Sixpence & Whiskey Read Free

and a body that usually has my toes curling, but those big brown eyes can’t butter me up this time. He’s gone too far.
    Bears aren’t big on ceremonies, besides getting me back to his domain and saying the words, there is only one thing Georg has to do to make this official.
    Those eyes soften for just a moment. “Don’t be scared, Seph. This is for your own good.”
    “Are you completely psycho, fur brain? I haven’t fucked you yet. And you think I’m gonna start under duress?”
    I’ve never actually screwed Georg. We’ve come close, sure, but…. I come close with a lot of guys. And I do mean a lot . But I decided long ago being the original prick tease is the only way to go. Meaning I never go all the way. Meaning Jack is the only one who actually went there.
    I try not to make too much of that.
    It’s just—after what happened with him—I made rules. Lots of rules.
    “You know I’ll win you over, Seph.” That growly voice is full of a casual arrogance that only pisses me off more, mostly because there’s a decent chance he’s right. Georg and I go way back—almost to the cradle. We have a history, and before this last year most of it was good history.
    Well, except a few memorable nights drenched in tequila. Ugh. Tequila. Bruins love the stuff for some damn reason, they swill it like water, but I’m not a fan. Tequila’s my alcohol kryptonite.
    Georg always convinces me to give it another go, though—mostly because he finds the consequences a lot funnier than I do. Usually, he’s a riot. Not so much right now.
    “Dream on!” I snap, wriggling in his arms, until I realize he’s laughing at me.
    “I do, Seph. A lot. And we’ll see what you have to say when we’re back at the Den and I’ve got these pretty thighs wrapped around my head. You like my mouth, Sephie, you like it a lot.” His growl in my ear makes me punch his arm.
    Georg only laughs and nibbles my neck. The shivers that usually make an appearance about now are conspicuously absent. My eyes dart back to the point where Jack vanished.
    Georg is a damn good lover, what I’ve had of him anyway. And he’s right, I really do like his mouth, but if he thinks this shotgun wedding shit is going to fly, he’s—
    “That’s my baby sister you’re molesting there, bruin.”

3
    Thank the horned one.
    My sister’s a stone-cold bitch, but I’m freaking thrilled to see Jett right now. She’s a witch, too. All four of us are.
    Yup, Mother Goose had four daughters. I’m the youngest.
    Turns out nursery rhymes are actually spells. That pretty illustrated children’s book everyone grew up with is the world’s biggest grimoire. My mother figured out long ago that simple meter and rhyme are the best tools for shaping magic. Mom’s brilliant, but nuts, whereas Jett is brilliant and badass.
    My second oldest sister’s over a hundred years old, but named after Joan Jett. Mom got bored with the nineteenth century and skipped forward for a while around the time she got pregnant with Jett. She does that a lot, bounces back and forth in time. She’s a flibbertigibbet.
    Mom, not Jett.
    Jett has cropped black hair (dyed; she’s really a blond, like the rest of us) and looks a bit like her namesake.
    She stalks toward us, hair flying like a tattered flag behind her. I can almost hear the cavalry music in my head. Though something by Five Finger Death Punch might be more apropos.
    The gleaming hilt of a sword peeks over her shoulder as she kicks pieces of taconite out of her way. I can hear the raw bits of iron plopping into the water below one by one. Plop, plop, fizz, fizz.
    “Jett, what an unexpected pleasure.” Georg’s face pales above his beard.
    I don’t blame him. My sister is scary. Plus, she hates shifters—particularly the bear variety. She’s got this rug in her room, the softest damn pelt you ever felt. Rumor has it that it’s from an ex-lover. I can’t confirm or deny, but let’s just say Jett is not someone you want to