Shifter: Alpha Claim
Date: 2015-07-27 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Paranormal
Description: From the New York Times bestselling author of A Terrible Love comes the second set of Alpha Claims featuring new characters in the same world.... EPISODE 2: Shifter/Vampire Romance Serial Who can Talyn trust? Certainly not those she thought. As the evidence mounts that something is seriously wrong, Talyn gains strength from the sameness of her life. Only to have it shattered when a seemingly innocent come-on turns out to be the beginning of the end of the life she knows. When the local police disregard the facts, Talyn receives unconventional assistance in the form of Enforcer Narah Adrienne.

SHIFTER

An Alpha Claim Full-length Compilation

Episodes 1-6

New York Times Bestselling Author(s)

MARATA EROS

TAMARA ROSE BLODGETT

All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 2015 Marata Eros

Copyright © 2015 Tamara Rose Blodgett

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

www.tamararoseblodgett.com

TRB Facebook Fan Page

Marata Eros FB Fan Page

Cover art by: Willsin Rowe

Proofed by: Corinna

CONTENTS

Series by Tamara Rose Blodgett

Episode 1

Episode 2

Episode 3

Episode 4

Episode 5

Episode 6

TRB NEWS

Marata Eros NEWS

Acknowledgments

About the Author

DEDICATION

My Readers

Without you, this would all mean so little~

Works by Tamara Rose Blodgett:

The BLOOD Series

The DEATH Series

Shifter ALPHA CLAIM 1-6

The REFLECTION Series

The SAVAGE Series

Vampire ALPHA CLAIM 1-6

&

Marata Eros:

A Terrible Love (New York Times bestseller)

A Brutal Tenderness

The Darkest Joy

Club Alpha

The DARA NICHOLS Series, 1-8

The DEMON Series

The DRUID Series

Shifter ALPHA CLAIM 1-6

The SIREN Series

The TOKEN Serial

Vampire ALPHA CLAIM 1-6

The ZOE SCOTT Series 1-8

SHIFTER

An Alpha Claim Brief-Bites® Novelette

Episode 1

New York Times Bestselling Author(s)

MARATA EROS

TAMARA ROSE BLODGETT

All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 2015 Marata Eros

Copyright © 2015 Tamara Rose Blodgett

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

www.tamararoseblodgett.com

TRB Facebook Fan Page

Marata Eros FB Fan Page

Cover art by: Willsin Rowe

Proofed by: Corinna

1

Call me old-fashioned. But I'm probably the last counselor in the world who uses a pad and pen.

Everything is Brain Impulse Technology now—thought-to-device driven.

Any other counselor would have their pulsepad out, ready to record their thoughts and insights directly.

But that method feels so detached to me. So my pen sits poised in my left hand above recycled ecru-colored notepaper.

I'm fighting a lot of urges today. The urge to swing my foot as I listen to the hundredth same line out of a different mouth.

I can't take my life.

Counseling is unfortunately only rewarding when a client comes along who really wants to be happy. Who's willing to be dragged through the muck of their dysfunction sufficiently long enough to find themselves coming up for air on the other side—and discovering it to be fresh.

Of course, it's a case of physician, heal thyself. Talyn Phisher isn't happy.

I'm content.

And that's a big-ass difference.

“Dr. Phisher?”

Oops. I jerk my head up, caught. “Yes, Beatrice?”

“Bea,” she replies sullenly.

God, where is my head? Clearly—up my ass, is my mind's immediate response.

“Yes, Bea,” I duck my head in shame, take a deep calming breath then meet her eyes.

They're large and dark, one of the unusual people where the black dot almost blends with the brown iris swimming around the island of their pupil.

“I was discussing my argument with my foster dad.”

I nod, dredging sympathy when what I really want to say is, pull up your big-girl panties and deal, for fuck's sake.

But that's entirely un-counselor-like of me.

I shut my mouth and purse my lips for a moment, desperately wishing for some lip gloss. Instead I say, “Well, let's address things in order of priority.”

“Okay.” Bea crosses her skinny arms below fifteen-year-old breasts. Gaged ears wink at me like two additional mouths. A tattoo climbs the delicate column of her neck, the tail of a snake appearing to strangle her.

I'm unmarked.

Tattoos are the height of popularity. They lost their stigma in the beginning of the 21st century. It's actually more rare that someone doesn't have ink than those who do.

I tamp down on my sudden compulsion to crack my knuckles.

“This is what we have, Bea.”

Her eyes dart around my office as though looking to escape another dry lecture.

But I'm never dry. That's part of my problem. Sometimes, my unorthodox methods get results. “You have to make marked progress, or the courts will toss your ass straight back to juvie.”

Her head whips back to me, shocked by my frankness—my use of language, I'm sure.

Her black lipsticked mouth pulls into a smile. “You're cursing, doctor.”

I smile back at her, old enough to be her mother, though God knows that'll never happen.

“And you're listening,” I point out.

She flops back against the couch. “Okay, lay it on me.” Bea's slim arms rest on the back of the sofa, her face carefully schooled into neutrality.

Also a defense mechanism.

“This is your tenth session, and you spew the same crap every time. Child Protective Enforcement suspects there's something wrong, and they have ordered counseling. I will get to the bottom of it, no matter how many layers you erect.”

Bea doesn't look especially surprised at the gauntlet I've thrown down between us.

My teeth begin their normal, midday throb and I apply pressure by clamping down. They don't hurt so bad that I'm ready to go in and get them checked, but the muted pain is a distraction I don't need.

“You're asking me to get along with a guy who's not my dad.”

I lean back, forcing a casual disinterest that is the opposite of what I feel. My limbs begin to tingle.

I get that special feeling.

Breakthrough, baby.

Jesus, I thought it'd never happen.

“Tell me a reason you can't get along. Besides him making you eat food from a certain shelf. Or a curfew of eleven at night.”

Many foster families have assigned food shelves for non-biological children. It's a form of silent prejudice. But that's not enough to nail this guy. I need more. I suspect there is more. But ten sessions is a long damn time to hold out on my gut instinct. I do listen to my gut more than most.

My instincts never let me down.

The ticks from my archaic clock swallow our mutual silence.

Bea leans forward, jagged short hair dyed an inky black sweeps forward to cover an eye.

She rests her forearms on her thighs.

I wait.

A minute goes by. Two.

“Tell me what he does to you, Bea.” I feel the compulsion in my voice, and let it thread its way to Bea with soft and deliberate insistence.

My teeth ache a tiny bit less, and I release an almost silent but grateful sigh.

Her face lifts, the pierced bottom lip trembling with the effort to keep that stoic expression glued in place.

I sit up straight, pen and paper forgotten—breath held.

Then she carefully unbuttons the cuffs of her unseasonably warm long-sleeved shirt.

Healing lines of varying depths litter her skin.

Cutter.

Her sad eyes find mine. My heart is in my gaze, there for the taking. She reaches for it with such hesitation. Then crushes the pulsating mess of my feelings with, “What he does to me at night, or during the day?”

At night.

I don't plant my face in my hands but it's close. I know what happens at night.

I've heard it before.

2

Being a councilor probably isn't a great career choice for me.

Too empathetic.

I carefully shut the door after Bea exits, leaning my forehead against the other side.

She won't be going back to that foster family. Even now the cops are on their way to arrest that sick excuse of a human being. He's done enough to Bea to get an immediate lock up.

I'm not going to cry, I tell myself as the first, hot tear worms its way down my face.

I press my face against the expensive door inside the clinic I share with other doctors and bite my lip.

Pain sears where my teeth touch and I yelp, immediately touching the tender spot with my finger.

What the hell?

I walk swiftly to the bathroom and gaze into the mirror, looking closely at my teeth.

I don't like what I see.

My canine teeth, as they're called, seem to be performing some kind of circus act and changing.

Unbelievable.

As if that twenty plus extra pounds I'm running around with isn't enough to worry about. Or my lack of A Man in the picture.

Or my status of barren. Yup.

Now I've got a case of skank mouth to top off the misery cake like a spoiling cherry. Swell.

I step away from the mirror with a shaky laugh, tonguing off the bead of blood I put there. I'm sounding like some of my patients who have nothing wrong with them except a bad attitude.

I dab at my sore lip with a bit of damp toilet paper and toss it in the commode.

Blood and tissue flow down in a swirl of water as I flush. I watch it disappear as though transfixed.

I need to get out of here.

Bea's story of molestation isn't something that will be out of my system tonight. Or tomorrow night.

Or the next.

I'll head to the gym and burn off some steam.

I use the bathroom and turn off the light. I walk silently around my small office, doing the shut-down routine by rote.

I turn off the desk lamp.

I upend the ashtray into the separator. The illegal cigarette smell puffs up the nauseating after-odor.

I waft a palm. God, gross.

Another horrible habit. But one I've found is not something people can give up while also being challenged with obtaining emotional wellness.

Nope, they need the cigs. So I write the prescription that waives the legality part of it. The lesser of the two evils.

I work my jaw back and forth, notice I'm doing it and stop. My joints protest as I bend to pick up some fallen threads and I sigh.

More working out, I'm only thirty-seven—not seventy-seven.

Lastly, I scoot around the coffee table and squeeze behind my couch for patients.

