chapter one: son of a witch's &*#@
Chapter 1
Son of a Witch’s %$@!
When most people envisioned hell, they conjured images of wicked, soul-destroying flames and near bottomless abysses bursting with spirits of the damned. The Head Honcho himself, either in his horn-to-hoof birthday suit or a red satin Armani three-piece, usually sat on a throne built from the charred skeletal remains of his victims.
That wasn’t Violet Maxwell’s brand of hell.
Far, far worse, hers was a triple-threat combo of Whispering Pines Ski Resort, her sister Rose’s Witch Bond Announcement weekend, and the three-inch heels said sister had strong-armed her into wearing that morning.
A hell-break was long past due.
Her torture stilts abandoned in the hotel foyer, Vi hustled to the nearest corridor as if Lucifer himself was hot on her tail. If luck—and Mrs. Bender’s gift of gab—was on her side, she’d get a five-minute head start before Rose realized she’d ducked out of the meet ’n’ greet.
It wasn’t like she hadn’t done her sisterly duty. She’d met. She’d greeted. She’d smiled, unhinging her jaw more with each guest who poured into the lobby. For Goddess’s sake, she’d withheld her gag response while their gran’s coven friend described her recent bunion surgery in explicit, gory detail and offered to show her pictures.
Since their gran, Edie Maxwell, the Prima Witch herself, sat on the Supernatural Council that had been responsible for Supes stepping out from the shadows fifty years ago, anything having to do with a Maxwell was a big deal.
A sneeze? Report it in the paper. A shopping trip? Buy stock from the visited stores. A Witch Bond between a Maxwell triplet and Valentin Bisset, the notorious European Alpha? Hold the presses, hold your wallets, and party like it’s the event of a lifetime. People had come out of the woodwork to celebrate, and the ceremony itself was still months away.
Now that was a three-ring circus she wasn’t looking forward to.
As Vi turned at the indoor swimming pool, her cell phone vibrated against her left boob. Going against her better judgment, she tugged it from her DD cup and immediately regretted reading Rose’s message.
You can run, but you can’t hide. You and Olive owe me.
[3 female skier emojis][Mountain emoji][3 female skier
emojis]
Hell’s Spells, it hasn’t even been a minute and the witch broke out the emoji threat. Those little icons sat on Vi’s chest like an anvil. This was bad. This was Dirty Dancing remake bad. This brand of bad called for triplet backup.
She didn’t need to ping her younger-by-four-minutes sister’s phone or use her nonexistent Magic to track Olive down. Where there’d be no people, there’d be an Olive, and no one in their right mind would hit the library while at a state-of-the-art ski resort except for her sister.
It took four minutes at a mall-walker pace to reach the H. Kline Library and all of two seconds to spot the youngest triplet, sitting on the leather corner sofa with her legs curled beneath her and surrounded by no less than a dozen books. Olive didn’t even look up when Vi closed the door.
“You know I hate interrupting your literary vacation, but unless you want to be subjected to one of our sister’s bright ideas, we need to relocate you. Pronto.” Vi snatched Olly’s bag and waited by the door. “Like five minutes ago pronto. Fifteen to give us a comfort-
able cushion.”
Behind her thick-framed glasses, Olive’s blue-eyed gaze finally flickered off her book and transferred to Vi. “What happened to Rose greeting guests with the Tiger King all morning?”
“Olly, what time do you think it is?”
“Ten? Maybe eleven?”
“Try three in the afternoon. You missed the brunch. When she brought up outdoor excursions over the omelet station, there was a look in her eye. She means business.”
“There’s always a look in her eye. She claims it’s from determination, but I’m ninety percent sure it’s the uncorrected astigmatism.” Pushing her glasses higher on her nose, Olive turned back to the book in her lap.
Vi stole it. “You’re not grasping the severity here, babe. It was worse than the look that led to the skinny-dipping incident freshman year.”
“That was your idea. So was the triple date I still have nightmares about, and the hair dye fiasco Mom still won’t forgive us for.”
“Oh. Yeah. Those were . . . me . . .” Vi paused, thinking, then snapped her fingers. “It was worse than the time she bulldozed us into being the Sanderson sisters for Halloween. Remember? That was not me.”
Olly’s face paled. “Why the hell didn’t you lead with that? I am not being Winifred again. She’s way too cutthroat for my blood.”
Jumping up from the couch, Olive carefully crammed her dusty book friends back into their empty shelf slots. “Let’s get the hell out of here before—”
“Before what?” Rose’s voice startled them both.
“Son of a witch’s tit!” Vi clutched her chest, her pounding heart practically tickling her tonsils. “For the love of Goddess, Ro, my purple highlights just turned white. Do you know how much experimenting I had to do to find the perfect shade?”
Olive frowned. “Did Gran teach you how to do her poofy ninja-appearing thing? Because we’ve discussed how that trick is to never be used for evil . . . or against your sisters.”
“No, you both were too busy plotting your escape plan to notice me.” Rose cocked a meticulously microbladed eyebrow. “Or are you denying trying to make a break for it?”
“Would you believe us if we did?”
“We’re at a ski resort. What did you think we’d be doing in our
downtime?”
“Truthfully?” Vi ticked the list off on her fingers. “Avoiding our parents. Avoiding our parents’ friends. Avoiding the people pretending to be our parents’ friends.” She slid a questionable look to Olive, knowing her younger sister loved Supernatural societal nonsense nearly as much as she did—insert sarcasm. “Did I leave anything out?”
“Avoiding people in general?” Olly quipped.
Vi playfully tugged a strand of her dirty blond hair. “Ah, our little introvert.”
Rose huffed, not amused. “You can’t possibly avoid everyone all weekend.”
