Wicked Magic Page 3

  Under his boot, he twisted the broken glass into the floor and growled, “I suggest you shut the fuck up.” The low tenor of his voice let them know it wasn’t a suggestion.

  The wolves’ power rushed at him like a collective slap in the face. He clenched his jaw and forced his expression not to waver. Wolves were a dangerous breed to tangle with. His father, the previous enforcer assigned to the local PD, had learned that the hard way. A pack could feed off each other’s power and this pack was more powerful than most. Either this was inherent strength or Samhain was already stirring things up.

  “Or else?” one of the bikers snarled, shoving away from the table and rising to meet him nose to nose.

  One effortless split at a time, long, razor-sharp claws emerged from Trent’s fingers. Despite the intoxication he’d felt a moment ago, the adrenaline pushed clarity into him. He moved faster than the other man could see. One minute they were standing in the middle of the room, the next, a wake of knocked-over tables led a path to where he had the biker pinned to the wall. Trent pulled his claws back enough so he could wrap a hand around the man’s neck.

  “Or else,” he let the predator out, “I’ll rip off your jaw and watch you bleed to death. I’ve listened as patiently as I could while you rattled on about fucking this and fucking that. I suggest you show some respect in my area. Sam’s off the menu.” As he spoke, he tightened his grip around the neck beneath his palm. Morbid pleasure filled him as his prisoner’s lips tinged blue.

  Heat pressed into his back and the buzzing in his head grew worse. The wolf’s pack mates circled close, snarling. The emergence of their claws sounded like a dozen swords slicing through the air. Apparently he wasn’t the only one in town who couldn’t wait for the full moon.

  Chapter Three

  Samantha wished she were a few inches taller. She held her breath and fingered the smooth edge of the bottle, forcing everything else out of her head. Each wiggle scooted the whiskey closer to the edge and into her waiting hand.

  “Oh no,” Jeremiah groaned from behind her.

  Sloshing back and forth, the bottle she sought finally tipped over the shelf and into her grasp. She spun around with a triumphant grin and followed the curve of Jeremiah’s head to find out what he was talking about. Trent. The smile on her face vanished. Despite the trail of knocked-over tables and wide-eyed spectators, she hadn’t heard the ruckus.

  Not again.

  Adrenaline kicked her heartbeat into overdrive. She slammed the bottle to the counter with a clunk, placed a hand on the bar and leapt over it. Her palm hit a sticky patch and she wiped it on her jeans when she landed on the other side. She’d be damned if she let Trent get himself killed on the night she’d finally decided to lay it all out on the table…or bed as the case may be. As she pushed her way through the crowd, glass crunched under her feet. Her boots echoed over the sound of growls.

  The magic stirred to life without her command. Frost pressed along her arms, puckering the skin. The fuller the moon became—the closer Trent got—the harder it was to harness. The sputtering sound of choking made her jog a little bit faster.

  Normal people didn’t jump into the middle of a pack of angry shifters. Lucky for Trent, she was far from normal. Nudging through the tight crowd, she ignored how the pack’s power slithered through her. It tasted black and felt oppressive, a weight she couldn’t shake. She should have been terrified. The knowledge that Trent was there made her feel safe. It was unsettling.

  She’d been taught about what it meant to have a familiar. Her chosen shape shifter would guide her into her powers and help balance her. As she went through puberty, the reality of what “guide her” meant had become clear—lover.

  She pressed her chest against his back and smoothed her fingers down his shoulder, energy surging back and forth between her and Trent. Sam looked up the length of his arm until she found his captive’s eyes. The burly, six-foot-three biker wasn’t afraid. That was a very bad sign. Trent jerked at her touch but didn’t release the wolf. She should have known he’d be stubborn about it.

  “Sam, get the hell out of here. Now,” he growled. His voice was harder than she’d ever heard it.

