Witches Weren’t Supposed to Date Dragon Princes

I blew a strand of hot pink hair out of my face, crossed my arms, and stared at the bubbling green sludge inside. My emerald green eyes narrowed in deep, personal offense.

This was my third day running Aunt Shirley’s bookstore. Three days of smelling like moldy paper, dusting antique covers, and questioning every life choice that had brought me to this exact spot.

I hated this place. But more than that, I hated the fact that my own parents had shipped me off here like defective returned mail.

“It’s for your own good, Lola,” my mother’s polished, aristocratic voice echoed in my head. “Until the board forgets your... unfortunate performance at the entrance examination, you must remain out of sight.”

Translation: You failed, you embarrassed us, now go hide.

It didn't matter that my parents were literally part owners of Rosewood Academy, the most prestigious magic institution in the realm. It didn't matter that my father sat on the High Council of Sorcery. I had managed to misfire a basic levitation spell during the practical exam, accidentally lifting the Chief Examiner’s wig and setting it on fire.

So, naturally, I was banished to live with Aunt Shirley.

My aunt was, without hyperbole, the most wicked woman alive. She didn't just dislike people; she treated joy like a personal insult. Her idea of small talk was listing all the ways I was a disappointment to the family tree.

"Lola!" Aunt Shirley’s shrill voice sliced through the dusty air like a dull butcher's knife.

She glided into the backroom, her dark robes swooshing dramatically behind her. She looked at the whistling cauldron, then at me, her sharp nose wrinkling as if she’d just smelled old milk.

"You’re leaving the cauldron on medium heat," she snapped, not bothering to look at me as she adjusted her gloves. "And stop standing around like a decorative vase. You’re taking the midnight shift tonight."

I blinked. "The midnight shift? Aunt Shirley, this is a bookstore. Who buys romance novels at two in the morning? Owls?"

"It isn't just a bookstore after midnight, you ungrateful little brat," she hissed, her dark eyes flashing. "The warded counter opens at twelve. Night dwellers come. High paying ones. And since I have urgent business in the upper quarters, you will handle the counter."

"No way," I protested, holding my hands up. "I don't even know how to brew a basic sleep potion without turning it into a smoke bomb! You know I failed the Rosewood exams!"

Aunt Shirley stopped dead in her tracks. Slowly, she turned around, a slow, terrifying smile curling her thin lips.

"Oh, I remember," she purred, leaning in until I could smell her peppermint and brimstone breath. "And if you say another word of complaint, I will pack your trunk, toss you onto the night carriage, and send you right back to Rosewood Academy. I’m sure your parents’ council friends would love to hear all about how their golden child is working as a disgraced maid."

I swallowed hard. Going back meant facing a firing squad of snobbish elite witches laughing at my failure.

"Midnight shift it is," I said, offering her my sweetest, fake smile. "I love night shifts. Dark circles really bring out my emerald eyes."

"Don't touch the dark red jars on the top shelf," she warned, turning on her heel. "If you blow up my shop, I’ll bind your soul to a broom and make you sweep the floor for eternity."

With that charming farewell, she swept out the front door, the  oak locking automatically behind her.

I let out a long breath and collapsed into the chair behind the counter. "Charming woman. Truly a pillar of the community."

By eleven fifty five, the atmosphere in the shop shifted. The gentle smell of old paper and leather dissolved, replaced by the faint scent of ozone and crushed herbs. The velvet curtains behind the front counter parted on their own, revealing a hidden shelf packed with glowing glass vials, strange silver scales, and floating jars of shimmering dust.

So, the bookstore really was a front for a secret midnight magic shop. Neat.

Precisely at midnight, the shop bell chimed.

An icy draft swept through the room, making the oil lamps flicker wildly. I sat up straight, trying to look professional, composed, and definitely not like someone who had spent the last twenty minutes trying to untangle her pink hair from a feather duster.

A tall figure stepped through the doorway.

I stopped breathing for a second.

The guy looked like he had been sculpted out of marble by an artist who was having a really good day. He had golden blonde hair cut short, cut glass jawlines, and piercing blue eyes that practically glowed in the dim light. He wore a high collared dark coat over broad shoulders, and he radiated power.

He didn't just walk into the room; he practically owned the floorboards beneath his boots.

He marched straight up to the counter, towering over me. The temperature in the room instantly plummeted.

"Where is Shirley?" he demanded. His voice was deep, smooth, and sounded like heavy stones rolling over velvet.

"Out and about," I said, plastering on my best customer service grin. "I'm Lola! Her niece, temporary shop manager, and resident pink haired assistant. How can I help you today. or, well, tonight?"

The blonde guy stared at me. He looked at my bright pink hair, then down at my hands, which were currently covered in green cauldron soot, and then back up to my face. His expression didn't soften even a millimeter.

"You're a child," he stated flatly.

"I am twenty one," I corrected, clicking my tongue. "Now, what can I get for you, Mr. Grumpy Pants?"

His icy blue eyes narrowed. "I am Prince Rahl."

I paused. Prince Rahl? As in... the Dragon Clan?