The slatted blinds are already tilted up to allow in light but offer a feeling of privacy for clients.

My fingers wrap the little knobs. I'm a flick away from closure.

My gaze sweeps the narrow slivers of the outside I can see.

The bluest eyes I've ever seen blink back at me from paces away.

I scream, falling backward over the couch and hitting my head on the coffee table.

Stars burst in front of my vision and I groan.

I roll over on all fours.

Somebody's out there, Talyn! Get your ass moving!

I shake my head to clear it. I lurch and clutch the material of the couch, heaving myself to my knees. My heart feels like it's trying for escape but I'm not some sissy.

Except for the scream.

I lean my torso against the back of the couch, and peer out of the still half-open slats.

A semi-underground flight of concrete stairs leads up to a busy metropolitan sidewalk where walking legs greet me. Pant legs, bare legs and many different kind of legs flow past.

There are no eyes.

I want to lie to myself. Shake it off as though I was just seeing things.

But I'm not like that. In reality, I'm a scientist. I study the brain. I study people.

I like it—self-delusion isn't my game.

I yank the blinds shut, releasing the cord with a flip. The plastic knobs at the end of the cord slap against the dark walnut-colored faux wood slats.

The knot on my head begins to throb in time with my dumb teeth.

Shit.

I slide out my new pulse, and place my thumb on the dock pad. It's the approximate size of the old credit cards before everything allowed a thumb swipe as payment.

Green characters swirl on the dark screen as though moving to the surface of inky water.

The time glows softly. 7:40 PM.

“Shit,” I repeat softly and with feeling. Can't I just ever get out of here on time?

Clearly not.

I grab my gear bag and move through the office door, locking it behind me.

I swing my keys (eschewing the locksmith his five hundred credits for revamping my security bolt to pulse) and dump them in my handbag.

I trot up the concrete stairs, vaguely thinking it's time for a power wash. Slimy mildew is getting a foothold.

I reach the top, grabbing a lungful of fresh midwestern air. Heat, farm and the vague smells of prairie without the blood vats of the nearby meat plant assail me in the comfort of having always lived here in Sioux Falls. My comfort scent combo lasts for the blink of an eye.

My ears perk.

Not for noise, but for the quiet. The throbbing of my teeth and head—the funky squawk of my joints—recede as I scan my surroundings.

I don't admit I'm searching for blue eyes.

The small hairs at my nape lift.

I see nothing, but remain disquieted. Finally, I walk out into a day that is fast losing its claim to night.

My footsteps take me the mile to the gym. My thoughts stay in the office and with the revelations Bea shared.

Blue eyes haunt me.

3

Merck

I watch the change, enjoying her wariness as her soft gray eyes pierce the shadows, searching out my presence. Her slightly reflective irises don't make me out in the gloom.

She's old for a hybrid. It's a mystery to me why a rare female would change so late.

My nostrils flare.

I smell a small wound and a recent injury. An involuntary low growl seeps from between the tight line of my lips.

Did someone cause the injury?

No, I immediately soothe my beast. Probably that tumble she took over the couch.

I chuckle. Wasn't sure if I'd have to wade in there, and save her from herself before it was too late. I had been a little sloppy with my presence. But Talyn Phisher is very practical. She's probably already talked herself right out of very good instincts.

Talyn walks off, and I take a second to lust after her.

The practice of coveting the changes is strictly forbidden, of course.

Our job's now doubly hard. Vamps and Turners have been outed, and now they're cruising the same hunting grounds we do.

The Lanarre, as the Lycan royalty is named, doesn't want a vulnerable hybrid Lycan running into a vamp that likes their tasty werewolf blood.

Nor do the Lycan want a war. But a war they shall have, if they fuck with our females.

This one especially.

My eyes follow her rounded backside. A more scrumptious ass I have never beheld. Oh for the days when a little extra flesh was considered a mark of wealth, health and attractiveness.

I like my women with ass cheeks that overflow the hands—tits as well. A waist I can span with my hands.

I lick my lips, turning away from the enticing sight.

Women are fine for carnal pleasures, but that's not the job of a Changer—Lycan warriors—who seek female hybrids hiding among humans. Like their vampire counterparts, hybrid females will die without a strong male to see them through their transition to full Lycan.

Unlike the vampires and their blood exchange, the Lycan must sex it out of the hybrids.

I smirk. I can't say I hate the process.

Though that is all that is allowed. A transition, and then Changers find the next target for transitioning. Any Lycan should be proud to change a female.

I find it lonely. Tasting of their lush bodies, only to never share in their lives. It's a form of torture. But the Lanarre is deaf to their own warriors.

It's a numbers game.

And the possibility of a human female of royal lycan blood hiding in plain sight.

I roll my eyes at the unlikelihood of that. It's a wonderful bit of werewolf lore. But I don't know that I've ever met a Changer who has encountered a hybrid with that unique Lanarre component.

I've been watching Talyn Phisher for two months. I know where she's going. I don't even need to follow.

But I do.

Just being thorough.

Or at least—that's the line of bullshit I feed myself every day.

*

Talyn puts herself through the same laborious paces five days per week. The mile-long walk to get to the gym.

The elliptical.

The hand weights.

It's the squats that get my full attention. Her ass cheeks splitting like twin goodness as she gracefully drops into a deep plunge then comes up to repeat.

I watch every repetition.

She moves like the Lycan she'll become. I randomly wonder if she's ever noticed she's faster and stronger than other females. That her sense of smell is almost painfully acute.

My eyes narrow as a human male approaches her.

Growling begins from deep inside me, humming through my chest like my very own motor.

Then a vibration begins inside my pocket so high only dogs, and a few other fine-hearing creatures can hear the buzz. I slip my pulse device out of my pocket without looking.

I watch the mundane human try to put the moves on Talyn. One of our future females.

Move on, douche.

I tap my pulse to activate with my thumb.

Charles: status.

Status? Status is: Talyn is not changing. She smells like a sweet piece of fruit that's just on the cusp of ripening.

But not yet.

Me: negative. Still under surveillance.

Charles: maybe too old—past her prime. Possibly a false read?

No! I calm my shit, and prepare to think my response. But first, I set my pulse to low emotive transference.

Yeah. Don't need Alpha Lycan Boss to get that I'm sort of wrung out over this change.

Fuck no.

Me: possibly, but because she's older, standard protocol might not apply to her.

Charles: can't afford to waste manpower on a dud.

Talyn is no dud.

Me: give me a couple more weeks. Once I see physical degradation, I'll move in.

The wait of almost a minute is an uneasy one. What if Charles terminates the mission? That Talyn doesn't deserve the time—that a hybrid female pushing forty is too much of an anomaly to waste time on?

Sweat beads on my forehead. I swipe it away in irritation.

I glance at Talyn.

The human has his hand on her forearm.

Talons burst from my fingertips, and I groan at the pain of the partial change.

The high hertz frequency buzz alerts me to Charlesʼ reply.

Charles: two weeks then it's a wrap. There are other hybrids waiting and too few Changers.

My breath leaks out of me in relief.

I don't even realize I'm across the street and peering none-too-subtly inside the window.

If I could wish that human to death with my stare, he'd be zombie food right now.

I think into my pulse device with the side of my thumb.

Me: Roger that.

I palm the slim communicator, sliding it into my pants pocket.

Talyn disengages from the ballsy fuck inside the workout room and walks away.

Her look of mild and dismissive disgust makes me smirk. Especially when the human looks after her with pure lust. And something else.

My nostrils flare to catch the scent of his emotion.

Glass is no barrier for a Lycan warrior.

Violence.

Violence is mixed with his lust.

My growl is not soft anymore. But a warning nonetheless.

He doesn't hear it, his ears are far too human—too dull to the danger I've just offered.

But the small creatures of the nearby forest halt the busyness of their lives and listen to the sound I've made.

They heed the danger with their communal silence.

4

Talyn

Jerk.

I rub my arm where he touched me. Do I have a sign that says, desperate tattooed across my forehead?

Why can't the decent guys that I hear about show up at the gym? Oh-no, it's got to be the pudwacker types.

So when is: I love the way you fill out your yoga pants—a healthy intro?

One answer: never.

I stomp into the women's locker to grab a shower. I take off my yoga pants, athletic top and kick off my shoes. I strip my socks and toss them to join the damp pile of clothes.

I slip into my flip flops and shuffle to the faucet, jerking it to H.

I wait, the old pipes groaning in resistance. When steam begins to rise, I step beneath the spray. The hot water flows over my dark hair that needs a trim. I let its heat pour over my face where it beats softly against my parted lips, the water cleansing and hot inside my mouth and on my skin.

Water runs out my mouth and dribbles down the front of me. It's the only thing I can stand right now on my sensitive skin.

My flesh burns, my teeth and joints are back online, hurting like forgotten wounds.

Damn.

My palms hit the tile, my chin lowering to my chest. Tears burn behind my eyes.

I can help anyone, no matter how big the problem. If it's real, I can puzzle out the solution that's meant for them.

So why can't I fix my own chaos?

I must love it.

I palm my soaked hair off my face and flip it behind me. The wet strands make a smacking sound as they hit between my shoulder blades and I flinch, my skin's so hyper-sensitive.