  She rose on the tips of her toes and pressed her lips to the shell of his ear, his silky hair tickling her cheek. With every breath, she drew in his rich, masculine scent. He smelled of the woods, clean and fresh. It was the first time she’d been this close to him since the night he’d rejected her. Fear pressed into her skin and clouded her brain, but it wasn’t coming from her or Trent. It was from the crowd. Touching him increased the sensations around her. The odor of smoke became so strong it was staggering. The heavy thud of heartbeats galloped, pounded inside her head. It sounded too loud to be real.

  “Don’t do this,” she warned.

  “Goddamn it, Sam!”

  He tried to shrug off her touch. She wasn’t giving up that easily.

  “Don’t be so damn stubborn. Back off before you get hurt,” Trent hissed.

  She circled his wrist with her fingers and focused on the ice surging through her. She shoved the frigid magic at him with everything she had. He gasped. His hand uncurled and his claws retracted. The biker fell to the ground with a wheeze.

  Trent turned. The fury in his eyes made them a rich, vibrant blue. He jerked his wrist from her touch. She met his gaze, straightened her spine and lifted her chin. It was a joke, considering her chin was still pointed at his chest. With his six-foot frame, there wasn’t anything she could do to stand eye to eye with him. As much anger as he directed at her, she gave it right back.

  “I can take care of myself. Right now, it’s you I’m worried about.”

  Snarling growls vibrated through her. She’d almost forgotten they were surrounded by a very dangerous pack of wolves. Her instincts had been right about them—Samhain’s influence was drawing out their worst traits. Moving as one, the pack tightened the circle around her and Trent. They turned to face the creatures. When the pack had first stormed inside the bar an hour ago, they’d been attractive enough. What wasn’t to like? They were all tall, well built and had varying shades of green in their gleaming eyes. The combination of gasoline and leather gave them a dangerous scent that turned heads wherever they went. Hell, Brenda had been beside herself with lust, more so than normal.

  Right now they were turning heads all right, but for all the wrong reasons. The pack had half shifted so that their eyes glowed with the shimmer of their wolves. It wasn’t the claws, the half-formed, gruesome snouts or the teeth that scared her. It was the bottomless pits their irises had become. Trent pressed close and wrapped a hand around her waist. He pulled her back against his front until not even air could pass between them.

  Okay, so now she was a little bit frightened.

  Trent had her in a protective hold, one that suggested he was about to toss her behind him at the first hint of trouble. It had a much greater impact on her self-preservation. Damn, she wished these assholes would shift back to human and get out of her bar. She didn’t want any trouble. At the thought, the jaguar inside Trent rushed to the surface and joined with her magic, strengthening it, giving it authority, as it flared out to do her bidding. The bikers’ claws disappeared and their faces re-formed to the handsome masks that cloaked what was beneath.

  Holy shit. Awe and exhilaration filled her. So this was what being a witch was like.

  Confidence raced through her and she stood a little straighter. She let the ice she felt inside fill her eyes. Most of the supernatural world left witches alone. It was the fear of the unknown that made them cautious. She hadn’t done anything to discourage that apprehension.

  “Get out, now,” she ordered.

  The shifter Trent had attacked clutched his throat and rose from the floor. He stepped into her space until their faces were less than inch apart. His breath carried the scent of something that was decomposing. “Why should we leave when he started it? Besides, we haven’t gotten our prize yet. Never bagged a witch before,
makes me wonder if the rumors are true about you all.”

  He drew his gaze down the length of her body. It was hard to hold back the vomit. Trent hugged her closer, his fingers digging into her hip. When he growled, his chest vibrated against her back. “She’s mine. Touch her and you die.”

  Sam wondered if his possessiveness would be seen as endearing when she replayed this entire scene out in her head later that night. Right now, it was annoying.

  “No one is going to die tonight. Your drinks are on the house. Get on your hogs and get out of here.” As she said it, another spark of magic tickled her fingers. If only she could control it, she wouldn’t have to rely on threats. “I’m not going to ask again.”

  One of the wolves, the leader she thought, took a step back and pointed a finger at Trent. “This isn’t over, pussycat. Can’t hide behind your bitch forever. I’ve got the taste of her magic on my tongue—you better believe it’ll be her pussy next.”

