Hexy Beast

Book 3: The Sherwood Witches

by Avery Flynn

Genres: General Fiction; Romance; Paranormal Romance; Shifters; Witches; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

An impulsive witch and a buttoned-up werewolf discover love is its own beast in this spicy rom-com from USA Today bestselling author Avery Flynn.

As the eldest daughter of the magical Sherwood family, I’m supposed to have everything together. Well, joke’s on them—I, Effie Sherwood, am chaos incarnate, and you’ll never be able to guess my next move.

Like jumping on the back of Darius Aetos’ motorcycle. Not only is Darius grumpy, gruff, and hot, he’s also the head of the Aetos werewolf pack.

My spur of the moment decision has quickly become a much bigger commitment, because a pack elder is convinced this hunk of a man (or wolf, depending on the hour) is my fated mate.

Even though I’m a witch and he’s a werewolf, we’re stuck together until we can find our way out of the tricky pack politics. But under the light of the blue moon, it’s almost starting to feel like Darius doesn’t want to stay away from me. And I’m not sure if it’s my magic going haywire or the starlit skies, but I can’t imagine leaving his arms either.

Release date: September 8, 2026

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 352

Sample

Chapter One

Effie . . .

There is nothing worse than lusting for the guy who kidnapped you.

I mean, it doesn't happen to me a lot. This is the first time I've been held for ransom, but I have to believe that full-throttle come-and-get-me-you-sexy-tatted-up-muscle-bound-werewolf isn't the appropriate reaction to the moment. Shouldn't I be saving all my oh-my-what-deliciously-big-thighs-you-have dirty thoughts for someone who isn't holding me magically hostage? There is a certain sense of logic to that, don't you think?

But then again, when do I ever do what's expected?

Pretty much never.

However, I'm getting ahead of myself, which is not a surprise to anyone who knows me or follows me on WitchyGram, where I post all my escapades (much to my family's dismay about my wild behavior).

I'm Effie Sherwood, the oldest daughter of the magically badass Sherwood family, one of-if not the-most powerful in all of Witchingdom. As the eldest Sherwood child, everyone expected me to inherit our family magic and become the head witch in charge of the Sherwoods, because that's how the world works.

Every witchy family has their own stream of magic that flows through the head witch and out to all the other members like water in a river out to its tributaries. Magic binds everyone together and empowers them. Then, when the firstborn of the next generation hits their thirties, they move from being the heir to the family's magic to the head of the family.

That's the way everyone's witchy family magic works in Witchingdom, going from firstborn to firstborn like clockwork-boring, never varying, watching-paint-dry clockwork.

Until I came along.

The story of my birth hit legendary status before I was even old enough to understand the whispers.

It was a dark and stormy night. Kidding! It was a bland and sunny Tuesday morning when I came into the world.

Sherwood magic, tangible as electricity in the air, filled the room in anticipation of my birth. My magical matriarch mom went through labor without a hair out of place while my shifter dad had fully morphed into a literal bear because of the stress. I came out bald as a troll and screaming my lungs out-I never have liked being woken up before noon.

The family magic flew around the three of us, going from invisible force to a sparkling purple stream of pure power. It swirled around the room in a circle that tightened and tightened until it resembled a glittering wreath small enough to sit on a newborn's head and thus bestow status as the family's magical heir.

The thing is, with me, it didn't.

Oh, it got close. If I would have had any of the thick, wavy, light auburn hair I have now, the magic would have touched it. But instead of coming to rest on my slightly pointy head, it poofed out of there, leaving behind a thick dusting of honeysuckle-scented sparkles that landed on my cheeks in the exact spots where today I have a bazillion freckles. A few sparkles ended up on the inside of my wrist, forming a weird splotch of a birthmark that looks like a constellation of stars if you squint and tilt your head just right.

And just like that, without saying a word, the Sherwood family magic had declared me not the chosen one.

That outcome was not expected-unless you're me, because I don't do what's expected.

Not as a newborn.

Not as a grown-ass witch.

I'm a free spirit. The wild one of the family. The one who always tells her stories out of order and always eats dessert first. I'm the Sherwood who's been voted most outrageous on WitchyGram five years running. I'm sure there's a reason why I'm not the heir to our family's magic nor am I destined to be the family matriarch.

I just wish I knew what it is.