The flesh of my exposed back, buttocks and legs rises into gooseflesh, the small hairs running across my skin becoming spikes of alert.

I scan the locker room, taking in the vast shower stall. Aqua tiles from the fifties stare back at me with wilting indifference. I fully revolve, the hot water now soothing my back. My breasts tighten, the nipples becoming completely erect.

My vagina comes alive, throbbing between my legs.

What the hell is going on?

A wave of heat flushes over my skin as if kerosene is pouring over my body. And a match is struck.

I gasp, trying to breathe through the heat engulfing my body.

I manage to turn and slap the lever to C.

Barely.

I tighten my thighs, squishing my pussy lips together to stop the ache. Nothing works.

God!

Icy water pours over where hot water just flowed. Moving from under the spray, I walk away without turning it off, and grab my towel I flung over the tiled half-wall, wrapping my drenched hair.

My body is radiating heat, but I'm shivering.

Something is really wrong. First my fangey teeth, now I've got hot flashes.

I stop in the middle of the tiled floor. My raspy breathing echoes back in the strange acoustics of an all-tile room with high ceilings as icy water sprays down the drain.

“Hot flashes?” I sing in a half-yell into the room. “This is dumb!” I scream like a juvenile delinquent. In fact, they behave more maturely than I'm acting.

My teeth and crotch are throbbing, my nipples ache, and I feel like someone's lit a torch inside my body.

I need a doctor. There's no denying that. Maybe this is early menopause? The thought makes me want to cry.

I don't.

I do the most unhealthy thing I can. The one thing I caution my patients to never do.

I stuff it.

That stupid emotion of helplessness will not defeat me.

I bite my lip, drawing blood. I suck on it.

The overwhelming feelings of sexual need, mixed with burning alive begin to subside while I stand naked and dripping cold water into a puddle at my feet.

Finally, I grab my second cheap towel and cover my body. With slow deliberation I walk to my gear bag and carefully pull new clothes out of the soft duffle.

I don't tremble as I dry off then put on my clothing or stuff my dirties inside a plastic grocery sack.

I turn off the water with a guilty twist. The sound of water dripping follows me as I leave the gym.

When the night air hits me, tears begin to pour out of my eyes.

I don't know what to do. Even trying to turn the tables, and intellectualize how I'd handle this from a client's perspective doesn't help.

Because I've never had these symptoms present in my room. My world.

My face rises, tears of frustration tremble on my chin as I look at the crystals of brightening stars, sprinkled like chunks of raw sugar in the deep twilight blanket of the sky.

I wipe away my wet anger with a hasty stroke. I'll get to a doctor. Figure out what my stupid problem is.

I forget about the blue eyes. The lame come-on from the guy in my gym.

I walk the mile back to my car alone, lost in my thoughts—buried in my uncertainty.

Two sets of eyes follow me.

One as protector, one as predator.

If I'd been more aware, and less caught up in my emotions, I'd have forgotten all about what was to come—and rather, what was already happening.

5

Merck

I feel the knot form between my brows.

I'm not emotional. You can't be a Changer and get all buried in superfluous bullshit. Lycans are an economical group. We don't take time to feel.

But I'm feeling Talyn. When she exits the gym and just stands there by herself, looking so—lost—I have to smother my instinct to go to her.

She's not ready.

If she were, all this restraint would be a moot point. I'd introduce myself, tell her she's a human-werewolf hybrid, and guess what? You've won the jackpot of becoming a Lycan. Congrats.

Wrong.

Every change is different, but I've never had a female I couldn't subdue. I've always been Alpha.

I hold still while silent sobs fall out of Talyn like pieces of a broken heart.

Moon dammit.

My fingers tense, my talons making crescent-shaped marks inside my palms.

Talyn puts herself back together piece by piece. Her efforts at resurrecting her aloof exterior are hard to witness.

But I do.

A branch groans. I drop to my haunches, surveying the immediate environment. Nothing.

My eyes swing back to Talyn. She's already making her way back to her office.

I follow, and though I can't scent anything threatening. My instincts are blaring an alarm.

Something's out there.

But I'd sure-as-fuck like to know what could be out there in silence and without me scenting it.

*

I love the challenge of my wolfen form. Half-lycan, half-wolf, I lope after Talyn, using the forest's border as a sort of superficial cover.

If humans knew what to look for, they'd see us.

But they don't. They only see what their mind will allow them to easily explain.

My pants are of the stretchy, black athletic variety. A zippered pocket at the side of my thigh keeps my pulse at-the-ready for contact with my superior. Charles keeps tabs on all his Changers. Or he's more like our warden.

It's a fact in my life that I don't like.

But I love what I do. There's nothing more rewarding than saving a hybrid from a mundane existence, and inevitable early death.

I had been tasked with Talyn Phisher because she's considered a complicated change.

She might be more complex because she is a full fifteen years older than our average change. But she's only female. She will want to transition just like the dozens I've helped before her.

I slow to a jog as Talyn draws nearer to her vehicle.

Counselors must make good money.

She pulses her lock to open, and slides into her fully loaded beamer. I watch her car buckle her as she pulses the engine to life.

The soft purr is impressive. My acute hearing, made even more so by my wolfen form, tells me she's a regular at getting her ride serviced.

So many little details about Talyn Phisher.

None of which matter right now.

I follow her departure until her car is a bright red dot in the last of the  early summer twilight.

*

I'm not winded as I sprint through the forest. Leaves churn with my passing, branches appear to lift and I recognize it for what it is—velocity. I'm sure there's an explanation of physics somewhere in there, but I never was a school boy.

Rather, I've been self-taught through the school of hard knocks.

Talyn Phisher's probably never had the challenge like a Lycan of the pack would. Of beating—and being beaten—until your life hangs in the balance of forfeit to another.

Females do not fight for Alpha status. They are born Alpha—or not. Males must prove their Alpha role.

I proudly wear the scars of my position. It was an even fiercer test within the warrior ranks of Changers. Lycan Changers must be ready for the challenges that present in acquisition, in transition. And the very real possibility of aggressors who would take who we seek to change.

I hunker down, grabbing a low-lying branch in a rare patch of conifers. In Sioux Falls, there's not sufficient forests to cloak me. It's an urban oasis. Islands of trees, mostly deciduous, rather than true swaths of trees allow a sort of complicated stealth.

I manage.

Near Talyn's small craftsman bungalow, great trees stand in a vacant lot, and I use those as habit. They dance above my head, a testimony to the plains wind, sweeping without obstacle of mountain or sea to stop its assailment of everything in its path.

Her sleek luxury BMW creeps along the antique cobblestone alley and the garage door lifts. The car slowly rolls inside. I hear the muted click as she slides the gear into park and the shuffling descent of the garage door.

An exhale of relief slides out of me.

My change is safe.

I've already been through her home. It is scentless. Absent of danger.

That is—if you're looking for threats. Her house is filled with the exotic scent that is Talyn.

Her house cat stays on the top of the fridge during my illicit visits. Long tail shaking high above its head like a snake shaking its rattles.

Still my disquiet is not completely put to bed. My talons are full of bark from nervous motion. I've made a bare spot on the trunk of the tree I lean against.

My eyes see nothing.

I shut them and let my sense of smell do its job. I scent the pine needles beneath my feet. Below that, the decay of last autumn's leaves reek of earth and musk. Further away, blacktop from five years ago still smells like it was laid yesterday, fresh rain slicking the surface like oily water.

Further I smell Talyn.

My eyes open as I suck in a deep breath. It expands my lungs, and I hold the many scents that present themselves inside me. Engaging, identifying and cataloging

I exhale slowly.

I'm pleased she's finally degrading. I'm not thrilled with what I think I'm scenting.

It's rare, but not unheard of that a female hybrid can transition and go into heat at the same time.

But it's not a good development. It's calling the dinner bell for any werewolf within a hundred miles.

Lycan Changers hunt their hybrid females in secret.

Humans are already a problem. But they're not the number one problem.

My own kind is the real threat.

6

Talyn

I slop to the bathroom—do my business.

Then do the worst thing I've done since getting up at six a.m.

I look in the mirror.

Oh shit—I look like roadkill.

My face is flushed red like I have a sunburn. My normally clear gray eyes are slightly shiny and bulge in my pinched face like poached eggs with muddy glass dotting the center.

The best news—I have a big zit on my chin.

I am way too old for pimples.

My head slumps. God, it's like I have a wart. All I need is a pointy hat and I'm good to go.

The hell with it. I jerk open the medicine cabinet, grabbing the zit zapper astringent and nail the boil.

I used to have perfect skin.

Not anymore. Now that my crotch is imploding, my skin is boiling from the inside out and my teeth are aching—it's a whole new reality.

I slam the medicine cabinet shut, ignoring my urge to take a second glance at my reflection. Instead I stalk to my pulse.

I swipe the thumb dock and initiate, thinking voice call.

I probably shouldn't do general for this, but there's too many symptoms for me to play around. He's diagnostic, at least. And I know him.

The canned female voice comes online, telling me to think my message after the chime.

A musical note sounds. I wait. When it ends I think:

This message is for Dr. Colbert. This is Dr. Phisher. I'd like to schedule an appointment for a full physical and blood work set. Please phone back with a time that is mutually beneficial.

