Six Shooter and a Shifter

I’ve never seen the outside world and I don’t care. The cannon-toting, trigger-happy residents here are like family, even if most of them are a few spoons short of a full set. Eventually, everyone grows on you, kinda like nail fungus. But the booze flows freely, and Tiger keeps me company. He’s as much a prisoner as I am. Just when I think I’ve made my peace with my lot, the portal pops open and two men shoot through, throwing punches before their feet even finish landing in my town. When they finally look at me, all I see is problems. Big, ginormous, too-handsome problems.

The people and creatures of Traitor’s Den are always getting into trouble. It’s the one thing I can count on. The longer they spend in the Den, the more the spell that keeps us all here has the chance to take effect, turning us all into my Uncle Tucker’s version of cowboys and cowgirls. Our little one-way town is always wild and outrageous, and no day is ever the same. But when Rhett Stead and Zeke Doyle tumble through the portal, our town’s signature wild Western flavor swells a couple of notches, especially since they seem to think I’m their mate or queen or...whatever.

I need more magic like I need a point-blank bullet to the head. All that dragon power Rhett’s already given me is churning around inside me, causing as much trouble as the great poohbah dragon protector himself, and he’s trouble walking in a pair of perfectly fitting jeans. Regardless of my desires, and I’ve got lots of them thanks to the two men who won’t stop shooting suggestive looks my way, more magic is exactly what I’ve got—plus a whole band of dragon shifters without it, heh, pointing fingers at me for taking what they think is theirs. Oopsie.

Huzzah! I made it to my 23rd birthday! Given how much dragon magic I have rolling through me now, doing its best to cook me from the inside out, this feat is no small thing. I’ve earned a hearty celebration and then some. I’m gonna party down at Sharmayne’s and let her ply me with as many of her cocktails as she wants. Her magic touch is exactly what I need after how nutty life in Traitor’s Den has been lately. I deserve every hypnotic, milky, swirling Moon Mixer she sends my way. Hell, I might get fancy and skip right on to a Roll in the Hay, maybe even a Sirens on the Rocks.

Traitor’s Den was meant to be a prison. A punishment. A hellhole my daddy could never escape. Over the decades, however, hundreds of us have found a way to make it our home. We’ve learned to deal with the many bumps along the way with colorful cussing and a dash of humor—often roused by one too many at the saloon—and we’ve embraced the spell that turns us all into honky-tonk cowgirls and -boys.