“See, I beg to differ, because this place has a seriously decadent room service menu. I can’t tell you the last time I’ve eaten seared scallops that didn’t make me feel as though I had sand in my teeth.”
“You want to spend all your time at this incredible mountain resort holed up in your room? Or here?” Rose looked around the small library in distaste. “How did we share a womb for eight months?”
“I ask myself that every day,” Olive muttered under her breath.
That got a stern look from Rose. Yeah, she’d definitely been taking lessons from their grandma, because her glare was all Prima.
It was common knowledge that the Maxwell triplets couldn’t be any less alike . . . in temperament, magical abilities, and looks. While Olive had their mother’s blond locks and their father’s mountain lion–shifter smarts, Rose was the perfect physical blend of both parental gene pools. Tall, with an athletic build and gorgeous caramel-highlighted hair, she could’ve strutted down any runway and not looked out of place
Violet, on the other hand, could trip over her own feet standing stationary, and while she’d inherited their gran’s dark hair and petite, curvy figure . . . she did not possess the same magical ability.
As the eldest in their Magical Triad, Vi should’ve been the strongest of her sisters, which should’ve prepped her for stepping into the Prima role. That Witch Bond Rose was about to enter? It should’ve been Vi’s duty to uphold. Instead, she’d been born the Maxwell Dud, or to those in other circles, the Magicless Maxwell, unable to hex anyone with so much as a hearty pimple. Vi had long ago relinquished her role as the
Prima Apparent, and Rose, as the second eldest, had stepped forward in her place.
Her photogenic sister was born to be the next Prima—just not literally. The spotlight loved her, and Rose adored all the power, clothes, and attention that came along with it. It was her happy place, while Vi’s happy would forever lie with her favorite pair of Converse Chuck Taylors, an endless supply of chocolate . . . and out of whatever her triplet had planned.
With a heavy sigh, she sank onto the arm of the couch. “We’re not escaping this, are we?”
“You could try to Magic your way out of it and see what happens.” Rose held direct, probing eye contact. “You might get lucky.”
“That was a low blow.”
“So was siccing Mrs. Bender on me. It’s skiing. It’s not like I’m
asking you to risk life and limb.
Forty-five minutes later, Vi had risked not only all her limbs and her own life, but the lives of everyone on the mountain. She’d accidentally stabbed her skis into the back of no less than six pairs of legs and nearly removed the eye of one ridiculously patient equipment valet. And if she hadn’t been graced with her gran’s curves, she’d have a bruised tailbone from the number of times she’d already fallen on her ass.
Rose eyed the far left slope, where a handful of expert skiers whipped down a steep section of the mountainside at Mach speed. “Anyone want to take on the Black Diamond Slope with me?”
Vi stabbed her ski poles into the snow-covered ground and held so tight her knuckles cracked. “I’ll pass. But you feel free to go ahead and cheat death. Or not.”
“Fuddy-dud.” Ro’s lips curled into a coy grin.
“I will stand right here and dud myself all damn day, but at least I’ll be alive.” She released her grip long enough to shoo her sisters away, and immediately slipped, falling on her ass for the one millionth time that hour alone.
They all laughed.
“Okay, I’ll be sitting right here dudding myself all damn day,” she corrected, laughing harder. Olive reached out to help her up, but Vi waved her off. “Seriously. You two go.”
“Are you sure?” Olive frowned, conflicted.
“I’m sure. Trust me.”
Her sister didn’t. Olly looked back no less than twelve times before she and Rose jumped on the black diamond ski lift and disappeared from view.
Vi flopped onto her back and stared at the clear sky, which seemed ridiculously blue even through her gray-tinted goggles. Views like this weren’t possible in New York City, with its skyline broken up by a sea of rooftops. But while she loved nature and the fresh, clean air of the Poconos, the longer she stayed away from the city, the more she longed for the questionable camaraderie of the subway and the sound of her upstairs neighbors clog dancing at three o’clock in the morning.
Literal clog dancing, not sarcastic clog dancing, because they were both ensemble in a Broadway musical.
In New York, it was easy to disappear. Even as a Maxwell. Unless you did something outrageously stupid, no one gave you a second look, and if they did, most people shrugged it off and moved on with their day without another thought.
It sucked for dating prospects, but Vi was no longer thirty, not so flirty, and totally fine with not getting her hands dirty in the dating trenches. Being sexy, single, and sorta supernatural in the city was fine with her, and on the rare nights that it wasn’t, she had Roger.
Best. Purchase. Ever. There wasn’t a bad mood or dry spell Roger the Rabbit Vibrator couldn’t end when on mode number five.
“I’m not sure if I should offer to help you up, or leave you because you look so damn comfortable,” a husky voice teased with thinly veiled humor.
Decked out in black-and-silver snow gear that in no way hid the tall, fit body beneath, a broad-shouldered shadow slowly transformed into a mouth-watering man specimen. Mirrored goggles and a knit beanie obscured the upper half of his face, but not the dark stubble peppering his strong, angular jaw or the crooked half smirk that immediately put her lady bits on defrost.
I really regret not stuffing Roger in my suitcase when I packed.
A vague sense of familiarity stirred something in her memory vault . . .
Mr. Sexy Voice chuckled. “Or maybe I’ve misjudged things and you’re asleep behind those goggles.”
Ah, right. He couldn’t see her visually objectifying his body.
She subtly ran a gloved hand over her face to collect any drool. “Not asleep, but I’m not sure I have the sufficient mental capacity to get back on my feet.”
In the distance, Vi heard her mother’s high-octave voice, the sound wrenching a groan from her own throat.
Christina Maxwell, looking every bit the part of a Real Housewives snow bunny in her fuzzy angora earmuffs, strode from group to group, playing hostess-with-the-mostess with her typical high-energy pizzazz.