I think end message.

The screen of my pulse darkens, slowly fading to the deep black of hibernation.

Some of the tenseness leaves my body.

I don't know why I put that off. Oh yeah, because going to another doctor is always awkward when you're one yourself.

And it's a big time-waster.

I guess it won't be a waste of time if there's something to be done.

*

I pet Pooky's head, and she meows her acceptance of my gesture of affection then turns, giving a dismissive tail flick as she jumps to her favorite perch on the top of the fridge.

She gives another plaintive meow.

I put my hands on my hips. “I don't know what you're saying. But I do know you're making me late. It's Friday and we already have our date of Pride and Prejudice, and Ben and Jerry are coming for ice cream.”

Large greenish-gold cat eyes give an unimpressed slow blink. Another meow. The orange that covers her left eye looks back at me like a pirate's patch. Wrong color, same effect.

I sigh. “You haven't forgotten, have you?”

This is normal for me. Talking to my cat. Pooky.

And I'm the counselor.

She gives a really sharp meow and I frown. I toss my pulse inside my handbag. “What's up, Pooky? It better be good. I'm late now because of your shenanigans. I don't know how many more behind-the-ear scratches I have left.” A total lie, of course.

Her paw swats the top of the fridge, and something hard drops to the floor with a sharp clatter.

“What is that?” I ask softly. I bend over and pick it up.

Drop it again as though I touched a flame.

I race to the bathroom, ignoring my blotchy face, and open the medicine cabinet. I push aside Midol, two-year-old mascara and find the tweezers.

I snatch them, leaving the door ajar and run back.

I pluck the object off the ground at the pointy end with the tweezers. I grab a magnifying glass out of my catchall holder of miscellaneous crap.

I hold it above the object to see the detail.

My heart thuds at the realization of what I'm holding.

I have a minor in Biology. Useless in some ways, but I loved learning about all things living.

This is no exception. It's a tooth.

Canine.

Though it looks like a regular wolf's—it's not. I was fascinated with wolves when I was an intern. And I remember holding a wolf canine. Root and all, maybe it was two inches, plus.

But if memory serves, it was certainly not the four and a half inches that sits inside my palm.

The tweezers aren't wide enough to accommodate its length or girth and as I try to examine it, the tooth slips out of the too-small pincers.

When it hits the floor a small bit breaks off. I scoop that from the floor and haul out a plastic zippered bag, dropping it inside. I lift the baggy, shaking the bit of tooth inside.

I think I'll be calling in a favor from my favorite lab geek best friend.

I can't even speculate what I have here. I look up at Pooky. “Who was here, girl?” I ask the cat that can't talk.

She purrs, chartreuse eyes gazing back with typical casual indifference.

“You're no help,” I mutter.

Meow.

I grunt my response. I use tongs this time and clamp the mostly intact large canine and put it in the junk drawer.

Nice way to contaminate all your stuff, Talyn.

And the mystery deepens.

I drop the baggy with the strange piece inside my purse, and swipe my pulse.

I think a message to Arden that I've got something really unusual to show him.

He lives for The Weird.

He'll get right back.

I don't have time to wait. I give a last thoughtful glance at Pooky and go to the garage. I toss the baggy into my post chute and thumb in Arden's full name. The whir of the chute engages, whisking the bit of strangeness to his home directly.

I walk quickly to my car. I'm already late for work. But for once my life's taken an exciting turn.

If one considers finding a five-inch long canine tooth in their home exciting.

7

Merck

There she is, right on schedule.

I dip my head, eyeing my archaic wristwatch. Nope—she's a few minutes late. My brow furrows.

If there's one thing I've noticed about Talyn Phisher in the last two months of tailing her—she's punctual.

Once she's out of her garage and leaving for work. I move to my old-fashioned mode of transport.

I can't be my good wolf self in broad daylight. Someone would take note. Or many someones.

Instead I hop on my fatboy Harley and turn over the engine. Low purring pipes, specially outfitted sans the classic eardrum-splitting wail. Loud noises are hell on Lycan hearing.

I pull away from the curb three blocks from Talyn's little bungalow and make steady progress to her downtown office. I like where it's located.

Phillips street is now a mecca for the vamps. It's been months since the vamps were outed and mundanes are just now appearing at night again.

The Final Enforcement saw to that. And shit, wasn't that something. A fully hybrid vamp/human still works there along with another enforcer who is full vamp.

I shake my head in wonder with a chuckle. They'll let anyone in.

However, gotta count my blessings. It takes the heat of being observed by the astute off my shoulders. Before the vamps were discovered in plain sight, the Lycans were vigilant in their concealment.

Now—with the vamps swinging their dicks in front of the world—the Lycans have a temporary reprieve, even Changers.

My bike rolls down Phillips, and I glide right past the Carpenter Hotel. It's not really a hotel anymore. That was the building's original distinction when it was built over a hundred years ago. Now it's a holding tank for Hunters and others of the supernatural persuasion.

It also houses four business suites on the ground level.

One of those is Talyn's cozy shrink-tank.

That goth female teen who'd come out of there yesterday as Talyn's last patient of the day had the smell of revelation all over her.

When Talyn followed a few minutes later, her smell had been despondent.

The girl had talked, and whatever Talyn had heard was bad. Very.

That's the nature of her work. Talyn will enjoy leaving that behind. Her solitary life of work, home and work again, will end.

She'll join the Midwestern pack and find something she loves to do.

My hands tighten on my grips. They squeak in protest.

And a mate. Don't forget that, Merck—she'll be fucking some other Lycan and having his whelps.

We need all the females we can get, I reason. And the Lanarre pick the Lycan who have the skill set to sniff out the hybrids among the human mundane population.

Whether it be a heightened scent range, protective abilities, discernment. Hell, I still don't know why they picked me. Fifty years I've been on the prowl for transitioning females and I still don't know. None of the Lycan males understand the selection process. And it's a dual-edged sword.

You're like a priest, you serve something honorable, but you can never have that which you honor.

I sigh, pulling into a slot across the street, hogging the entire parking space for my bike.

I grin.

I feed quarters into the meter. They're slow to be received. I won't be swiping my thumbprint for credit payment. That's what Lycans want: a record of my presence to be traced by the mundanes for later reference.

What if someone needs killing? Or something. No—better to be mainly invisible.

I hop onto the street, light pedestrian traffic moves around me like a living river around am immoveable boulder.

The mundanes do so unconsciously. Them deferring to me. Somewhere in all that rudimentary DNA they are aware of their place.

Below.

I stroll causally to the building across the street from the Carpenter Hotel and pretend to investigate the new construction.

I've done this several times. I already know these loft condos will be five in the unit with an elevator for the richies that can shell out the dough to live in the heart of downtown's up-and-coming. Underground parking—pet area—the works. All yours for five hundred K.

I allow a low sound of disgust.

I use the dirtied windows layered in construction dust to watch Talyn in the reflection.

She exits her car, closing the door carefully and stretches.

My brow creases. I catch myself before I can turn but my fingertips tingle with the low-level adrenaline that courses through me.

I flare my nostrils hard.

Heat.

Sex.

Her feminine scent hits me like a sledgehammer between the eyes.

My eyes travel her form, the reflective qualities leave much to be desired.

I can see her unrested eyes, flat and dull. Her skin has all the markings of the turbulent events that will no-doubt transpire. Her gait looks impeded by stiffness.

There's no doubt Talyn's old for a change.

I know that. But she's not moving like an almost thirty-eight year old. She's moving like she's on the good side of seventy.

I bite my lip to keep from grinning.

Joint pain? Check.

Unless she's suddenly developed arthritis then she's degrading.

I lift my nose, scenting hard a second time. I was right. Smelling her sweet pussy isn't distinctive. I've been smelling hers and every other female within a mile my entire life.

Smelling the onset of heat is another matter entirely.

I turn around just as her hand touches the knob.

Talyn hesitates, gripping the handle.

Suddenly she whirls as though sensing me.

Of course she's too slow.

I'm already at my bike and feigning a once over at the throttle and gears.

Her eyes burn over me and my breath boils inside my throat.

My cock hardens against the uniform of denims I wear to blend with the humans.

Talyn's scent sharpens, drifting over the cars that move past—the fifty people that mill between her and me.

I crouch down, wincing at the pinching of my dick, shifting to relieve the pressure.

Talyn's heat engulfs me as though she's standing beside me. Suffocating me.

I don't look up, I pretend to check my bike.

A full minute passes.

When the sensation of her eyes are gone, and more importantly—the exquisite smell of her scent has faded, I rise.

Looking both ways, I cross the street.

I don't move toward the Carpenter Hotel, but towards the back.

Soon, I vow through gritted teeth.

8

Talyn

The small hairs at my nape rise. The skin feels as though someone is directly behind me, exhaling their hot breath on my neck.

I spin.

And gaze across Phillips street.

Okay—I'm well and truly crazy. Using a word in my mind that is so much more than a swear word in my profession.

Bonkers. Crazier than a loon. Insane. Nuts. A fry short of a Happy Meal.

Yup.

But then my eyes find him.

I blink.

He's busy. Every inch of him. Encased in tight jeans and a black t-shirt.

