Wicked Magic Read Free Page A

home drunk as a fucking skunk
after his fiancée had dumped him for his best friend to find Sam—the sexy
little witch who’d been about two years too young—naked in his bedroom. He
closed his eyes and chugged the rest of his thick, frothy beer, trying to
banish the sight of her breasts, the flare of her hips, the dark thatch of her
curls covering her pussy. Her smell—sweet, innocent and mixed with honey—had
affected him as no other woman’s had. But she’d been a girl, a virgin and most
importantly, a damn witch, something his dad had made sure to warn him about.
    They look pretty, smell nice, but unless you want to wind
up owned and castrated, find another pussy to dip your dick into. You’ve got a
duty, son. You want to keep that Monroe girl safe, do it from afar. Let ’Miah
have her.
    Trent slammed his empty glass back to the table and the
lingering liquid on the surface splattered his face, waking him up some.
    Yeah. He was going to need something stronger tonight.
    Though the sun had set hours ago, the heat of the day was
only starting to submit to the darkness. Even the fan above didn’t stop the
trickle of sweat trailing along his spine. The trapped air inside the tavern
was humid and stale—almost like a coffin. He wished someone would open the damn
door.
    It seemed as if every shifter in town was celebrating the
pain-in-the-ass, soon-to-be holiday, Samhain for some, Halloween for others, at
the Watering Hole. This time of year brought out the crazies and made his job
ten times harder than it needed to be. His ears ached from the drunken hum of
conversation. With each empty glass returned to the various tables, the overall
volume rose. The jukebox had long ago spun to life and cranked out a drift of
country rock that made everything more jumbled. Being a shape shifter was good
for many things. Crowded, enclosed spaces weren’t one of them.
    Trying to adopt an indifferent pose, he lounged back in his
seat and tuned out the sounds around him. One elbow lay on the back of his
chair while the other rested on the table, fingering the handle of his empty
mug. He stretched his long legs out in front of him, this time to the side. He
glanced around the bar, forcing his gaze not to stray to the counter or the
woman behind it.
    Beside him, he sized up a raucous group of bikers at the
adjacent table. His cop senses told him they were nothing but trouble. They
were dressed in studded leather, their jackets sporting wolf insignias
silhouetted in a full moon. The crackling energy of their beasts stirred his
jaguar to life. He listened in disgust as they bragged about their latest conquest.
Laughter rang out, followed by a chorus of cheers and a toast that forced
liquid from their glasses and doused the table.
    Despite the faded signs hanging all over the walls that read
“No Shifting on the Premises”, he was ready to say fuck it. He had the law on
his side. Even though the full moon was days away, he wouldn’t have a problem
changing forms. It took someone with a lot of power to shift outside of the
full moon. The strength inside him surged, and he flexed his fingers in an
attempt to control himself. The more they boasted, the more annoyed he became.
Did it really matter which one of them had fucked the Tallahassee pack master’s
daughter? Whoever in the hell that was. This was Missouri, his domain, and they
were all assholes. Though he’d be outnumbered six to one, the fight he was
spoiling for would almost have been worth it. Almost.
    Pushing the feline back inside hurt more than he would have
liked to admit. His eyes burned from the combination of smoke, lack of sleep
and one too many beers. He tried to blink the pain away. It didn’t help. Sweet,
feminine laughter penetrated over the noise of the room and moved straight
through him. As if someone twisted his intestines, his stomach tightened in a
knot. He lost the battle with his self-control and looked to the bar positioned
at the back of the long,