Cordella
I woke up to the sound of a spoon clinking against a mug and the scent of peppermint tea wafting through the air—and a raging magic hangover pulsing in the center of my forehead like a third eye that wanted me dead.
Piper was already up, curled into the corner of my couch in one of my sweaters, messy bun barely hanging on, reading a half-burned romance novel she’d definitely found on my nightstand.
“Morning, sunshine,” she said without looking up. “You moaned his name in your sleep.”
I groaned and pulled the covers over my face. “No, I didn’t.”
“You definitely did. Twice.”
I peeked out, squinting. “Can you please remind me why I let a wolf knot me in the apartment above my sacred shop while my coven probably felt the magical equivalent of a nuclear climax?”
She set the book