I lick my lips. Instant lust is not something I'm prone to. I still have a set of D batteries for my favorite dildo lying around. But now with pulse tech, everything is charged via pulse power.

Right now I'm really pulsing.

The same wave of heat washes over me. But instead of me thinking it's a hot flash, I recognize it for what it is.

I'm in lust. For a complete stranger.

A biker, by the looks of it.

I bite my lip, squeezing my thighs together for the second time in twenty-four hours.

I remember that pair of blue eyes from the other night. The ones I didn't imagine.

The guy that came on to me at the gym last night had blue eyes too—Jimmy, Johnnie? I can't remember, he was so underwhelming.

Look up.

He doesn't.

He's crouched down, his muscular ass holding the rest of his hotness just above the ground as he checks the engine on a sleek black Harley. His head dips as he inspects the bike. I pick out the highlights the sun casts in  his military short, nutmeg-colored hair.

Come on, Talyn.

Still, I can't take my eyes off him. Every time he leans forward to check another thing, a tricep or bicep bulges cooperatively.

And I find myself latching onto the bulge in his jeans. Which seems pretty large for a guy doing a little engine perusal.

The more I stare, the more I flush with desire. My knees literally weaken, my heart speeds, palms dampening.

I wipe them on my short skirt.

Get a grip.

He obviously won't look at me.

I give a shaky laugh. You're not that interesting, princess. Move on.

I turn and finish opening the door. My damp skin chills as the AC hits me as I move inside the building.

I feel foolish.

That doesn't stop me from hanging back in the shadows and watching him another three full minutes.

Nor does the gasp from my mouth get stifled when he rises.

He's tall—a brick house of a man. Broad shoulders shift as he strides into two-way traffic, deftly dodging impact by two cars with only inches to spare.

His fingers flex as he hops with a fluid grace to the curb then marches around my building, going toward the back. He doesn't turn in my direction.

Does he have blue eyes?

Those blue eyes.

I rush into my office and catch sight of Patty, the assistant who serves both offices on this side of the building.

“Hi!” I call out breathlessly.

She sees the look on my face and begins to rise.

I immediately feel ridiculous. “No, sit! I'm just checking on something.”

Someone. Some total stranger who couldn't care less about me.

But I have to know why I had that spark of intuition. There were fifty people on the street. Why did I take note of only him?

Because he's hot as hell.

There is that. But I know it has got to be more.

I rip around to the back, fling open the shade with a yank of the cord and a face fills the glass.

I scream.

It's the guy from the gym.

9

Patty and I sit together in two chairs.

Across from Jamie.

This is how bad of a counselor I am: I can't even remember the guy's name who tried to ask me out.

However, I do recall the yoga pants comment and cringe. I'm being kind, thinking he was asking me out. I'm not a Gold Gym Body Babe. I'm a late-thirties, curvy-to-the max, bookish type.

I don't do casual. I don't do losers. I think Jamie's really barking up the wrong tree.

“Listen, I appreciate your interest,” I begin.

Patty's eyes are very large in her face as she sits beside me with her hands tightly clasped.

I'm tense, but direct. I can do this. “But you can't visit my place of work for reasons other than business.”

Jamie leans back on the lobby couch. I'm just waiting for him to pitch a tent.

Immediately I assess him. Arrogant, cold—indifferent. He has my psyche flags rising and bonking me directly between my eyes.

His fingers drum on the back of the couch and he cocks his head, dirty blond hair overshooting the tips of his ears. “There's no law against showing up here and getting a little emotional help?” He smirks, his teeth are very white. A tad sharkish.

I suppress a shiver.

He's kind of handsome. When he doesn't open his mouth. That seems to be the main problem.

And I don't think I can help him with that.

I smile politely. The effort feels like a Ronald McDonald mask. “You're right of course.”

Placate.

His grin escalates to condescending.

“However, after our interlude last night at the gym, I thought I was quite clear that my interest in you doesn't extend beyond friendship.”

Distance.

He nods as though thinking it over. I'm pretty sure he's not. “Oh you were, there's no doubt.”

I rise to physically cue the conclusion of the impromptu meeting.

Patty takes that as a hint, and with her wide eyes bulging out of her face, she rounds the corner of her desk a few paces away.

She'll be pulsing the police about now.

I form puzzlement on my features as I turn to face him.

Jamie stands, uncomfortably close to me. I fight not to back away.

No negotiation.

“Don't look confused, doctor.”

My palms dampen.

Inform.

“I'm just uncertain as to why you've come here.”

His hand locks around my wrist like a snakebite.

My pulse obligingly pushes against his fingers as they tighten around the small bones. Fear grips me and I instantly bury it in a deep grave.

I inhale slowly and let it out, making no move to fight his grip.

Diffuse. I open my mouth and he interrupts, his eyes flicking to my parted lips.

Adrenaline expands like an air bubble in a vast ocean.

“Now let me be clear. I want to be seen—in a professional capacity, Doctor Phisher.”

Terror smothers me. My lips part in readiness for a scream, and my expression of neutrality slips.

His grip imperceptibly tightens.

I can't help the whimper of pain when my already tender joints suffer from his hold.

“Patty,” I murmur quietly, desperately hoping she's followed protocol. No one who enters from the back is considered friendly admittance.

She doesn't reply and I say the thing that I haven't been trained for. I say the human thing, “Please, don't hurt me.” My voice is low and calm. My heart pounds. I jerk my wrist and he clamps down.

I moan at the pressure, sweat popping out on my forehead, upper lip, my palms are slick with it. I look at my hand. It's mottled from his vice-like grip.

A cruel smile fills his face like water pouring into a cup.

Suddenly the door he came through slams open, and the stranger walks through as the knob buries itself in the wall.

I look at him, startled, and immediately drown in the sea of his eyes. They're more blue than a summer sky.

That gaze travels to where Jamie's hand latches my wrist. The edges of those azure eyes tighten like a wrench. “I've lost my way,” he says.

I blink stupidly. His voice captures me, soothing the frayed edges of my nerves.

How did I know if he spoke it would be a melody only I could hear?

Jamie jerks me closer and a small pain sound escapes before I can stop it.

I don't catch what happens next, it's too fast. He's soundless—the stranger's attack.

Patty screams.

It's the blood, I think numbly.

I'm covered in it. It smells like metallic rain and I stumble back, the soreness of my wrist lost to what's in front of me.

Jamie's nose is broken—not a little. Shattered like a crimson pancake in the middle of his face.

He howls and releases me.

I sit down hard on my ass, giving a sob-like laugh that all those squats must be working because there's no butt bone to jab me as I fall.

I look up and the stranger raises his fist to strike a bloodied Jamie again.

“Don't,” I call out softly, my injured arm rising.

His intense gaze looks at my bruised wrist. Then he captures my eyes.  My core clenches with a responsive clench and I involuntarily moan.

Not in pain.

His eyes slim on me as though he knows my body's reaction to him. “Why?” he grits. His gaze pierces me.

I wet my lips and he tracks the movement. “Because violence won't solve anything,” I manage.

He hesitates, his balled fist is as big as a dinner plate, his bicep is almost the size of my waist.

Instead he grabs Jamie's shirt and easily hauls him to his feet.

I crab walk backwards.

He scares me.

I close my eyes as brilliant, raw shame has its way with me.

I want him.

“Don't touch her again—ever.”

My eyes snap open as he throws Jamie before he can reply. Of course, he has to breathe through his mouth now so maybe that's a little complicated.

He slams into the wall. Drywall dust plumes as his body slides down and the clear outline of his body is embedded in the wall.

I giggle, and vaguely recognize I'm in shock.

The stranger's eyes run over me from head to toe, as though taking a damage assessment.

He heaves a sigh of disgust, and strides out the way he came in.

Probably doesn't like what he sees. I'm instantly ashamed. I want to lose my old insecurities, not nurture them.

In the middle of the chaos, I'm worried about his opinion. A man I don't even know.

Patty helps me get up as sirens fill the distance.

“Thank you,” I tell her. Thanking her for pulsing the police.

Just then my first appointment, and a new patient walks in—surveys the carnage, and walks right back out.

He won't be back.

I sink back down on the lobby couch and put my head in my hands as police pour through the doors.

My last thought before things go to hell is: did he ever find his way?

Because he sure as hell didn't seem lost to me.

10

Merck

Fuck me.

And fuck me again.

Talk about blowing it big time. Couldn't I have just let the cops come and haul that dumb mundane thug away? Why did I have to white knight the thing and run in there?

Because I'm letting my emotions rule me like a bitch. Yeah.

I revealed myself to the change before her time!

I could kick my own ass.

I pace back and forth inside my condo. If there were carpet it'd be threadbare where I tread.

I force myself to stop, leaning a forearm against the window trim, trying to come down from my mistake.

The wide and fast-flowing Big Sioux river flows below. Water muddied from a late spring deluge runs alongside a path I jog on. Close to where the former underground meetings took place in Falls Park. Before Marc was eliminated. I miss the prick. He made shit interesting.

I give a savage kick to the wall, leaving a hole where my foot just connected. A rage-filled exhale sounds like a hoarse shout in my sparsely furnished condo.

I like it that way.

Just Me. By myself. Not a lot of shit to take care of. No pets. No nothing.

My emotions burn, lodging tightly inside my chest.