  As if he were trying to walk through her, Trent surged forward, ready to pick up the fight right where she’d interrupted it.

  “Let it go, Trent,” she said softly.

  He ignored her. “I’ll be ready, asshole,” Trent sang. The pleasure in his voice shouldn’t have turned her on as much as it did. Alphas were a pain in the ass. Sexy, but a pain.

  The pack backed up to the door and boots scuffed against the floor. Music cranked to life, and the hum of conversation resumed as everyone helped right the bar. In a few minutes it was as if nothing had happened. A group of men separated from the wall and swarmed to the newly vacated table, claiming it before anyone else. Another night in a shifter bar. When she turned, Trent didn’t let go of her. He looked drunk with testosterone.

  The urge to smack him against his forehead was overwhelming. “What in the hell is wrong with you?” She hadn’t meant to yell. “Jesus, Trent, they would have ripped you to shreds. Besides all that, you do know how to read, right? No shifting on the premises!”

  Although there was no room between them, he managed to take a step closer. He pressed his hand against her lower back, fingers teasing the top of her ass. He tilted his head down to meet her eyes. His gaze traced a line from her mouth back to her eyes as if he was going to kiss her. God help her if he did—she was in no position to fight him off.

  “I’m doing my job,” he rasped in a low, sexy tenor she never thought she’d hear aimed at her.

  The way his tongue drew across his lower lip made her knees boneless. Dirty, wicked things…

  “By starting bar fights?” The tighter he held her, the raspier her voice became. “You’re supposed to prevent trouble, not start it. You’re the law here, you need to set a good example.”

  “They—”

  “They what?” she interrupted. “Looked at you wrong? A peanut shell fell from their table and hit your shoe? What was it this time?”

  His anger deflated and he cracked a half smile that softened his expression. Tiny lines expanded from the outer contours of his eyes. From far away, he looked to be in his mid-twenties. This close, he looked older, more mature and sexier than should have been legal. She tried not to focus on the imperfections that helped make him so attractive.

  A thin pink scar traced the bottom of his chin. She could barely see it through the stubble. Along the right side of his forehead was another faded line, about an inch long. It gave him a rugged, don’t-fuck-with-me appearance. Jeremiah once told her scars were like trophies. Trent wore his well.

  “I was out of line.”

  Wow. Was that Trent admitting she was right? She lifted one eyebrow.

  “Don’t look at me like that.” He smiled down at her and drew his hand a little bit lower. One more inch and he’d be cupping her ass.

  The heavy beat of his heart pulsed through her. “Like what?” she asked.

  “You tell anyone I admitted I was wrong and I’ll hurt you.”

  Liar.

  “Listen, Trent, I need to talk to you.” Time was running thin and her patience even thinner.

  Trent took a step back and shook his head. He let go of her waist and stuck his hands in his back pockets. A lock of hair fell across his forehead and hid the scar she’d been admiring.

  “That’s not a good idea. I shouldn’t have even come tonight.”

  From hot to cold, the game he’d been playing with her since the moment he’d realized she was a woman had officially grown old. Something inside snapped. She was tired of being toyed with. He wanted her—she knew it, felt it. Magic older than either one of them could ever imagine said they belonged together.

  “Screw that. You’ve been avoiding me for the last three weeks and I’m running out of time. You’ll sit down and you’ll listen to what I have to say.”

  The way his eyes widened said a lot about him. He obviously wasn’t used to being bossed around. The look he gave her was penetrating. A sudden, gut-wrenching image popped into her mind. She pictured his long, hard cock disappearing between her legs as she impaled herself on it. She imagined his hands cupping her waist, guiding her against him when he growled out her name. What would it feel like to have him so intimately inside of her?

  “You’re blushing.” He used his thumb to brush a hot path over her cheek, his hand rough against her face. Her skin was on fire.

  “And you’re a jerk.” Somehow, she had to wait two days until she could rip off his pants and make her fantasy come to life.

