The Forty-Year-Old Virgin Witch: Aggie's Boys, #1

By Raven Storm

A vampyre, a werewolf, and a warlock walk into a bar…

But seriously.

Aggie gave up that life long ago--even moving across the ocean to avoid it. Power, spells, and the coven's manipulations were supposedly left behind in the States.

When Aggie thought to treat herself on her fortieth birthday, the last thing she expected was to be followed home by three hunky, magickal men. She's spent most of her life keeping everyone at arm's length, so why is she suddenly attracting the paranormal like flies to honey?

Now, these three men are competing for one prize--her. The only problem? Aggie isn't up for the taking. If she gives up her virginity she unlocks her full powers, and loses her life of solitude once her coven finds her.

What's a horny virgin to do? It's like her mother always said, you can't take the itch out of the witch--especially one who's a forty-year-old virgin.

*This book contains adult themes and situations.*

• Language: English
• Publisher: Raven Storm
• Release date: May 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9798986154350

Raven Storm

Raven has always loved to write, but just recently gained the courage to start publishing a few of her romances. Raven's stories will always feature strong females who are figuring out their place in the world, as well as lots of spice! When she's not reading or writing, Raven is teaching music or performing. Thanks for following!

Book preview

Chapter

One

Aggie

F ucknuggets.

The pub was crowded—far too crowded for a Tuesday night. I rarely left my cottage as it was, but I’d been running low on my favorite beer, and it was one of the few things I couldn’t make or grow for myself. That meant going out in public. With people.

Aggie! Over here!

Davie waved at me from behind the bar, and I glared at the mass of humanity that separated us. I gripped my empty jug in one hand and gritted my teeth like I was about to enter battle. I couldn’t even use my magick to clear my way through the crowd—too many witnesses. A man tried to enter the pub behind me, so I was forced deeper into the swell of sweaty and drunk bodies. These men had to have come from neighboring towns … there certainly weren’t this many men under sixty in my village. That had been one of its best attributes when I’d been choosing a place to live.

I recoiled at the smell of unwashed bodies as I found myself hustled among more men than I had seen in the last twenty years combined. Happy 40th to me.

The crowd roared at the tellies that hung all around them, screaming incoherently as something happened that was beyond my care or comprehension. An elbow knocked into my back, and I fell forward. My jug slipped from my fingers and shattered on the floor. I saw Davie wince from the corner of my eye, and the fragile control I’d had on my sanity shattered just as thoroughly as my jug.

That’s it. I was pissed.

EVERYONE MOVE!

My vision went red, and my face flushed with heat. The crowd immediately gave way for me as if I had used a spell, a few even apologizing and picking up the broken shards of glass. The men closest to me fought to retrieve the sharp edges, uncaring if they cut themselves as they alternated staring at me and the glass on the floor. I flushed in embarrassment, not exactly dressed to kill in my sandals, long skirt, and pullover sweater. I wasn’t used to the attention.

And some of them were very good looking.

Davie rushed over, fussing as he handed a broom to one of the men stubbornly keeping at it.

I’ll wait out back, I said over my shoulder, and Davie shot me an exasperated look.

Trying not to panic, I shoved my way through the rest of the throng and exploded out the back door into the alley behind the building. I flexed my hands in frustration, my magick straining to be let free to defend me the way it wanted to. It pulsed painfully against my veins, but I squashed it back down. It was a lot easier to do so now after suppressing it for twenty years, but sometimes it came back with a roaring vengeance. Especially when I was frightened.

That was quite a scene.

I didn’t think, just reacted. My body whirled and my fist flew out, striking the man hard in the jaw. His eyes went wide in shock, but his face didn’t move. Rather, my hand crunched as it met the side of his face. I screamed in pain and went down, curling my body around my fist. His jaw was harder than a concrete wall! Concern lit his eyes as I tried not to cry in agony. No one saw me cry.

Sorry about that, but you shouldn’t hit strangers. I didn’t mean to scare you.

I glared at him but couldn’t manage much more than a tortured glance through the pain. It was hard to gauge his age, though he certainly was younger than most people in the village, the drunken heathens in the pub excluded.

Dark hair fell over his eyes, which were mostly shaded by the darkness. He was taller than me, but then again, so was 80 percent of the male population. His clothes were tailored, and certainly not cut from the same cloth as the blue-collared, brawling men who usually made up the pub’s clientele. Who wore a suit to a pub?

He held out a hand with long, tapered fingers, stepping into the moonlight to reveal bright blue eyes set above an aristocratic face with pronounced cheekbones and full, tapered lips. He was the kind of man who certainly didn’t belong here, let alone with me. I tried not to sneer at the gold signet ring on his right hand. Why did my hand hurt so much?

