Claude Martin was fucking laughing. That motherfucker laughed.

"Why the hell are you laughing?" I snapped.

"Because you're . . . delusional!" He responded, between bursts of laughter.

I scowled. "What?"

It took a moment for his chuckles to subside, but the energy from his fit of laughter still lit his eyes. It was as if a thousand watts of electricity had charged his gaze. The intensity of it all burned my skin, and I felt my cheeks heat up.

"Bea," he started again, in a softer, but still impactful, tone. "You're right when you said that I want a happily ever after. Who doesn't want to ride off into the sunset into internal and everlasting glory? But I'm not some . . . Ordinary prince. I'm awkward and socially inept and a downright know-it-all-"

"But where is the lie?"

So sue me: I'm an asshole.

Claude rolled his eyes, but lightning still crashed behind his irises. "But that doesn't change the fact that I know I deserve to be happy. And do you know what else I know?"

My own humor faded away. "What?"

"That I know you deserve to be happy," he replied, his voice becoming soft and hard at the same time. I felt my knees wobble at the timber of his tone. "You think you're the evil witch? Bea, do you know why they used to burn so-called witches? Because women, who admittedly may have been a little crazy, dared to challenge the status quo. They were crazy, but powerful. And I'll be damned if I don't want a woman who can raise hell."