The best reason I can come up with for the whole glitch in the oldest-child-becomes-the-heir thing is that I'm just not that witch. My sister Leona (the second-oldest Sherwood sister) is, and she's fantastic at it, and that's why when she was born, the wreath landed on her infant head without a second of hesitation.

Yeah, it's a little weird and can be kinda (read: so fucking very) awkward when people start giving me pitying looks and wondering aloud just what's wrong with me that would result in what ninety-nine percent of Witchingdom sees as a demotion. But it is what it is.

It hardly ever bothers me.

And when it does? What do I do when some nosy nixie slides into my DMs to ask what it feels like to be passed over, or when a concern troll (not an actual troll, they're really pretty cool, if bloodthirsty) wants to make sure I'm all right considering how my life didn't turn out as (society) expected?

Well, that's when I double down on bringing the shenanigans to Witchingdom, like when I hosted a Lucky Charms eating contest with the winner getting their body weight in cereal marshmallows. The catch? Participants had to do it while dressed in rainbow tutus and balancing on floating surfboards. That one totally got me trending on WitchyGram.

It's not the life anyone expected of the firstborn Sherwood sister, but it's mine, and I love it just how it is.

So I'm the family bon vivant, showing my four younger sisters how to live their best lives (and kicking the ass of anyone who tries to stop them). I've got a big mouth, a big attitude, and big thighs-all of which, for the record, I love about myself. The first two definitely get me into big trouble of the societal snubs kind, but the third gets me all the good kind of trouble I can handle-and believe me, I can handle a lot.

You may be asking: Does that mean things just seem to spin out of control when I get involved?

Fine.

Yes, it does.

But I roll with it. I embrace the chaos. What fun is life if there's not any adventure?

And that's why I wasn't surprised to find myself on a Tuesday (why is it always a Tuesday?) being accidentally kidnapped by Darius Aetos, the alpha of the Aetos Werewolves and the man with the best ass in Witchingdom.

Don't get distracted by that last factoid. Trust me.

Just look at his glorious gluteus maximus, appreciate the ten out of ten smackable-and-squeezable roundness of it, and then go on about your day, because his butt may be glorious, but it's not enough to distract from his bossy personality.

Believe me, getting a peek at all six foot seven inches of muscular, tatted-up Darius can give you full-on fantasies about how he'd lift you up so high you could rest your legs on his shoulders as he went downtown, uptown, and all over town until you were wrung out, turned out, and possibly blacked out from pleasure. There's a reason I can't seem to stop myself from lusting after the big ol' grump, so really, I do understand why you might have that reaction to him.

But again, do not become distracted by his hotness or begin to wonder if maybe the Fates have something in store for you with the thick-thighed, long-haired, grumped-up werewolf. The man has a personality disorder called head-up-the-ass-itis. It's true! Darius Aetos is a tightly wound accountant inside the body of an MMA fighter.

Okay, so you're probably wondering how I ended up being kidnapped by Sir Sexy and Surly. Well, it all started when I *ahem* borrowed Darius's motorcycle without his full written consent.

Fine.

I stole his motorcycle.

In my defense, though, he was at the time in the process of trying to steal the biggest, baddest, most coveted spell book in all of Witchingdom from my sister Leona and her secret husband, Erik.

There was no way I could let Darius get away with pulling a stunt like that.

Firstly, no one steals from the Sherwoods.

Secondly, no one takes something from one of my sisters without me getting all in their face about it.

Thirdly, I was sorta bored.

Therefore, I didn't have any choice but to take dramatic action to retrieve The Liber Umbrarum from him. It's only the most powerful spell book of ancient charms and hexes in Witchingdom, and if it falls into the wrong hands, it would be devastating. Yes, a pack of lawless werewolves who'd probably sell it to the highest bidder qualifies as wrong hands, but so does the Council.

Who's the Council? Just an evil coven determined to drag Witchingdom back to the Middle Ages, lock everyone into rigid roles, and snuff out any flicker of fun, originality, or not being an awful, horrible, judgmental witch with a hard-on for fascism. They were the last people in the world who should possess The Liber Umbrarum, and they'd definitely be willing to pony up the most cash for a black market deal with the Aetos pack for the spell book.

Hence, when Darius the uptight alpha followed my sister and her secret husband to the edge of the pixies' Killjoy Forest, I didn't take time to think-I acted.

