Reacting Wattpad Novels & Stories

On the death anniversary of Edward Paulson's ancestors, my husband, Shane Carlton's best friend, Valerie York, wants to make an offering to said ancestors by lighting up candles of different sizes. The thing is, she wants to do it in the direction of the wind. This time, however, I don't bother stopping her at all. In my previous lifetime, the entire company accompanied Edward, a rich businessman who happened to be a client of ours, to his hometown so that he could pay respects to his ancestors. In order to show how capable she was in front of Edward, Valerie insisted on lighting tall and huge candles, which was against the law. I quickly stopped her by explaining that it'd be very easy for her to start a mountain fire if she were to do this. But Valerie claimed that I was just trying to embarrass her in front of everyone else. Furious, she ran toward the depths of the mountain, where she accidentally fell down a slope and ended up crippled. Shane continued to keep Edward company throughout the day without reacting to the news. Thanks to my efforts in socializing with Edward, Shane successfully snagged the business deal with him. Later on, the company got listed successfully. When Shane took me on a vacation to a tropical island, he shoved me into the deep sea that was filled with reefs. As I felt seawater gushing into my nose, I demanded Shane for answers while crying loudly. He just stomped on my hands, which were latching desperately to the side of the boat. "If you hadn't publicly humiliated Valerie back then, she wouldn't have fallen down the slope and gotten crippled!" In the end, I drowned in the no man zone. After I died, Valerie, who was supposedly crippled, miraculously stood up. Shane used the accident insurance payout that he had cashed out from my death to enjoy the rest of his life with Valerie. When I open my eyes again, I've returned to the day Valerie decides to light the candles.

I stood at the edge of Ironwood territory, boots sinking into mud as cold seeped through my coat. I hated being this close to their land. It smelled like wet dog, testosterone, and trouble. “You’re late, witch.” The voice hit low and deep, vibrating through the ground before it reached my ears. I didn’t flinch. I refused to give him that. I turned slowly, amethyst eyes narrowing as I found him at the tree line. Guilermo Santander. He stepped into the gray light, rain sliding off his broad frame. Six-foot-five of pure menace. Dark hair plastered to his forehead, silver streaks catching the gloom, and those amber eyes—burning straight through me. “I’m not late,” I said calmly, though my pulse spiked. “You wolves just don’t understand patience.” He stopped three feet away. My skin prickled as the runes along my ribs flared hot, reacting to the dense magic rolling off him. Suffocating. Intoxicating. “And you witches don’t understand territory,” Guilermo said. He didn’t sound feral. He sounded tired—like a man carrying a century of weight on deceptively young shoulders. He leaned in and sniffed near my neck. I stiffened. “You smell like sage and burnt sugar,” he murmured, voice dropping, darker now. “It’s giving me a headache.” “Then stop breathing,” I snapped. One corner of his mouth lifted, a flash of sharp canine. “Make me.” The air between us snapped tight. My magic stirred, violet haze curling from my fingertips without permission, brushing the leather of his jacket. He didn’t pull away. He leaned closer. And standing there in the freezing rain with a man who could tear my throat out, I realized two things: Elder Sibal was wrong—Guilermo wasn’t a monster to be chained. And I was in serious trouble.