Vi hadn’t been spotted—yet—but that would change if she didn’t move. “On second thought, I’ll take you up on that offer to help me up, if it’s still on the table.”
“It would be my pleasure.” Tucking his poles beneath his arms, her savior grasped her gloved hands and, with a gentle tug, effortlessly brought her to her feet.
Her skis locked with his and she immediately flailed. “Hex me sideways.”
Mr. Sexy Voice banded a tree-trunk arm around her waist and tugged her flush against his sturdy chest, his perfect mouth twitching into a grin. “‘Hex me sideways’?”
She shrugged. “I don’t have much of a filter. Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I like it.”
And she liked him . . . or at least she liked the fluttery feeling that got stronger the longer she stayed in his arms. “Then I guess I’m sorry for nearly taking you out.”
“Not your fault. I have a tendency to quake the knees of beautiful women.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to call him out on the corny line when the flutter in her stomach went supernova. Tingling heat unlike anything she’d ever felt rushed through her, stealing not only her breath, but her ability to remain upright.
Her knees buckled . . . for real this time.
“Whoa. Hey. Are you okay?” Concern deepened Sexy Voice’s voice as his arms tightened. “You sure you didn’t fall and hit your head or something? Should I be calling for the medic?”
“Yes . . . I mean, no. No medic. I’m sure I didn’t hit my head.” Breathing slightly heavier than publicly appropriate, she pulled away and fought against the abrupt spin of her head. “I—I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“Thought you said I was a gorgeous woman.” Her tease fell flat.
The sudden downturn of Mr. Sexy Voice’s gorgeous lips told her he didn’t believe her any more than she believed herself. That had not been the result of the breakfast burrito she’d inhaled this morning, and now that she took a small step back, and then a second, the charged buzz hanging in the air slowly diminished.
Her gaze darted left and right, searching for an escape route.
Any escape. “Th-thank you for the save, but I have to go.”
“I’m sorry. Did I—?”
“No. No, you were real superhero material.” Gaze landing on an empty ski lift, she picked up her poles and pushed off. “Thanks again!”
It took a twenty-foot distance before Vi’s heart rate finally settled, but while it dissipated, the heated gaze Mr. Sexy Voice burned into the back of her puffer jacket did not. She refused to look back, only glancing up as the ski lift’s safety bar fell over her lap.
He stood in the same spot she’d left him, his attention catapulting another swarm of goose bumps over her body. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from his goggled face until an oversized pair of angora earmuffs stepped into her line of view, breaking contact.
He and Christina chatted amicably, which meant he was a party guest and, judging by the sheer size of him—which Vi could now appreciate from a distance—probably one of Valentin’s shifter friends. Her mother didn’t break out the musical laugh for anyone, and the older witch was practically belting out a symphony.
An electricity-induced dizzy spell. Her mother. Mr. Sexy Voice.
Vi was still attempting to piece everything together when the lift screeched to a halt at the summit.
The operator looked at her as if waiting for her to do something. “Ma’am?”
“What just happened?” For the first time, she realized no one else was on this particular slope.
“You’re the last person.”
“The last person for what?”
“Did you not see the sign at the bottom of the lift? We’re performing maintenance to get ready for the busy weekend. You were the last person up the mountain.”
“The last person . . .” Flinging her gaze to where she’d left her mother and Mr. Sexy Voice, she whimpered. She didn’t even know which ant-size dots they were anymore. “Oh no. You have to take me back down.”
“Repairman’s already started working on the other end, so the only way down is on those skis attached to your feet.”
“I can’t do that.” At least not without losing her life. “How long will the maintenance take?”
“Hard to say. At least a few.”
“Minutes? That’s not so bad. I can wait.”
“Hours. If we’re lucky, only four.”
Four. Hours. That was less good, and while she could wait in theory, her bladder most definitely would not have gotten the memo. Although not as pampered as Rose, she drew the line at squatting in the woods. Not that many plants were growing at this time of year, but with her luck, she’d hover over the only hardy poison ivy vine on the whole mountain and walk away with a rash in an unfortunate—and hard to itch—area.
With a push of his ski poles, the lift operator took off down the slope. “Enjoy your run!”
Yeah, that wasn’t likely.
“This cannot be happening.” She couldn’t ski her way down the hill without becoming a witch-size boulder and taking out anyone unfortunate enough to be standing in her way.
She couldn’t stay . . . because bladder.
Summoning every ski lesson she’d ever taken—which obviously never “took”—Vi glanced down the hill and gulped. “I can’t believe
I’m about to do this.”
With a silent prayer to Goddess, she gently pushed off . . . and immediately knew she was in a witch-heap of trouble.
The only highlight of Lincoln Thorne’s weekend had sped away from him as if a pack of rabid wolves were hot on the back of her skis. He hadn’t laid eyes on Violet Maxwell in years, and while he knew his chances of running into the gorgeous witch this weekend
had been pretty damn good, he hadn’t been prepared to run into her on the slopes while escaping monotonous Pack duties.
Despite her being bundled up from head to toe, he’d recognized her. His Wolf had recognized her, practically sitting up and whimpering as he honed in on her sweet flowery scent. But less than two seconds into their conversation, it had become obvious she hadn’t identified him.
If she had, he’d still be wiping snow from his face. In preschool, they’d fought for the same sandbox toys, and in junior high, they’d faced off in a heated race for class president.
High school was pretty much more of the same. He’d be hard- pressed to think of a time they hadn’t been trying to get one over on each other.
Except their senior year . . .
For him, that year had been filled with a lot of ups and downs, the latter usually involving his father, the then Alpha of the North American Pack, or NAP.
The ups?
Ninety-five percent of them involved Violet . . . until his bastard of a father destroyed that, too.
“Alpha Thorne! There you are!” Christina Maxwell approached, a gloved hand waving.