Why wouldn't I?

I knew what needed to be done-the totally unexpectedly expected, an Effie Sherwood specialty.

One second Darius was about to get away with stealing the spell book, and then-abracadabra-I'm on his lap, ready, willing, and able to steal The Liber Umbrarum right back from him.

If only it had gone to plan (or as much of a chaotic, slapdash plan as someone like me can make)-but I'm getting ahead of myself again. Hey, don't say I didn't warn you about that.

Okay, let's take a step back and start at the moment when I first spotted Darius on the edge of the Killjoy Forest and decided that no werewolf-not even one with the best ass in Witchingdom-was going to fuck with my sister.

Chapter Two

Darius . . .

Earlier that day . . .

With the world going to shit in a half-shredded, rat-eaten handbasket, you've gotta love it when a plan comes together.

That's especially true when your success means getting to send a fuck-you on behalf of your entire werewolf pack to the rest of Witchingdom-especially the witches.

Fucking witches.

They think they know everything, control everything, win everything.

Well, not this time.

Not with the prize I'm about to have tucked away in my saddlebag. It's a spell book with some stupid Latin name (like anyone speaks that shit anymore), and it's been all anyone can talk about on the Croesus Network for the past few months. The thieves, crooks, and everyday villains who post on the LinkedIn of Witchingdom's law averse called stealing the spell book the job of all jobs.

How was I supposed to walk away from a challenge like that?

When your name is Darius Aetos, and you're the alpha of your namesake werewolf pack, there isn't a way, and so I didn't. Now the spell book is about to be mine.

How am I going to make that happen? The same way I do everything else: by putting together a plan all the way down to the minute details and then working that plan. No changes or substitutions allowed.

I don't yammer about it or bounce ideas off other people. I don't need to.

I learn by myself.

I observe by myself.

I act by myself.

Period.

It's my system, and it works. I don't need to mess it up by talking through ideas or being anything other than completely analytical about it all. Feelings only fuck things up-all you have to do is take a look at the mess the past two alphas (my father and grandmother) have made of the pack to understand that. Some thought it was my fate to be as bad of an alpha as they were. My answer to that? Fuck fate. I don't believe in it. I decide my destiny and do whatever it takes to make it happen without any help from anyone else.

And the destiny I choose is to protect my pack, no matter what it takes. If in this case, that means stealing the old-timey spell book that everyone in Witchingdom wants, then so be it. I'll make it happen.

The thing about stealing the spell book, though, is that the people on the Croesus Network weren't wrong. Tracking it down was a giant pain in my ass. Weeks of paying off or strong-arming informants across Witchingdom, however, had finally gotten us what we needed. Leona Sherwood and Erik Svensen had the spell book. They'd been road-tripping in a canary-yellow classic convertible with the spell book toward some secured facility where (once stored away) it would stay locked up tight for all eternity or some such shit. Witches are such melodramatic assholes. That was their plan. My plan was better, which is why my squad and I caught up with them right as they drove straight into the most dangerous place in Witchingdom-the pixies' forest.

Oh yeah, you may be thinking, "Pixies, how bad could they be?" Let me tell you, they're more unhinged than a toddler who skipped naptime after downing a five-pound bag of sugar and meaner than a badger shifter with a hangover whose access to greasy cheeseburgers has been cut off.

I had a run-in with the pixie queen a while back, and the less said about that the better. Suffice it to say I barely made it out.

Up until this minute, I had zero plans to press my luck with the pixie queen ever again. But now I don't have a choice, because that ridiculous spell book is the one thing my pack needs to change its fortunes.

For that, I'll do anything.

I take a minute to scan the forest for any sign of the vicious little gambling-addicted miscreants. I can't see them through the thick trees, but I know the pixies are there watching and waiting-and no doubt betting on if I'll get out of the forest alive this time. I can smell the dust of the chalk they use to keep track of their wagers, and my wolf sense can feel the flutter of their teeny-tiny wings as they hover in place like demented hummingbirds.

The last thing I want to do is go in there, but as my gaze drops to the tire tracks of the classic Cadillac convertible Leona and Erik are driving, I know there isn't anything I can do to avoid it. Of course, that doesn't mean I'm letting anyone else take the risk of going into the pixie queen's domain.