Her fear.

I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose.

Talyn's fear forced me.

I was right outside the Carpenter Hotel, per usual. Watching the mundanes scurry around like ants going to and from their various hills.

I'm accustomed to her scent. She's a change. I know it intimately.

Then it morphed.

I somehow missed numbnuts as he charged down the back entrance to the old hotel and Talyn's office.

My fault—that complacency.

What had Charles been drilling into our heads for centuries? Never let a change be unsupervised before transition.

They are at their most vulnerable.

Then the scent of her fear swamps me. If I can break this apart intellectually I'd realize I never had a chance.

I reacted as though we were mated.

I've had plenty of changes get into a tight spot, some sensitive human males can sometimes scent something. They don't know what it is about the female that's so enticing. But they do know they want to fuck them. Maybe they have a trace of Lycan. I don't give a rat's ass. Those mundane males who take leave of their senses after a brief acquaintance with yours truly end up canned.

In the garbage.

Rivers.

Coffins.

Yeah. Their disposal isn't a concern. It's about the timing—executing them after they've been sniffing around but the change isn't there.

I've only had to exterminate one mundane in fifty years in front of the change. I was disciplined. In control.

Not this time.

I didn't give two shits and a fuck if the world was sitting down watching with a bowl of popcorn in hand.

Talyn needed me. Her scent demanded it. And I came running like her well-trained dog. I'm disgusted with myself and my utter lack of control.

And her eyes after I was done looking her over—making sure that stupid male's blood was the only blood on her.

I had to fight every instinct not to heal the mark on her body he put there.

But her eyes had been wounded—so wounded.

And I'd been disgusted with my actions. The action of interfering when the danger to her hadn't escalated. And that I stopped beating the male on her request.

Her voice had undone me like a ball of twine rolled down a hill.

I should have finished that male.

I will finish him.

When Talyn isn't around. Unfortunately, she's on guard now.

I jerk away from the window, my tongue moving to the hole in my mouth where a missing incisor is regrowing. Hurts like a bitch. Funny thing is, it's like hitting a piece of furniture then showing up with a bruise later. Who the hell ever remembers how they got it? For the life of me, I can't remember when I tore the sucker out—or it fell out.

I hate not having all the teeth in my head.

*

A low buzz vibrates in my pants pocket. I pluck my pulse, careful not to inadvertently thumb it open.

I read the message and grunt.  Perfect.

Charlesʼ name flashes for accept voice call.

I think ignore.

The flashing name vanishes.

I can't deal with my Alpha right now. He'll shit a granny smith if he finds out the colossal fuck up that was me today. Worse, he might think I need a babysitter in the form of a second Lycan.

I haven't had that dubious dishonor yet. And I don't want it.

The thought sprouts my talons and hair bleeds like spilt water over my skin in a downy coat of brownish-red.

I can't tolerate the idea of another Lycan being within one hundred miles of Talyn.

She's a bitch in heat, and on the verge of degrading for the change.

Talyn is very attractive right now to a certain percentage of the population.

A very small but dangerous one.

11

Talyn

“I'm sorry, ma'am—there's nothing we can do. As far as we can see, this man is the victim.”

Ma'am.

I can hardly breathe I'm so angry.

Jamie is playing victim like a Broadway-trained actor. He's rolling around on the gurney, moaning about his nose while medics try to patch him up

I fold my arms. “Listen, Officer,” my eyes flick to his badge and the luminescent characters flash his info: Cochran, Twelve-year veteran, Psyche profile clean. I ignore the rest of his flashing stats on the live badge, “Cochran.”

He smiles tolerantly.

I am so far from tolerant right now I can hardly stand myself. “That man accosted me. He touched me.”

Maybe I'm being too sensitive.

He smirks. “Touched you?”

Nope. Not too sensitive.

I take a deep breath. Another. “He barged in through the back of my office, demanding to be seen without an appointment, and then when I made it clear he was to leave, he grabbed my wrist.” I hold up my arm where a vague red outline, and the beginnings of a bruise can be seen.

Cochran nods indulgently.

I want to hit him. In fact, I'm in a very violent mood today.

Cochran jerks his thumb behind him at Jamie. “He said you two had a falling out at the gym last night?” His eyebrows rise.

What? Clearly he's delusional.

I spread my fingers on my chest, intuiting his inference. “We are not together.”

He nods, eyes glued to my chest as he hooks his thumbs inside the pockets of his deep navy uniform trousers.

Unbelievable.

I think steam is escaping through my ears. The hell with counseling, I think I'm becoming a she-devil.

“Patty!” I call out loudly.

She runs to my side.

“Did this guy not come in the back and grab me?”

She nods quickly.

Finally. I turn triumphantly to Cochran and swing my palm out as if to say, see?

Cochran turns to Patty and says, “Now Miss Hershey, you remember stating that you opened the door and invited Mr. Duncan inside.”

Miss.

His eyebrows rise. That must be the only look he has. Perpetual question mode.

Patty nods. Her eyes dart to me.

I die a little inside.

“Further, you mentioned that Ms. Phisher, and the victim, Jamie Duncan, know each other.”

Victim.

She nods more slowly this time.

“It's Doctor, Officer Cochran,” I correct through clenched teeth.

He gives a vague nod. “Right.”

I cross my arms again, stepping into his personal space. I'm not a small woman. I stand every bit of my five foot nine inches, staring him down. “Is this it then? I can't get a restraining order?”

Cochran spreads his arms away from his body as though I am the one being unreasonable.

Holy mother of God.

“If there were probable cause. As it stands, from my perspective as a police officer, there's a guy that you know, whom your secretary invited in. Then he gives you a little squeeze and you're crying foul.” He shrugs, giving a minute shake of his head. “You understand we can't get in the middle of lover's quarrels.”

My eyes move to Jamie's.

He smiles through the drying blood on his face.

My head starts to throb then my teeth. When the flush starts, I give up.

“Fine,” my face is on fire, “if you won't help me, I'll go to someone who will.”

Cochran's eyes narrow. My subtle threat and dis being clearly received. “The law doesn't look kindly on any form of vigilante justice, Ms. Phisher.”

“Doctor!” I yell into his face.

He smiles benignly.

I itch to slap him, and he knows it.

“Final Enforcement, you weak man,” I seethe.

“Talyn,” Patty says in a timid voice at my elbow.

“You can insult me all you like, Doctor Phisher.” His tone of voice tells me how much he doesn't want to acknowledge my status.

But he will. I've earned it. Especially today.

“Yet the facts are what they are. Do not take matters into your own hands. Further, an unknown assailant attacked Jamie Duncan—yet, somehow he's not a problem?”

Cochran shakes his head then taps his thumb to his pulsepad.

Cochran's silent for a few seconds as he communicates into his device.

Then he turns it around for my perusal. “Both Miss Hershey and Jamie Duncan have thumbed their unique memory signature into the police record.”

He steps closer. Uncomfortably so.

I don't give an inch.

He notices, looming over me. “Is this the man who attacked Jamie Duncan?”

There he is, in living pulse color. The stranger.

His eyes are green in the colored rendering from the short-term memory fragments the pulse device sucked from the two witnessesʼ brainwaves.

Sometimes I loathe technology.

I glare up at Cochran. “His eyes are blue.”

I walk to my office and slam the door, ending his inquest. He moves to the outside of the wood and says, “We'll be in touch, Doctor Phisher.”

I don't reply.

I pluck my pulse from my pocket and contact Final Enforcement. They'll find my stranger, and maybe do something about Duncan.

I get my message sent even with my fingers quaking.

12

Talyn

I drive my car home like a zombie. Go through the motions of feeding Pooky (who doesn't care that I'm half-dead and stupid; the miracle of cat ownership), and take off my blood stained mess of an outfit. I hesitate between the laundry hamper and the trash.

I pitch the gory clothes inside the separator. I don't even recycle them. I pulse the part of the separator labeled solid waste, and listen to the whir and grind as it evacuates the chute of the proof of my day.

I open my freezer and snag a pint of ice cream. I plop down on my couch with a spoon stuck in a Ben and Jerry's carton of Chunky Monkey and sigh with bliss.

At least some things remain the same.

My hair hangs in wet strands from a scorching shower, Pooky has taken up residency at my feet and the flush comes and goes like a malfunctioning stoplight. My female bits are crying out for attention of the male variety, but they sort of ache too.

I'm a mess and Cochran rubbed me the absolute wrong way. No pun there!

I give a vicious stab and swirl inside the container.

And Final Enforcement left me a canned message about a rep coming by to see me in the next twenty-four hours.

“Pfft!” I pierce the ice cream again with my spoon, swirling the slowly melting pint of goodness. “That dumb butt wouldn't know a crime if it bit him on the ass,” I mutter.

Pooky meows her assent.

I stroke her behind the ears and she moves her paws back and forth, purring.

“Cats should rule the world,” I say absently.

The doorbell rings.

I toss my head back on the couch and groan.

Can't I just lick my wounds in private?

Apparently not.

Pooky appears affronted, and scats to jump on top of the fridge. I look at her with longing. That'd be wonderful. I want to disappear? Fine, a leap on top of the fridge takes care of all my ills.