Linc quickly threw on a smile. “If it isn’t the proud mother of the Prima Apparent. Christina, it’s good to see you. Where’s that elusive mate of yours?”
“Oh, you know Peter. He’ll hide until his presence is absolutely required. I heard you’d arrived, but that handsome Second-in-Command couldn’t tell me where you’d gotten to.”
She tugged him into a hug. “And ‘proud’ doesn’t cover how I feel right now. As a
mother, you always want what’s best for your children, and it’s an amazing feeling to see it coming true.”
Linc bit the inside of his cheek. He’d never call Valentin Bisset the best of anything, except maybe asshole, philanderer, and general disgrace to the shifter community.
Step by agonizingly slow step, Linc had worked hard to dismantle the broken, bloodthirsty Pack system his father had led and put one in its place that was based on mutual respect and personal responsibility. One where it didn’t matter if the shifter was wolf, beaver, bear, or eagle. Predatory or not. An old NAP member or a new one.
No one was more important, or more expendable, than any other.
Everyone was on the same level.
Everyone was Pack.
But not all the Alphas held the same beliefs. Like Bisset. The pretentious French tiger bastard—and head of the European Pack—made Gregor Thorne look like a kitten when it came to leadership tactics, and he was one of the largest obstacles Linc had in getting
the seven highest-ranking Alphas on board with his new vision.
“What on earth is that girl doing?” Christina’s gaze locked on something over Lincoln’s shoulder.
He followed her line of sight to the lone figure skiing down the mountain. Strike that—flying down the mountain, and going faster with each passing second. He immediately recognized the bright purple hat.
“I didn’t know Violet skied,” Linc heard himself say.
“Vi?” Christina chuckled. “Goddess, no. That girl could trip over her own two feet while standing still. I’m not sure what she’s trying to accomplish.”
The flailing hands and out-of-control weaving indicated she was trying to not break her neck.
Lincoln pushed off on his skis, keeping an eye on her trajectory and bypassing a few spectators who’d stopped to watch the show.
“Violet Ann Maxwell,” Christina bellowed. “For the love of Goddess, stop playing around!”
No way in hell was she playing.
People scrambled out of the way, leaving behind a line of abandoned snowmobiles like a snow-equipment barricade. The second Violet saw it, magical-themed curses spewed from her lips at an alarming rate. She dropped to her ass in an attempt to slow her descent.
It didn’t work.
Linc popped off his skis and ran as fast as his legs, and his inner Wolf, would take him. When she was two seconds away from impact, he leaped, cocooning her smaller body against his, and dropping them into a controlled roll. They log-rolled ten feet before coming to a stop.
Her face burrowed into his chest, Violet’s breath came out in quick pants. “I’m alive. I’m not witch splatter. Wait . . . am I?”
Hearing the humor in her voice, Linc chuckled. “You’re all in one piece.”
Her legs automatically draped on either side of his waist as she slowly pushed herself upright. He sucked in a groan and told Linc Junior to behave, but his cock had a mind of its own.
At some point during their tumble, Violet’s goggles and hat had come off, and her rare periwinkle eyes twinkled down at him. Snow wet the ends of her silky, purple-streaked dark hair, and both cold and adrenaline had long since pinked her cheeks.
She’d been a beauty when they were teenagers, but now she took his breath away.
“You have a hero complex or something, huh?” Her lips twitched into a teasing smirk. “You know what? I don’t even care. Thank you.”
He dragged his attention away from her mouth—barely. “You’re very welcome. You sure you’re okay? Nothing broken?”
“Only my pride.” Tilting her head, she peered down at him as if he was a bug under a microscope. “Do I kn—?”
“Oh my Goddess!” Christina Maxwell rushed forward. “Are you all right? Please tell me nothing’s broken!”
Violet glanced up at her mother. “I’m okay. Thanks to—”
“That was an incredibly brave thing for you to do, Alpha Thorne. Goodness, my heart is still pounding.” Christina wasn’t even talking to her, her concern directed at him.
“It was a matter of being in the right place at the right time.” Keeping his gaze locked on Violet’s face, he witnessed the exact moment she connected the dots.
Her purple eyes narrowed.
Her lips tightened into a thin, hard line.
Prying his dark-tinted goggles away from his face, she scowled at him. “You.”
Linc smirked. “Hello there, Violet. Long time no see.”
“Not nearly long enough.” She released his goggles.
The heavy frames smacked back into his face with a loud thwack, earning a soft gasp from Christina and a handful of spectators. Vi pushed off him and stalked away.
“Come on now, princess. Don’t be like that,” he called after her, failing to hide his amusement. “Maybe we could get a bite to eat or something. Are vanilla shakes with fries still your weakness?”
She turned as if in slow motion and drilled him with the Violet Maxwell glare he remembered so fondly from their childhood. “You want to grab a bite to eat.”
“I asked, didn’t I?”
She scooped up a handful of snow, and after shaping it into a large ball, hurled it with the tenacity of an MLB pitcher. “Eat that, Lincoln Thorne.”
The projectile nailed him square in the face, snow exploding in every direction, including straight up his nose. He sputtered, his laughter angering her more as she whirled and continued her exit. “So I take that as a no?”
She volleyed back with a gloved middle finger in the air, and he laughed harder. Back when everyone treated him like the future Alpha, making nice and giving him leniencies they shouldn’t have, she hadn’t.
If anything, she’d gone out of her way to be a pain in his ass, and while he hadn’t appreciated it at first, he did now. It kept him humble and his ego in check. Hell, it was one of the things that had made him contemplate changing the status quo in Pack life.
Violet Maxwell was the one who got away. And he wasn’t just the bastard that let it happen.
He was the idiot who hadn’t run after her.