Piss off.

Being nasty usually worked in my favor. It chased most men away, though I usually earned a snide ‘bitch’ comment for my troubles. It never bothered me because they were right. I was a bitch and had been for the past two decades. It was what kept me safe.

Do you normally punch first and ask questions later?

I scrambled to my feet, trying to keep my throbbing hand from moving too much. The pain indicated that something was at least fractured, and I didn’t know if I had enough power to heal it. If I had access to my full powers, it wouldn’t be a problem. My mother’s sneering face pushed its way into my thoughts, and I shoved her away.

Pushing past Mr. Handsome, I stalked down the alley between the pub and the next building. My beer would have to wait until another day.

I tried to run through my herb stores in my head, wondering if I had something to take away the pain once I got home. My magick would eventually heal any breaks or fractures, but it was likely to be a painful week if I didn’t use magick directly.

May I escort you home? It’s the least I can do. I feel somewhat responsible.

I spun around, my good finger poking him hard in his chest. Sweet Mother, was every inch of this guy rock hard?

That caused an inappropriate image to surface in my mind, which I ruthlessly pushed down. I’d gone decades without dealing with men, and I certainly didn’t need to start now.

Only somewhat responsible?

The man blushed, and I shouldered past him. Or at least, I tried to. He was like a brick wall coated in steel and concrete.

Karl.

He held out the same hand that held the signet ring, and my nostrils flared. Suppressing the urge to make him move with magick, I pasted on a strained smile. The small wooden gate that led to the main road was only inches away.

Karl? I asked in a sweet voice.

Yes? He shifted, his posture hopeful.

Move.

Frowning, Karl stepped back, and I slipped past him and through the gate. I tossed up a small barrier behind him, a neat trick I learned when dealing with persistent men. The barrier was attached to the gate, so they always assumed the gate was the problem.

I purged him from my mind and continued the journey home. My cottage was on the edge of a small village in the south of England, only about a half mile or so from the pub. The village also had a market, a bank, and a post office. For anything else, you had to travel by car to the next town over, which was positively metropolitan when compared to the village.

I paused at the tiny white gate that signaled the entrance of my cottage, my eyes running fondly over the moss-covered stones and bricks that made up my home. I had purchased it after the death of its previous owner, who I was certain had also been a witch, even if no one else had known about it. It was more of a feeling I had, but the stones of the house just vibrated a safe, welcoming energy that I found irresistible.

I skipped the front door completely and made my way to the garden out back. I flung my shoes away, closing my eyes as my bare feet met the cool grass. The word ‘garden’ was a generous description of the untamed wilderness of the plants and herbs that had an order that made sense only to me. I tended to think my garden was a garden in the traditional Victorian sense of the word: a small patch of unbridled wilderness.

I took a few calming breaths and centered myself. My magick hummed happily under my skin, and the pain in my hand lessened by a few degrees. My mother’s face appeared in my head, chastising like it usually did.

If you would just come into your inheritance, you could have healed the damn thing already!

I gritted my teeth and shook the image away. Here among the earth and dirt, there were no boys. There was no coven, and there was no inheritance hanging over my head. Just me, and—

What are you doing?

My eyes shot open, and my connection with what little magick I had snapped. The pain in my hand doubled, and I groaned. Karl was standing on the outside of my property, eyeing the white fence warily. I stood and faced him.

Am I going to have to call the bobbies?

He grinned, flashing me a row of perfectly straight, white teeth. I blushed, not used to seeing men this handsome in the village, let alone one leaning against my fence.

I thought a witch like you would know better than to call the authorities on someone like me.

I froze, panic shooting through my veins. How did he know? Scenarios flew through my head fast and furious—my coven had found me. They would take me home, force me into my inheritance, and I’d be forced to abandon my quiet life—

Stop. Maybe he didn’t know. Maybe it was just an expression, or he was insulting me. Men usually did that, didn’t they?

Why did you call me a witch?

I glared at him, using a speck of power to infuse confidence into my voice. He rolled his eyes and gestured in front of him.

Mostly due to the witch ward you’ve set around the property. It’s quite good, but I’ve seen better. I figured it would be bad manners to break it down.

Oh fuck. He knew.

My courage failed and I fled into the house through the back door. His voice chased after me, laced with exasperation.

Easy witchling, I was only joking. Can I come in?

