Page 9 of Hexy Beast

He moves to take a step toward her, and my growl comes out before his foot fully lifts off the ground.

He doesn’t come any closer but sneers at her, “The name’s Nikos.”

She makes a dismissive tsk-tsk. “Really? You look more like a Rover—maybe a Spot.”

“Darius,” my second-in-command growls—literally. “Why was there a witch—especially that fuckin’ witch—on your bike?”

And my day had been going so well. Every line item on my agenda had been checked off. The mental files for this job were alphabetized and color-coded before I’d slid them into the filing cabinet marked “Shit Done Right.” I’d already tallied the sums for what the pack’s take would be when we fenced the spell book. It would be more than enough to right our accounts after my father had screwed the pack over by running it like his own little medieval fiefdom.

Now the wolf gunning for my job—and my throat—is about to lose his shit because of the witch who appeared out of nowhere onto my lap. What is she doing here? Besides busting my balls and making my cock rock hard? I have no fucking clue, but I sure as shit am not about to admit that or the status of my dick to Nikos.

“Kidnapped her,” I say, the words coming out in total surprise to myself.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

This is why I plan out every syllable of anything I say. Spontaneity is everyone’s privilege except the alpha.

Effie turns her head to me and lifts one eyebrow but doesn’t call me out on my lie in front of the pack.

“We can ransom her.” In for a penny, in for a pain-in-my-ass witch.

That shuts Nikos up, but it does not have the same effect on the sexy witch standing next to me, so close that she’s pressed up against my side.

Effie raises herself up on her tiptoes and whispers against my throat (as high as she can get, which somehow makes the effort even hotter). “Role-playing as the big bad wolf, Darius?” she asks. “Does that make me Little Red Riding Hood? Are you going to nip at me with those teeth of yours? Be careful, I might like that.”

The mental image of Effie Sherwood in a dark red velvet cape and nothing else running through the woods jolts me enough that I stop breathing. The idea of biting that sensitive spot where her shoulder meets her neck as I sink deep inside her nearly makes my brain go into buffering mode. I’m stock-still and every muscle is tensed to make sure I don’t give anything away, but that doesn’t slow my heart, which is going faster than the odometer on my bike can go up to.

But Effie? She looks like she’s about to throw up her arms as if she’s cresting the highest peak on a roller coaster and having the time of her life.

Of course, I would end up accidentally kidnapping a thrill seeker—just the type of person I avoid even more than witches. Nothing good is going to come from this woman appearing out of thin air onto my lap. I already have too much pack shit to deal with—including keeping my place in it—to take on ransoming a troublesome witch, no matter what my aunt Artemis predicted about my future.

The witch standing next to me is not the witch Aunt Artemis has been talking about as my fated mate since I was a teenager. Even if I believed in fate, I’d know that isn’t the case. Witches and werewolves don’t go together. And fate can suck my dick. Effie Sherwood is nothing but trouble, and she means absolutely nothing to me beyond a means to fatten my pack’s bottom line.

The frustrated growl rumbles out of my chest before I can stop it. I know the wolf inside me wants to fuck Effie and smack Nikos into next Friday (not necessarily in that order), but he’s not gonna get it.

In response, Effie lets out a thin, half-assed witch growl of her own before lapsing into giggles.

“Is this when I’m supposed to be scared of the oh-so-dangerous werewolf alpha?” she asks when she finally can get words out.

If it is, she’s failing miserably at it. She doesn’t sound like she is even the least bit spooked. In fact, Effie sounds like she’s planning to be the one to eat me up—and fuck me, I like the way this curvy little witch thinks.

Chapter Five

Effie…

Oh, poor Darius, he’s knotted up tighter than a cheap necklace you find at the bottom of your purse after a bachelorette party in Vegas.

Not that I feel bad for him. The man did just steal The Liber Umbrarum, which might change Witchingdom not only for the worse but for the absolute worst.

And on top of that, he just told his little furry buddies that he kidnapped me.

Me?

Kidnapped?