Copyright 2021 April Asher/April Hunt
Son of a Witch’s %$@!
When most people envisioned hell, they conjured images of wicked, soul-destroying flames and near bottomless abysses bursting with spirits of the damned. The Head Honcho himself, either in his horn-to-hoof birthday suit or a red satin Armani three-piece, usually sat on a throne built from the charred skeletal remains of his victims.
That wasn’t Violet Maxwell’s brand of hell.
Far, far worse, hers was a triple-threat combo of Whispering Pines Ski Resort, her sister Rose’s Witch Bond Announcement weekend, and the three-inch heels said sister had strong-armed her into wearing that morning.
A hell-break was long past due.
Her torture stilts abandoned in the hotel foyer, Vi hustled to the nearest corridor as if Lucifer himself was hot on her tail. If luck—and Mrs. Bender’s gift of gab—was on her side, she’d get a five-minute head start before Rose realized she’d ducked out of the meet ’n’ greet.
It wasn’t like she hadn’t done her sisterly duty. She’d met. She’d greeted. She’d smiled, unhinging her jaw more with each guest who poured into the lobby. For Goddess’s sake, she’d withheld her gag response while their gran’s coven friend described her recent bunion surgery in explicit, gory detail and offered to show her pictures.
Since their gran, Edie Maxwell, the Prima Witch herself, sat on the Supernatural Council that had been responsible for Supes stepping out from the shadows fifty years ago, anything having to do with a Maxwell was a big deal.
A sneeze? Report it in the paper. A shopping trip? Buy stock from the visited stores. A Witch Bond between a Maxwell triplet and Valentin Bisset, the notorious European Alpha? Hold the presses, hold your wallets, and party like it’s the event of a lifetime. People had come out of the woodwork to celebrate, and the ceremony itself was still months away.
Now that was a three-ring circus she wasn’t looking forward to.
As Vi turned at the indoor swimming pool, her cell phone vibrated against her left boob. Going against her better judgment, she tugged it from her DD cup and immediately regretted reading Rose’s message.
You can run, but you can’t hide. You and Olive owe me.
[3 female skier emojis][Mountain emoji][3 female skier
emojis]
Hell’s Spells, it hasn’t even been a minute and the witch broke out the emoji threat. Those little icons sat on Vi’s chest like an anvil. This was bad. This was Dirty Dancing remake bad. This brand of bad called for triplet backup.
She didn’t need to ping her younger-by-four-minutes sister’s phone or use her nonexistent Magic to track Olive down. Where there’d be no people, there’d be an Olive, and no one in their right mind would hit the library while at a state-of-the-art ski resort except for her sister.
It took four minutes at a mall-walker pace to reach the H. Kline Library and all of two seconds to spot the youngest triplet, sitting on the leather corner sofa with her legs curled beneath her and surrounded by no less than a dozen books. Olive didn’t even look up when Vi closed the door.
“You know I hate interrupting your literary vacation, but unless you want to be subjected to one of our sister’s bright ideas, we need to relocate you. Pronto.” Vi snatched Olly’s bag and waited by the door. “Like five minutes ago pronto. Fifteen to give us a comfort-
able cushion.”
Behind her thick-framed glasses, Olive’s blue-eyed gaze finally flickered off her book and transferred to Vi. “What happened to Rose greeting guests with the Tiger King all morning?”
“Olly, what time do you think it is?”
“Ten? Maybe eleven?”
“Try three in the afternoon. You missed the brunch. When she brought up outdoor excursions over the omelet station, there was a look in her eye. She means business.”
“There’s always a look in her eye. She claims it’s from determination, but I’m ninety percent sure it’s the uncorrected astigmatism.” Pushing her glasses higher on her nose, Olive turned back to the book in her lap.
Vi stole it. “You’re not grasping the severity here, babe. It was worse than the look that led to the skinny-dipping incident freshman year.”
“That was your idea. So was the triple date I still have nightmares about, and the hair dye fiasco Mom still won’t forgive us for.”
“Oh. Yeah. Those were . . . me . . .” Vi paused, thinking, then snapped her fingers. “It was worse than the time she bulldozed us into being the Sanderson sisters for Halloween. Remember? That was not me.”
Olly’s face paled. “Why the hell didn’t you lead with that? I am not being Winifred again. She’s way too cutthroat for my blood.”
Jumping up from the couch, Olive carefully crammed her dusty book friends back into their empty shelf slots. “Let’s get the hell out of here before—”
“Before what?” Rose’s voice startled them both.
“Son of a witch’s tit!” Vi clutched her chest, her pounding heart practically tickling her tonsils. “For the love of Goddess, Ro, my purple highlights just turned white. Do you know how much experimenting I had to do to find the perfect shade?”
Olive frowned. “Did Gran teach you how to do her poofy ninja-appearing thing? Because we’ve discussed how that trick is to never be used for evil . . . or against your sisters.”
“No, you both were too busy plotting your escape plan to notice me.” Rose cocked a meticulously microbladed eyebrow. “Or are you denying trying to make a break for it?”
“Would you believe us if we did?”
“We’re at a ski resort. What did you think we’d be doing in our
downtime?”
“Truthfully?” Vi ticked the list off on her fingers. “Avoiding our parents. Avoiding our parents’ friends. Avoiding the people pretending to be our parents’ friends.” She slid a questionable look to Olive, knowing her younger sister loved Supernatural societal nonsense nearly as much as she did—insert sarcasm. “Did I leave anything out?”
“Avoiding people in general?” Olly quipped.
Vi playfully tugged a strand of her dirty blond hair. “Ah, our little introvert.”
Rose huffed, not amused. “You can’t possibly avoid everyone all weekend.”
“See, I beg to differ, because this place has a seriously decadent room service menu. I can’t tell you the last time I’ve eaten seared scallops that didn’t make me feel as though I had sand in my teeth.”