Karl was obviously a supernatural of some kind if he couldn’t cross the ward—that was the entire reason I had them. But just in case…

NO! I screamed back through the door and threw myself down at my small kitchen table. Calling it a kitchen was generous, since my cottage was mostly one room separated into different functional areas. The ‘kitchen’ area had my small wood stove, a large sink, and pots and dried herbs hanging upside-down from the ceilings. My bed was against the far wall, with the door to the front in the middle, and the door to the back garden directly opposite on the back wall. The final corner held a small claw-foot tub and toilet that was hidden by a long curtain. Others might have called it cramped or dirty, but to me it wasn’t. To me, it was someplace warm, someplace cozy. Someplace safe.

My heartrate had mostly returned to normal when the pounding began on my door. I banged my good hand on the wood table in frustration, knowing it couldn’t be Karl. I had made sure the ward included the front gate, so whoever it was certainly wasn’t him. Unless he made good on his word and did break through my wards.

I considered ignoring it, but if it was someone from the village, I didn’t want to raise any suspicions. The small village was usually peaceful, and any sort of odd behavior was bound to be questioned for weeks. I was safe here only so long as I could blend in and not cause any problems.

I got up from my chair and tried to block out my throbbing hand. I even managed a somewhat pleasant smile the moment I opened the door.

I didn’t expect to see a second devastatingly handsome man, though this one had shaggy blonde hair and hazel eyes. His skin was tanned, and he was large—his biceps were as big around as my thigh! He flashed a winning smile at me and held up a new jug.

Davie sent me with this. Said you forgot it.

His voice was tinged with an exotic, Eastern European accent. Was he Russian? He was dressed more casually than the other man in simple dark jeans with a button-down shirt. I shook my head, focusing on his words.

I highly doubted that. Davie knew I hated strangers, and he likely would have waited until I came back later for a new jug. Still, I wasn’t about to refuse free beer.

Frowning, I realized I’d be unable to carry it with one hand. I reluctantly opened the door further and pointed to my table in the kitchen area.

Set it down over there.

The man grinned like I had just awarded him a prize and bounded inside with more energy than was needed or was necessary. He made quick work of depositing the jug, then proceeded to stare at the interior of my cottage. To my annoyance, he wasn’t in a hurry to leave.

Your name is Aggie, right?

That was it. I would murder Davie the next time I saw him—or at least curse his bollocks to swell or something else horrifically bothersome. I gestured toward the door, my ‘bitch face’ settling into place.

It’s getting late. If you would just—

What did you do to your hand?

I blinked, and he was in front of me, my knuckles already held against the rough skin of his fingers. The skin on my knuckles was swollen and already turning a nice black and blue, so I couldn’t lie and say ‘nothing.’ My pulse raced at the close proximity, but I didn’t pull away. When was the last time someone else had touched me? His hands were heavily callused and crisscrossed with numerous scars. Was he a laborer? Despite the texture of his skin, I was surprised by how … nice it felt to have my hand held.

OY! You didn’t tell me you injured her!

It took me a split second to realize the man wasn’t yelling at me. Karl’s faint voice echoed through the open kitchen window, but I couldn’t make out the words. Obviously this man could because he rolled his eyes and muttered ‘idiot’ under his breath.

Why don’t you just heal it? Witches usually—

My panic flared again. How did he know I was a witch?

Do you know Karl? I demanded, finally gathering enough wits to yank my hand out of his.

He shook his head, golden curls bouncing riotously against his head. When that green gaze met mine, I had to look away. Had I been such a hermit for so long that I couldn’t even look a man in the face now?

Hardly. I know his clan though, my pack—

Can someone let me in already? Karl whined from the front.

My head spun with all the information—a man more solid than concrete who couldn’t pass my wards without permission, who had a clan, and another man who wasn’t bothered by the wards but had a pack. That could only mean—fuck. A vampyre AND a lykos?

Are you a lykos then?

The man snorted. I haven’t heard that term in ages. You witches always did love your Latin. Most people just say werewolf, though others say—

Wet dog.

We both jumped as Karl strode through the front door, his face tinged red with anger. The lykos—werewolf—rolled his eyes.

My name is Luka.

I didn’t care if he was the bloody queen at the moment.

How did you cross my wards?

Karl looked down, and the figure of a black cat darted between his legs.

DAMON!

Luka started laughing, and even Karl had to squash an inappropriate grin. Damon fled to the other side of the cottage and disappeared under my bed. If Damon was able to let the vampyre in, then it was unlikely he meant me harm. Nevertheless, I’d deal with my traitorous familiar later.

What did I tell you? Witches and Latin—

WHY ARE YOU BOTH IN MY COTTAGE?

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