  She reached behind her and his gaze tracked her hands. The movement forced her chest against his. Her nipples puckered at the sensation. What would it feel like to have his hands moving her bra to the side? Teasing her nipples with a graze of his knuckles against the sensitive buds? Her stomach tightened and heat blossomed between her legs. She pulled at the band holding her ponytail in place. Dark hair tumbled against her shoulders, tickling her skin. She shook her head and the strands fell into place. Hunger flared in his eyes.

  “Right,” he croaked out in a husky whisper.

  Without another word, he stepped in front of her and strode to the bar. The few people in his way moved. She couldn’t say she blamed them.

  He grabbed the bottle of whiskey with one hand, patted his brother on the back with the other. “’Miah, watch the bar for a few.”

  At Jeremiah’s nod, Trent made his way back to his table, set the whiskey down and pulled out a chair. He sat. Lounging back in the seat, he pushed the chair opposite him out from under the table with his foot. What a gentleman.

  She twisted the offered chair around and placed the back of it against the table before straddling it. The slats pushing against her breasts helped alleviate some of the pressure. With a grin, she grabbed the whiskey. The weight of the bottle felt as familiar as the stickiness of the floor beneath her shoes. Three generations of witches had grown up in this bar. If everything went well, someday there would be a fourth.

  She topped off two shot glasses already on the table, the potent aroma of the whiskey blurring her vision. It smelled like oak.

  “When’d you get your hair cut?” Trent rolled the shot she gave him back and forth between his hands.

  After a second, he threw it back and hissed at the bite. Taking his cue, she poured the liquor into her mouth. Warmth moved down her throat and settled in her stomach. She sucked in a deep breath and the rich wood-and-fire taste watered her palate. She loved the sting of fine whiskey.

  “I didn’t think you’d notice,” she stammered, still trying to catch her breath.

  He drew his arms across the table until he was close enough that she could smell the alcohol on his breath. Trent reached up and pushed her bangs to the side, uncovering her eyes.

  His caress trailed over the curve of her cheek, slow enough to make her think he tried to memorize the feel of her skin. He thumbed the moisture on her bottom lip.

  “I’d notice if you cut one hair, let alone a bunch of ’em. It looks nice.” His hand fell to the table.

  The act of filling another round covered how much the compl
iment meant to her. The spot where she kept rubbing her necklace back and forth stung and only then did she realize she’d been messing with it. Damn. She wasn’t normally this fidgety. Then again, she didn’t normally ask a man—one who’d already told her no—to take her virginity either. The whiskey burned her stomach, and she shook her head to get rid of the sting. She poured another.

  Trent raised his eyebrow. “You’re trying to get me drunk, aren’t you?”

  “No.” She downed another and drew in another breath. More than she was accustomed to, this particular whiskey packed quite a punch. “I’m trying to get myself drunk.”

  Before she could pour a fourth, he snatched the bottle away from her.

  “Hey!” she shrieked. He had quicker reflexes, a higher tolerance for liquor and the bottle was safely out of her reach before she could grab it.

  “I’ve seen you drag grown men out of the bar by their hair. You aren’t the shy type. What do you need liquid courage for?”

  She gave one last lingering look at the bottle before she sighed and rested her chin on the top of the chair. Why was this so hard? “I feel stupid.”

  Trent leaned back in his chair as if he needed a better position so he could study her from afar. He brought the bottle to his lips and licked the rim. Tease. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from the way his tongue trailed over the opening and she parted her legs. She pressed her hips against the chair and stifled a moan. How would his tongue feel trailing along her pussy?

  “I’ve only seen you this—” He swigged and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. In the dim light of the bar, the moisture trailing over the ridge of his knuckles shimmered. There was another scar there, one she’d never noticed before. Before she could stop it, magic trailed from her fingers. Like an extension of her hand, she used it to caress the old wound. When he finished his sentence, his voice cracked. “Nervous once before. Damn it, Sam, will you stop doing that?”