“You want to spend all your time at this incredible mountain resort holed up in your room? Or here?” Rose looked around the small library in distaste. “How did we share a womb for eight months?”
“I ask myself that every day,” Olive muttered under her breath.
That got a stern look from Rose. Yeah, she’d definitely been taking lessons from their grandma, because her glare was all Prima.
It was common knowledge that the Maxwell triplets couldn’t be any less alike . . . in temperament, magical abilities, and looks. While Olive had their mother’s blond locks and their father’s mountain lion–shifter smarts, Rose was the perfect physical blend of both parental gene pools. Tall, with an athletic build and gorgeous caramel-highlighted hair, she could’ve strutted down any runway and not looked out of place
Violet, on the other hand, could trip over her own feet standing stationary, and while she’d inherited their gran’s dark hair and petite, curvy figure . . . she did not possess the same magical ability.
As the eldest in their Magical Triad, Vi should’ve been the strongest of her sisters, which should’ve prepped her for stepping into the Prima role. That Witch Bond Rose was about to enter? It should’ve been Vi’s duty to uphold. Instead, she’d been born the Maxwell Dud, or to those in other circles, the Magicless Maxwell, unable to hex anyone with so much as a hearty pimple. Vi had long ago relinquished her role as the
Prima Apparent, and Rose, as the second eldest, had stepped forward in her place.
Her photogenic sister was born to be the next Prima—just not literally. The spotlight loved her, and Rose adored all the power, clothes, and attention that came along with it. It was her happy place, while Vi’s happy would forever lie with her favorite pair of Converse Chuck Taylors, an endless supply of chocolate . . . and out of whatever her triplet had planned.
With a heavy sigh, she sank onto the arm of the couch. “We’re not escaping this, are we?”
“You could try to Magic your way out of it and see what happens.” Rose held direct, probing eye contact. “You might get lucky.”
“That was a low blow.”
“So was siccing Mrs. Bender on me. It’s skiing. It’s not like I’m
asking you to risk life and limb.
Forty-five minutes later, Vi had risked not only all her limbs and her own life, but the lives of everyone on the mountain. She’d accidentally stabbed her skis into the back of no less than six pairs of legs and nearly removed the eye of one ridiculously patient equipment valet. And if she hadn’t been graced with her gran’s curves, she’d have a bruised tailbone from the number of times she’d already fallen on her ass.
Rose eyed the far left slope, where a handful of expert skiers whipped down a steep section of the mountainside at Mach speed. “Anyone want to take on the Black Diamond Slope with me?”
Vi stabbed her ski poles into the snow-covered ground and held so tight her knuckles cracked. “I’ll pass. But you feel free to go ahead and cheat death. Or not.”
“Fuddy-dud.” Ro’s lips curled into a coy grin.
“I will stand right here and dud myself all damn day, but at least I’ll be alive.” She released her grip long enough to shoo her sisters away, and immediately slipped, falling on her ass for the one millionth time that hour alone.
They all laughed.
“Okay, I’ll be sitting right here dudding myself all damn day,” she corrected, laughing harder. Olive reached out to help her up, but Vi waved her off. “Seriously. You two go.”
“Are you sure?” Olive frowned, conflicted.
“I’m sure. Trust me.”
Her sister didn’t. Olly looked back no less than twelve times before she and Rose jumped on the black diamond ski lift and disappeared from view.
Vi flopped onto her back and stared at the clear sky, which seemed ridiculously blue even through her gray-tinted goggles. Views like this weren’t possible in New York City, with its skyline broken up by a sea of rooftops. But while she loved nature and the fresh, clean air of the Poconos, the longer she stayed away from the city, the more she longed for the questionable camaraderie of the subway and the sound of her upstairs neighbors clog dancing at three o’clock in the morning.
Literal clog dancing, not sarcastic clog dancing, because they were both ensemble in a Broadway musical.
In New York, it was easy to disappear. Even as a Maxwell. Unless you did something outrageously stupid, no one gave you a second look, and if they did, most people shrugged it off and moved on with their day without another thought.
It sucked for dating prospects, but Vi was no longer thirty, not so flirty, and totally fine with not getting her hands dirty in the dating trenches. Being sexy, single, and sorta supernatural in the city was fine with her, and on the rare nights that it wasn’t, she had Roger.
Best. Purchase. Ever. There wasn’t a bad mood or dry spell Roger the Rabbit Vibrator couldn’t end when on mode number five.
“I’m not sure if I should offer to help you up, or leave you because you look so damn comfortable,” a husky voice teased with thinly veiled humor.
Decked out in black-and-silver snow gear that in no way hid the tall, fit body beneath, a broad-shouldered shadow slowly transformed into a mouth-watering man specimen. Mirrored goggles and a knit beanie obscured the upper half of his face, but not the dark stubble peppering his strong, angular jaw or the crooked half smirk that immediately put her lady bits on defrost.
I really regret not stuffing Roger in my suitcase when I packed.
A vague sense of familiarity stirred something in her memory vault . . .
Mr. Sexy Voice chuckled. “Or maybe I’ve misjudged things and you’re asleep behind those goggles.”
Ah, right. He couldn’t see her visually objectifying his body.
She subtly ran a gloved hand over her face to collect any drool. “Not asleep, but I’m not sure I have the sufficient mental capacity to get back on my feet.”
In the distance, Vi heard her mother’s high-octave voice, the sound wrenching a groan from her own throat.
Christina Maxwell, looking every bit the part of a Real Housewives snow bunny in her fuzzy angora earmuffs, strode from group to group, playing hostess-with-the-mostess with her typical high-energy pizzazz.