Instead, I sigh, setting my now-melting ice cream on my glass topped coffee table. I walk to the door, and disregarding the peephole, I swing it wide.

Arden stands there blinking rapidly behind his old-fashioned owl glasses. Too cheap to get his peepers lasered.

Him I'm glad to see.

“Hey Talyn, I got your sample.” He swings up the baggy with the  canine chunk I sent via post chute.

“Oh!” I say, slightly giddy for anything positive to grab onto.

His face falls. “It's really not that great of news.”

I deflate. “Oh,” I repeat in a completely different tone.

I open the door wide, swinging my palm to indicate entry.

He enters, taking in the small living room. His eyes light on the pint of B&J.

He puts his hands up underneath his chin and does a fake puppy dog pant and beg.

“Okay, you jerk—but you can't have the Chunky Monkey.”

“Ah-huh.” More owl blinking.

I jerk a thumb toward the kitchen. “You know where it's at.”

Arden walks to the kitchen and begins rifling around in my silverware drawer. I listen to him not finding a spoon and he opens up the dishwasher, grabbing a clean spoon. He hunts in the freezer and I give a little groan when he comes out with the Cherry Garcia.

“Dick,” I say, but I'm smiling.

He points the spoon at me. “And you—Counselor Phisher—are very unprofessional.”

I laugh. “Off the clock, Arden.”

His smile is soft. He knows me. We've been friends since high school. Different paths—kindred souls.

I watch him consume half a pint. I give a lustful glance at his slim figure. He eats twice what I do and doesn't deign to work out. I shake my head. Some people.

“So,” I say, licking my spoon and recapping my pint.

“So—you're right, Sherlock Holmes—canine.”

“Don't go all Latin on me, Arden—just give me the skinny.”

He laughs. “Haven't heard that one in awhile.”

I hold up my palms, my long-sleeved shirt cuffs of my pajama top sliding away from my hands. “I'm getting old.”

His face changes to one of concern, his eyes latching onto my arm. “What?”

“Your wrist. What happened, Tal?”

I glance away then look back. “It's a long story.”

He leans against the sofa back, crushing the carton of ice cream in his hand. “I've got time. I always have time for you.”

A hot tear rolls unbidden, and definitely uninvited down my face.

“Hey. It's okay.” Arden doesn't move to comfort me. He knows better. He just waits.

Finally, I tell him.

When I'm done his face is grim. “Well, there's no way in hell that these things are related but I'm not a big believer in coincidence either. Because statistically—there's no such thing.”

I swipe at my eyes. “Yeah.”

“So I'm going to give it to you straight. Final Enforcement's got a big time rep as being a sort of—how can I put it nicely—a last resort, and they have a few vamps fanging around there.”

He cups his chin. “And this tooth?”

“Tooth?” I repeat stupidly, still coming down from the mess of retelling my day.

“Fang,” Arden corrects.

“Okay, so—how did a wolf tooth get in my house?”

“Let's do an Occam's razor on this.” He lifts his shoulders. “The most simple answer is usually correct.”

I huff and feel my face redden. “I'm not a dumb ass.”

He nods. “Let me just say the words. This creature would've had to be inside your home, right?”

Of course. “Yes. How did a wolf get in my house? And better yet—why—and no damage?” I shake my head at the lack of sense the entire thing makes.

“No.” His light brown eyes meet mine. “Wolf-like.”

“What?” My jubilant mood at seeing Arden disintegrates, the ice cream beginning a slow reverse churn in my stomach.

“If that tooth is indicative of size, and I assume it is, this is a nearly seven-foot creature, which has wolf characteristics.”

I'm holding my breath.

Arden continues, “And the other characteristics are canine. So no. Not really wolf.”

My breath releases in a rush.

“What is it?”

“We know that vamps exist now so it got me thinking—”

I cover my mouth with both hands, guessing through my fingers, “Lycanthrope.”

The word pounds the silence inside my house to dust.

13

Talyn

“Say something, Talyn.”

I feel like a fish chucked out on a sand spit. Gasping and squirming.

I open my mouth to reply and the doorbell rings.

Arden and I jump at the same time. I give a nervous laugh, and he bounces to his feet. “Let me get that.”

I stand as well. “Don't play protector. You're a lab geek, not a super-hero.”

Arden gives me a crooked smile. “Let a guy pretend, Talyn.”

Someone on the other side of the solid wood door pounds with a fist. A women's voice yells, “Final Enforcement.”

Oh good. “I'm expecting them,” I explain to Arden as I rush to the door.

I swing it open and blink.

A tiny woman stands in front of me, picking her nail with an illegal switch blade.

I swallow hard. “Identification, please.”

She turns to face me, and flicks her flashing badge with a finger. Narah Adrienne, age twenty-four, One citation—Exonerated, 2022, vampire hybrid, Level 10 proficient.

I feel my eyes widen, and back up a step. The whole vampire thing still gives me pause.

Adrienne moves in, giving a small shiver as she crosses my threshold. “Seen enough?” Her voice is as tart as a lemon.

I nod, remember who the hell I am, and straighten my spine.

“I'm Enforcer Adrienne, assigned to case number,” she recites in a bored voice, “1001.”

“Nice to meet you,” I manage. “I'm Doctor Talyn Phisher.”

“I know,” she says, sharp eyes taking in my home. She spots Arden, narrowing her golden-green gaze on him.

Arden had backed up when he read Adrienne's badge. Her body is a deadly weapon. Not her weapons.

Her.

“Who are you?” she shoots at him, her voice like a club.

“Arden,” he replies quietly. “Who are you to the client,” she rephrases, walking around me and going straight for him.

He retreats.

A ghost of a smile rides her lips.

“He's my friend. He was here for a visit. Can we get down to the brass tacks, Enforcer Adrienne?”

She spins. It's so fast a movement I can't track it. More like a blur. “Brass tacks, huh?”

I'm unnerved and determined not to show it. I nod. “I think there's something stalking me.”

Adrienne flips long corn rows of platinum hair over her shoulder. Her inked body is lithe, sensuously muscled. Not from artificial time in the gym, like what I do just so I'm not a complete flab monster—but from her daily job.

“Something?” she asks, but not like she's really listening. Her catlike eyes flash to mine like twin suns washed by emerald. “Tell me.”

I blink. Seems like I've been doing a lot of that lately.

I recount everything. The blue eyes appearing. The creep from the gym, the stranger who I believe to be the mysterious blue-eyed man appearing—and beating the hell out of Jamie Duncan. When I finish with the way Cochran dealt with everything, Adrienne gives a low chuckle.

I frown. Cochran wasn't even vaguely amusing.

Her finger runs along my sofa table. I notice she's strategically placed herself between my front entrance, and the French glass doors leading to my small patch of back yard. She wants both exits in sight.

“What's your confidentiality policy?” Arden asks suddenly.

She cocks a pale eyebrow. “Are you speaking for Dr. Phisher?”

“Talyn,” I say.

She gives a tight chin dip in acknowledgment.

“No, but I was wondering.” I look at Arden and we exchange a look of understanding.

“I don't tell anyone anything.” Narah Adrienne doesn't over-explain things. She's a fact-stater. It makes me curious as to her background.

I'll pulse Google her later.

She cocks her head, eyeing me. Her eyes glitter like peridot jewels. I can't see fangs, though I'm ashamed to admit I have an almost freak show-act curiosity about vampires. Reality pulsevision just isn't enough.

Arden holds up the baggie with the canine.

Narah tracks it with eyes like a predator. She snatches it before he can take his next breath. We simultaneously gasp.

Adrienne ignores our reaction.

“Where's the original piece that this came off from?” Her eyes light on me with new interest.

Maybe I'm not some quack after all.

I walk to the junk drawer and slide it open.

I step back, sucking in air.

The tooth. It's gone.

Enforcer Adrienne must see my panic and she's by my side in a blur of pale flesh before I can form a question. “What is it?”

I feel clumsy—thick. “I had it right here—in my junk drawer.”

Narah asks, “How big was it?”

I widen my index fingers to about five inches apart.

Narah's low whistle threads through the kitchen like a creepy string plucked. “Looks like you've got yourself a Lycan problem.”

Arden gives me another look.

Her gaze moves between us, noting the glance. “What's with all the surreptitious looks, guys?”

“We wondered,” Arden says.

Adrienne's lips tilt. “You wondered, huh?”

“What with the world all vamping out,” he says then gives her a guilty look.

“It's okay, Arden—there's a lot of miscommunication.” She seems resigned to that fact.

Arden smiles slightly. “I don't know. You're as lethal as I thought a vampire would be.”

She grins. Fangs appear like sharp little pearly curved claws.

We back away.

“Chill out. I can't smile without some fang.”

I'm as tense as I've ever been in my life.

Arden recovers first. “So you're saying there are Lycans.”

“Yeah.”

I'm pretty sure the world at large doesn't need to know that yet.

We look at each other again, he shrugs. “So what can you do?” I ask, frustrated.

“Depends on what our boy wants.” She lifts a shoulder, black tank perfectly matching black combat pants. Weapons stud her belt, hanging off her like deadly jewelry. Except for her gage plugs in her earlobes, she doesn't wear any. No—I take that back—a slim metal band of Tungsten encircles her left ring finger.

