Epilogue

Ronan

Five days later…

" H ey, Durg, good to see you. What can I pour for you on this fine Saturday evening?" I asked.

"Hello, Ronan. Nice to see you, too. I'll have the usual." The ogre, whose full name was Durg the Bright, walked up to the bar. He had an air of refined dignity to him, which was a stark contrast to the ogre he'd walked in with.

"Hello, Novik. What can I?—"

"Beer. Anything you've got on tap," Novik the Victor grumbled. "Keep it coming."

Both ogres looked as if they'd just finished up at a high-powered business meeting—clean shaven, in business suits and ties. Their skin was tinted green, though it was less noticeable on Durg's dark brown skin. Someone had obviously covered Novik's white skin with makeup, because it looked like the inside of a pear. Ogres were notoriously good-looking—from a human perspective— until they reached their final forms where they gained hundreds of pounds and went full Jolly Green Giant.

" Please ," Durg said.

"Please," Novik mimicked in the exact same tone.

Durg let out a sigh that told me everything I needed to know about his day. I poured him a bourbon and slid it across the bar then filled a mug with beer and sent it Novik's way.

"Thought you folks were out of town," I said.

"The centennial gathering is next month," Durg replied.

"We have to go all the way to Paris, France for it." Novik made the trip to Paris sound like a visit to an overflowing septic tank.

"Such enthusiasm," Durg drawled.

"I sound as excited about it as I am. Wish you'd all let me stay home." Novik downed his beer in one drink and tapped the mug to indicate I should pour another.

"We were in San Diego at a real estate conference today." Durg took a dignified drink of his bourbon and gave his brother a mocking grin. "Novik had to be on his best behavior."

That explained it. Novik was an asshole at the best of times. If he was stressed, he was impossible to deal with. I'd once seen him get stabbed in the face by someone he'd pissed off. I still laughed about it sometimes.

I slid two mugs across to him and pointed into the next room. On special occasions, the room filled up, but tonight it was only half-full. Karen shuttled between tables keeping glasses filled and people calm.

"There's a dark corner in the back room far away from the jukebox and other customers. Go ahead. My assistant manager will keep the beers coming. Be polite to her."

"Whatever." Novik grabbed the mugs in one hand and slid off the stool.

A young woman gave him an appreciative glance as he strolled past. I caught her eye and shook my head. She shrugged and went back to her drink.

It was the curse of Novik to have the looks of a magazine model and the personality of a salted slug.

"Thank you. He held it together today, but he's never going to be trustworthy around humans." Durg finished his drink, and I poured him another. "I do try, though."

"You are a saint, Durg the Bright."

"After today, they should build a statue of me and plant it in front of a human church."

I was still laughing when the door burst open, and my favorite witch strode inside wearing that Valentine-red flower in her hair. A camellia, I'd discovered via an online search.

She wore a black lace minidress that ended high on her legs, revealing the lacy tops of sheer, thigh-high black stockings with every swish of her hips. There were bows on the stockings that matched the bows on the back of her black stilettos. Her dark brown hair frothed around her shoulders and down the open back of her dress, which I didn't notice until she turned to whisper a question in Durg's ear.

"Of course," he replied, and effortlessly hoisted her onto the bar. Ogres were strong as hell, but so were shifters, so why had she— and what the hell was she doing standing on my bar in that short dress ?

"Betty?" I rasped.

She glanced at a delicate silver watch at her wrist. "One minute."

"What's going on?" I asked then caught a glance up the skirt. Black lace snugged her smooth upper thighs, skipped a generous flash of naked thigh then started again.

My voice left the building.

"Thirty seconds," she said.

I am an alpha wolf shifter. By the goddess, I do not lose my voice in highly charged situations.

Highly charged, right . We both know what's highly charged right now, my wolf drawled.

He didn't speak up often, but when he did, it was nearly always to be a dick.

Speaking of…

I surreptitiously adjusted the front of my jeans.

A female voice hollered, "Looking good, Ms. Betty," and she gave them a smile and a swish of her dress, which showed the lace tops of her stockings again.

"What are you doing up there?" I asked, throwing some power into my voice to get her to answer. It was a cheap alpha move, but I wasn't above it at the moment. I didn't like the way people were staring at her. There was far too much lasciviousness going on here.

"Shh. Not yet, Ronan," she replied without looking at me. "Almost."

Talk in the bar had ceased. Even the juke had stopped. Although that was because Durg had unplugged it. At Betty's request?

I gazed up at her, bewildered. "What are you doing?"

She pursed full, crimson lips and winked down at me. Then she addressed the bar. "If I could have your attention, please?"

Oh, she had it. No need to ask.

"I just want you all to know that Ronan Pallás is the sexiest man in La Paloma, California."

Someone whistled. A few people clapped. Nearly everyone laughed.

Betty glanced over her shoulder and winked down at me. "I never renege on a bet."

This time, instead of asking Durg, she held her hands out to me to help her off the bar, which I did, taking care not to ruck up her dress no matter how much I wanted to see all that black lace again.

"Thanks, Pallás." She pressed her body into mine and lowered her mouth to my ear. "See you around."

Goosebumps. I had freaking goosebumps.

She strode to the door and walked out.

Red-faced and bemused, my jeans a lot tighter than they had been five minutes ago, I faced the bar, prepared for some good-natured ribbing.

"Pretty sure I'm the sexiest," one of the men at a corner table yelled. He was in his mid-eighties and had a face like a bulldog.

"Really, Sylvester? Because it's pretty obvious I'm the sexiest," another man from the table said. This one was even older and had a body like a breakfast sausage with a loose casing.

"All right, now. We can share the title," I said.

Everyone chuckled and went back to their drinks, Durg included. He'd plugged in the jukebox and selected a seventies song Betty would've loved.

"You Sexy Thing" by Hot Chocolate.

Ass.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Mason Hartman. My father's second-in-command reclined against the wall by the jukebox, ankles crossed, one hand wrapped around a whiskey glass.

I hadn't seen the wolf come in, much less served him a drink. He'd obviously grabbed it from Karen when I was busy.

Mason nodded as if I'd just confirmed something he'd only suspected, shot me a baleful grin, and toasted me.

This was not good.

What's more, it didn't matter. I wanted Betty Lennox. Body and soul. I wanted her in a way I'd never wanted anyone else.

And as long as she felt the same way, no one would keep me from having her.

Not Mason Hartman.

Not my father.

No one.

Thanks for reading! If you'd like to continue the adventure with the Smokethorn paranormals, be sure to grab the next book in the series, Any Witch Wolf .

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