Vi hadn’t been spotted—yet—but that would change if she didn’t move. “On second thought, I’ll take you up on that offer to help me up, if it’s still on the table.”
“It would be my pleasure.” Tucking his poles beneath his arms, her savior grasped her gloved hands and, with a gentle tug, effortlessly brought her to her feet.
Her skis locked with his and she immediately flailed. “Hex me sideways.”
Mr. Sexy Voice banded a tree-trunk arm around her waist and tugged her flush against his sturdy chest, his perfect mouth twitching into a grin. “‘Hex me sideways’?”
She shrugged. “I don’t have much of a filter. Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I like it.”
And she liked him . . . or at least she liked the fluttery feeling that got stronger the longer she stayed in his arms. “Then I guess I’m sorry for nearly taking you out.”
“Not your fault. I have a tendency to quake the knees of beautiful women.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to call him out on the corny line when the flutter in her stomach went supernova. Tingling heat unlike anything she’d ever felt rushed through her, stealing not only her breath, but her ability to remain upright.
Her knees buckled . . . for real this time.
“Whoa. Hey. Are you okay?” Concern deepened Sexy Voice’s voice as his arms tightened. “You sure you didn’t fall and hit your head or something? Should I be calling for the medic?”
“Yes . . . I mean, no. No medic. I’m sure I didn’t hit my head.” Breathing slightly heavier than publicly appropriate, she pulled away and fought against the abrupt spin of her head. “I—I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“Thought you said I was a gorgeous woman.” Her tease fell flat.
The sudden downturn of Mr. Sexy Voice’s gorgeous lips told her he didn’t believe her any more than she believed herself. That had not been the result of the breakfast burrito she’d inhaled this morning, and now that she took a small step back, and then a second, the charged buzz hanging in the air slowly diminished.
Her gaze darted left and right, searching for an escape route.
Any escape. “Th-thank you for the save, but I have to go.”
“I’m sorry. Did I—?”
“No. No, you were real superhero material.” Gaze landing on an empty ski lift, she picked up her poles and pushed off. “Thanks again!”
It took a twenty-foot distance before Vi’s heart rate finally settled, but while it dissipated, the heated gaze Mr. Sexy Voice burned into the back of her puffer jacket did not. She refused to look back, only glancing up as the ski lift’s safety bar fell over her lap.
He stood in the same spot she’d left him, his attention catapulting another swarm of goose bumps over her body. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from his goggled face until an oversized pair of angora earmuffs stepped into her line of view, breaking contact.
He and Christina chatted amicably, which meant he was a party guest and, judging by the sheer size of him—which Vi could now appreciate from a distance—probably one of Valentin’s shifter friends. Her mother didn’t break out the musical laugh for anyone, and the older witch was practically belting out a symphony.
An electricity-induced dizzy spell. Her mother. Mr. Sexy Voice.
Vi was still attempting to piece everything together when the lift screeched to a halt at the summit.
The operator looked at her as if waiting for her to do something. “Ma’am?”
“What just happened?” For the first time, she realized no one else was on this particular slope.
“You’re the last person.”
“The last person for what?”
“Did you not see the sign at the bottom of the lift? We’re performing maintenance to get ready for the busy weekend. You were the last person up the mountain.”
“The last person . . .” Flinging her gaze to where she’d left her mother and Mr. Sexy Voice, she whimpered. She didn’t even know which ant-size dots they were anymore. “Oh no. You have to take me back down.”
“Repairman’s already started working on the other end, so the only way down is on those skis attached to your feet.”
“I can’t do that.” At least not without losing her life. “How long will the maintenance take?”
“Hard to say. At least a few.”
“Minutes? That’s not so bad. I can wait.”
“Hours. If we’re lucky, only four.”
Four. Hours. That was less good, and while she could wait in theory, her bladder most definitely would not have gotten the memo. Although not as pampered as Rose, she drew the line at squatting in the woods. Not that many plants were growing at this time of year, but with her luck, she’d hover over the only hardy poison ivy vine on the whole mountain and walk away with a rash in an unfortunate—and hard to itch—area.
With a push of his ski poles, the lift operator took off down the slope. “Enjoy your run!”
Yeah, that wasn’t likely.
“This cannot be happening.” She couldn’t ski her way down the hill without becoming a witch-size boulder and taking out anyone unfortunate enough to be standing in her way.
She couldn’t stay . . . because bladder.
Summoning every ski lesson she’d ever taken—which obviously never “took”—Vi glanced down the hill and gulped. “I can’t believe
I’m about to do this.”
With a silent prayer to Goddess, she gently pushed off . . . and immediately knew she was in a witch-heap of trouble.
The only highlight of Lincoln Thorne’s weekend had sped away from him as if a pack of rabid wolves were hot on the back of her skis. He hadn’t laid eyes on Violet Maxwell in years, and while he knew his chances of running into the gorgeous witch this weekend
had been pretty damn good, he hadn’t been prepared to run into her on the slopes while escaping monotonous Pack duties.
Despite her being bundled up from head to toe, he’d recognized her. His Wolf had recognized her, practically sitting up and whimpering as he honed in on her sweet flowery scent. But less than two seconds into their conversation, it had become obvious she hadn’t identified him.
If she had, he’d still be wiping snow from his face. In preschool, they’d fought for the same sandbox toys, and in junior high, they’d faced off in a heated race for class president.
High school was pretty much more of the same. He’d be hard- pressed to think of a time they hadn’t been trying to get one over on each other.
Except their senior year . . .
For him, that year had been filled with a lot of ups and downs, the latter usually involving his father, the then Alpha of the North American Pack, or NAP.
The ups?
Ninety-five percent of them involved Violet . . . until his bastard of a father destroyed that, too.
“Alpha Thorne! There you are!” Christina Maxwell approached, a gloved hand waving.
