Being a villain had its perks—mostly taking out the humans who dared to expose you for your powers. Call me a witch? Fine. I’ll wear the title proudly. But tonight, things weren’t exactly going my way.

Another villain, Ryker Black, had shown up in town, and I hated his guts. Cocky, reckless, and insufferable—everything I despised in a person. And now here we were, surrounded by an angry mob of townsfolk armed with torches, pitchforks, and whatever sharp objects they could find.

“Witch! Witch!” they chanted, their voices echoing in the night.

I staggered, my energy drained from the earlier fight. “I’m running on fumes here, so if I faint and die, Ryker, I hope you go down with me,” I panted, barely able to stay on my feet.

Ryker leaned lazily against the nearest post, his smirk annoyingly intact. “Knew you were weak,” he sneered.

“Shut up,” I snapped, glaring at him as best as I could in my weakened state.

His sharp eyes scanned the crowd, and he suddenly straightened, a low whistle escaping his lips. “Well, well, look at that guy with the machete,” he said, sounding far too amused. “I used to play with those as a kid.”

“Ryker,” I growled. “Focus.”

But instead of answering, he smirked wider. And for some reason, that smirk made me more nervous than the mob itself.