Page 22 of Hexy Beast

There. I can be a steady Sherwood, not just a wild one.

Then the big lug Nikos tries to intimidate me by leaning close and looming over me as he gives me what I’m assuming is his best tough-guy snarl. The man obviously didn’t grow up with a bear shifter as a dad. He’ll have to do a lot more than that pathetic little lip curl if he’s gonna make me think twice.

“Look here, witch—”

Still standing next to me, Darius lets loose with a low warning growl that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up at the same time as my stomach does a little loop-the-loop, but my spell is already in motion. Before Nikos can finish his sentence, I do a finger wave and the honeysuckle scent of my magic clings to the fall breeze rattling the leaves from the trees.

Nikos stops talking.

Then he starts to cough up bright plume after plume of Barkley’s tail feathers.

Everyone around us falls silent as Nikos continues trying to speak—correction, trying to yell, judging by the pure rage burning in his now-bulging eyes—but the only thing that comes out is feathers, a glorious plumage shower of shut-the-fuck-up.

Am I a little proud of myself? Yeah, so what. Come on, this is pure creativity that packs visual punch.

If only I still had my phone, I’d whip it out, open the WitchyGram app, and blast this video out, because this is a stellar trick even for me.

“Can the shit,” Darius says.

“You’re no fun,” I say with a pout.

“Yeah,” he shoots back, as if he takes pride in the fact that he has no sense of humor. “And you’re a pain in my ass.”

“Not by choice,” I retort as I process his absolute gall. “You glitched my magic and kidnapped me.”

He lets out a snort. “Only after you appeared out of nowhere on my lap.”

“So you admit it!” I yell out, ignoring the increasingly pissed-off Nikos coughing up rooster tail feathers and the grumbling of the other pack members as they grouse about witches being nothing but trouble. “You hid a charm on me.”

“I didn’t.” Darius grins at me, making himself look way more wickedly sexy than he has a right to. “But it’s what you deserve after stealing my motorcycle in the first place.” He nods toward Nikos. “Now, stop with the floor show.”

“Why should I?” I ask in an absolute non-question, because I am most definitely not interested in Darius’s thoughts on the issue. “He was rude.”

“So I’ll take care of it.” He hooks a finger in the belt loop of my jeans but doesn’t tug me any closer. He just lets it sit there like a reminder that I can’t leave his side even if I want to. “That’s my job.”

Crossing my arms, I pivot so he either has to hold me in place or let his finger uncurl from around the loop. My magic might be glitched, but my attitude is working just fine, thank you very much.

“I can take care of myself,” I tell him. “I always do.”

He shoves his fingers through his long, dark hair in obvious frustration. “Are all of the Sherwoods this stubborn?”

“No.” I do another hair toss. “My sister Bea is even worse.”

Nikos manages to spit out a little “aaarrrrgggghhh” like he’s a werewolf pirate, dragging our attention away from each other and back to him as the feathers keep coming out of his mouth. If the idiot just stopped trying to cuss me out—or worse—it would stop.

If he doesn’t, poor Barkley is going to end up as bald as a Thanksgiving turkey before it goes into the oven. The rooster is far too vain to accept that fate (even though it’s not painful or permanent) without registering his displeasure. I’m definitely getting my toes pecked when I get home. Therefore, I might as well make it worth getting a new pedicure.

“Sorry,” I say to Nikos, ignoring Darius’s glare. “Were you trying to say something? I can’t quite catch it with all those feathers in your mouth.”

“Witch,” Darius says in warning.

“Fine,” I say with a huff, and then wriggle my fingers again.

Nikos coughs up one last speckled tail feather and launches right into a tirade about how horrible witches are or some such shit. I’m not really paying attention because Darius moves closer to me so we are standing hip to hip, and it has discombobulated every nerve in my body. There’s the tingle of anticipation as I take in the scar above his eyebrow, the nick out of his right ear, the way his fingers flex as if he’s trying not to reach out and touch me.

My guy, ignore whatever instinct is telling you to keep your distance. I am fun to touch.

His jaw is clamped closed so tight even his shifter teeth are gonna suffer from the pressure. Forget restrained, Darius is straitjacketed into place with industrial-grade straps tied by someone with a rope kink. The temptation to find out what happens when all that trussed-up want is let loose has me distracted and breathing hard.