Linc quickly threw on a smile. “If it isn’t the proud mother of the Prima Apparent. Christina, it’s good to see you. Where’s that elusive mate of yours?”
“Oh, you know Peter. He’ll hide until his presence is absolutely required. I heard you’d arrived, but that handsome Second-in-Command couldn’t tell me where you’d gotten to.”
She tugged him into a hug. “And ‘proud’ doesn’t cover how I feel right now. As a
mother, you always want what’s best for your children, and it’s an amazing feeling to see it coming true.”
Linc bit the inside of his cheek. He’d never call Valentin Bisset the best of anything, except maybe asshole, philanderer, and general disgrace to the shifter community.
Step by agonizingly slow step, Linc had worked hard to dismantle the broken, bloodthirsty Pack system his father had led and put one in its place that was based on mutual respect and personal responsibility. One where it didn’t matter if the shifter was wolf, beaver, bear, or eagle. Predatory or not. An old NAP member or a new one.
No one was more important, or more expendable, than any other.
Everyone was on the same level.
Everyone was Pack.
But not all the Alphas held the same beliefs. Like Bisset. The pretentious French tiger bastard—and head of the European Pack—made Gregor Thorne look like a kitten when it came to leadership tactics, and he was one of the largest obstacles Linc had in getting
the seven highest-ranking Alphas on board with his new vision.
“What on earth is that girl doing?” Christina’s gaze locked on something over Lincoln’s shoulder.
He followed her line of sight to the lone figure skiing down the mountain. Strike that—flying down the mountain, and going faster with each passing second. He immediately recognized the bright purple hat.
“I didn’t know Violet skied,” Linc heard himself say.
“Vi?” Christina chuckled. “Goddess, no. That girl could trip over her own two feet while standing still. I’m not sure what she’s trying to accomplish.”
The flailing hands and out-of-control weaving indicated she was trying to not break her neck.
Lincoln pushed off on his skis, keeping an eye on her trajectory and bypassing a few spectators who’d stopped to watch the show.
“Violet Ann Maxwell,” Christina bellowed. “For the love of Goddess, stop playing around!”
No way in hell was she playing.
People scrambled out of the way, leaving behind a line of abandoned snowmobiles like a snow-equipment barricade. The second Violet saw it, magical-themed curses spewed from her lips at an alarming rate. She dropped to her ass in an attempt to slow her descent.
It didn’t work.
Linc popped off his skis and ran as fast as his legs, and his inner Wolf, would take him. When she was two seconds away from impact, he leaped, cocooning her smaller body against his, and dropping them into a controlled roll. They log-rolled ten feet before coming to a stop.
Her face burrowed into his chest, Violet’s breath came out in quick pants. “I’m alive. I’m not witch splatter. Wait . . . am I?”
Hearing the humor in her voice, Linc chuckled. “You’re all in one piece.”
Her legs automatically draped on either side of his waist as she slowly pushed herself upright. He sucked in a groan and told Linc Junior to behave, but his cock had a mind of its own.
At some point during their tumble, Violet’s goggles and hat had come off, and her rare periwinkle eyes twinkled down at him. Snow wet the ends of her silky, purple-streaked dark hair, and both cold and adrenaline had long since pinked her cheeks.
She’d been a beauty when they were teenagers, but now she took his breath away.
“You have a hero complex or something, huh?” Her lips twitched into a teasing smirk. “You know what? I don’t even care. Thank you.”
He dragged his attention away from her mouth—barely. “You’re very welcome. You sure you’re okay? Nothing broken?”
“Only my pride.” Tilting her head, she peered down at him as if he was a bug under a microscope. “Do I kn—?”
“Oh my Goddess!” Christina Maxwell rushed forward. “Are you all right? Please tell me nothing’s broken!”
Violet glanced up at her mother. “I’m okay. Thanks to—”
“That was an incredibly brave thing for you to do, Alpha Thorne. Goodness, my heart is still pounding.” Christina wasn’t even talking to her, her concern directed at him.
“It was a matter of being in the right place at the right time.” Keeping his gaze locked on Violet’s face, he witnessed the exact moment she connected the dots.
Her purple eyes narrowed.
Her lips tightened into a thin, hard line.
Prying his dark-tinted goggles away from his face, she scowled at him. “You.”
Linc smirked. “Hello there, Violet. Long time no see.”
“Not nearly long enough.” She released his goggles.
The heavy frames smacked back into his face with a loud thwack, earning a soft gasp from Christina and a handful of spectators. Vi pushed off him and stalked away.
“Come on now, princess. Don’t be like that,” he called after her, failing to hide his amusement. “Maybe we could get a bite to eat or something. Are vanilla shakes with fries still your weakness?”
She turned as if in slow motion and drilled him with the Violet Maxwell glare he remembered so fondly from their childhood. “You want to grab a bite to eat.”
“I asked, didn’t I?”
She scooped up a handful of snow, and after shaping it into a large ball, hurled it with the tenacity of an MLB pitcher. “Eat that, Lincoln Thorne.”
The projectile nailed him square in the face, snow exploding in every direction, including straight up his nose. He sputtered, his laughter angering her more as she whirled and continued her exit. “So I take that as a no?”
She volleyed back with a gloved middle finger in the air, and he laughed harder. Back when everyone treated him like the future Alpha, making nice and giving him leniencies they shouldn’t have, she hadn’t.
If anything, she’d gone out of her way to be a pain in his ass, and while he hadn’t appreciated it at first, he did now. It kept him humble and his ego in check. Hell, it was one of the things that had made him contemplate changing the status quo in Pack life.
Violet Maxwell was the one who got away. And he wasn’t just the bastard that let it happen.
He was the idiot who hadn’t run after her.
Copyright 2021 April Asher/April Hunt