well, and had put on fresh clothes, the scent of her laundry detergent mingling with her natural aroma in a special blend that made him want to inhale deeper. Made him want to close the distance between them and taste her, in every possible way.

  Hunger, raw and brutal, roared