“That's it,” I fling my hands out. “I don't know what he wants.”

Her pupils dilate, capturing my gaze. A weird sensation like static electricity flows over me and is gone. “Quack like a duck.”

“What?” I reflexively laugh.

Adrienne frowns.

Arden cooperatively quacks behind me.

I whip my head in his direction. I'm a little alarmed at how realistic he sounds.

His face is slack, eyes glazed.

I turn back to Adrienne and she says, “Okay—so here's the news: you're a hybrid.”

“A what?” I ask in a choked voice.

“Part-human, part-Lycan.”

I shake my head. It was a mistake to call in Final Enforcement.

She nods. “It's okay. A doctor will find abnormalities during a rudimentary physical. They're really looking for that now.” She chuckles again as though sharing a personal joke with herself.

I'm not laughing. I sit on my bar stool by the kitchen peninsula. Hard.

She continues. “That's why you've got a Changer sniffing around.”

“A Changer?” I ask through numb lips.

“Yup. You're Lycan enough to be changed and he's probably the boy assigned to do it.”

“Blue-eyes?” I ask, though I don't feel like I really need the confirmation.

“How bad did he tear up the asshole—Duncan?”

I don't even pause, “Badly. And fast.”

She nods thoughtfully. “Okay, so he won't hurt you.” She throws up her palms.

A quack sounds.

Adrienne's face screws into annoyance. She looks at Arden. “Stop quacking.”

Arden wakes up.

“That didn't work on me,” I note.

Adrienne looks at me, and I notice for the first time she's sort of pretty beneath all the piercings, tats and gage plugs.

She shakes her head. “A little test of mine. Lycans are resistant to vampire thrall.”

God. “Well that's something, I guess.”

We glance at Arden. He looks insulted. We ignore him.

Adrienne puts hands to hips. “So you're calling me in to—what?”

“He's stalking me—this Lycan man,” I explain to her slowly.

“Don't condescend to me, Dr. Phisher.” Her voice is instantly cold.

“I apologize, that wasn't my intention.”

“Might be natural,” she says coolly, her pale eyebrows rising slowly.

We stare at each other.

Finally she says something that gets my full attention, “He is a protector—not a stalker.”

“I don't want—if I am—Lycan, to be changed or whatever he's planning. He has no right.”

Adrienne's head dumps to her breastbone, and she speaks to the floor. “This isn't about rights.” Her face rises, eyes locking with mine. “You will die without him.”

“Die?”

She gives a sharp nod.

“What's his role?” I ask. I have to ask.

“It's different for Lycans, I guess. For vamp female hybrids, a male Turner brings you over through blood exchange.”

Gross.

She reads my expression and laughs.

“So he's going to fang her?” Arden asks with a nervous chuckle.

“Nope,” she says, “he's going to fuck her.”

14

Merck

I scent the female vampire hybrid the instant she slides out of her vintage Mustang.

I don't attack for a couple of reasons. One: she's female. Two: she's Final Enforcement. The word on the supernatural street is she has two males. Vampires—one a former Hunter.

My female would never be in a job as dangerous as this one.

I hang back, watching their conversation from my vantage point in a huge ash tree. My talons bite deeply furrowed bark, readying my stance in case the truly bizarre happens.

And Narah Adrienne decides to go berserker on my change.

When Talyn collapses, Adrienne reaches for her, and I jump from my perch.

I loathe what I'll have to do but I can't have anything happen to Talyn.

I rush the back door, shouldering through the glass in a ball of speed. It shatters into tiny pieces.

Non-tempered glass shreds me into ribbons.

A human male shrieks, pinwheeling backwards.

Hair sprouts from my skin as I go wolfen. I shake hard, the glass clinks to the ground as my skin repairs the shallow cuts that cover my exposed flesh.

Narah Adrienne looks up from an unconscious Talyn.

“Get the fuck away from my change, vamp.”

She rises smoothly, a wisp of a female and hisses, standing protectively over Talyn's body. “Do your worst, wolf.”

My eyes flick to the naked silver hardware in her hands.

I charge anyway.

I'm almost on her when two vampires plow through the glass carnage.

Narah's gaze shifts to their presence, and that's all the distraction I need. I backhand her, her head whipping to the left.

Her foot also connects with my chin but she's going down.

The two vamps close in.

They're her mates, I realize through scent alone. Their claim is all over her, knitted between them in a trio signature of claiming.

And pretty soon, my life will be next thing they claim.

THE END

SHIFTER

An Alpha Claim Brief-Bites® Novelette

Episode 2

New York Times Bestselling Author(s)

MARATA EROS

TAMARA ROSE BLODGETT

All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 2015 Marata Eros

Copyright © 2015 Tamara Rose Blodgett

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

www.tamararoseblodgett.com

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Marata Eros FB Fan Page

Cover art by: Willsin Rowe

Proofed by: Corinna

Synopsis:

Who can Talyn trust? Certainly not those she thought.

As the evidence mounts that something is seriously wrong, Talyn gains strength from the sameness of her life. Only to have it shattered when a seemingly innocent come-on turns out to be the beginning of the end of the life she knows.

When the local police disregard the facts, Talyn receives unconventional assistance in the form of Enforcer Narah Adrienne.

Until she finds that there is no assisting what plagues her, and that she's more sought after than she could have ever imagined....

1

Talyn

I open my eyes in the middle of world war three.

Two huge men crash through my already broken french doors, and immediately separate, staking their claim to the perimeter of my living room on opposing sides.

I try to sit up and heat sears through me. I groan.

“Stay down,” Enforcer Adrienne commands in a low voice of authority. A hand flashes above me like a flesh lightning strike and she flies backward, her foot connecting with a strong jaw on the way down.

Blue eyes.

But he's got more than blue eyes happening now—he's not all human.

Sharp teeth are barely contained in his mouth, a snub snout has wide nostrils that flare with his obvious emotion. He's seven feet tall of solid  muscle. Forget six packs—he's got a keyboard of muscle on his stomach.

And he just attacked Enforcer Adrienne.

She gives back as good as she gets, his face rocking from the impact of her well-placed kick.

He stumbles backward.

The two men who came in through my back door open their mouths and hiss.

Oh my God—it's supernatural week. Hysteria begins to have its way with me.

I roll over, crawling through the bodies and try to reach the kitchen.

My gaze frantically rolls around the space as grappling begins behind me. Where the hell is Pooky—where is Arden?

“Tal!” I hear a geeky squeak from my left. I fling my hand out without thinking. Our hands touch. I hang on for dear life as Arden drags me to him. I look up in surprise, realizing Arden's stronger than he looks.

A lamp crashes and an electrical surge sparks from my archaic electrical connection.

Adrienne leaps to her feet, moving her jaw back and forth and comes to crouch in front of me and Arden protectively.

She and Blue Eyes square off. The two males look ready to pounce.

“Stand down, Lycan.”

The huge creature backs toward the door as the two vampires charge forward.

“No!” Adrienne says and they hesitate. “He's in Changing mode, guys. He's all hot to transition Dr. Phisher.”

The two huge men look like they'd like to transition him.

I note Adrienne calls me by my official title.

“Aeslin—Matthews, it's okay,” she says, clearly trying to talk them down.

The one with the bald head growls, “The hell it is, this mutt just struck our female.”

Adrienne nods as if she wasn't the one who was just hit. “I get it. But this is part of the job. You guys can't just burst in here every time some supe gets a bee buzzing around in their bonnet about bringing it.”

The other male, still giving Blue Eyes the stink eye, straightens slightly. “Nor can we stand back and watch another male beat on our female.”

Blue Eyes stands in the periphery, chest heaving, eyes darting surreptitiously between the trio.

Narah slaps her hands on her hips and gives a harsh exhale. “Males,” she mutters. She swivels her head, whipping all those small braids over her shoulders.

She turns her attention to Blue Eyes. “Name,” Adrienne barks.

“Merck,” he says with a voice that hovers between human and other. To my ears his voice sounds like gravel falling.

“Okay,” she spreads her hands. “Don't make me kick your Lycan ass.” The two males by her side protest. “Shh, Aeslin,” she turns to look at the slightly taller vampire of the two. His dark hair is in sharp contrast to the other guy—Matthewsʼ—nearly bald head. Her hand reaches up and cups his jaw. His face softens at her touch. If a face that hard can be called soft.

His own hand covers hers but he never takes his eyes off Merck.

I'm hoping I can just become invisible.

“Stay out of this, vampire,” Merck says.

I can't take my eyes off the strange half-form of Merck. He looks like a huge human man, with a superimposed image of a wolf over everything. Short talons grace his fingertips in molted colors of beige, ivory and tan. A light coating of reddish-brown hair runs over his exposed skin.

And there's a lot of skin flashing.

Lust strikes me like fiery pain and I can't stifle the groan.

Merck's gaze finds me in the corner, huddling against Arden.

Fear scorches me. It mixes with my lust in an intoxicating rush of I want him.

His eyes remain the same. I'd know them anywhere. He's the one that protected me from Jamie Duncan.

He's also the one who was staring at me through my office window.

Adrienne steps between us, blocking my view of this luscious wolf-man. Werewolf.

Lycan.

“I can't have you taking out a client, wolf.”

I can see the corners of his elbows around her body as he folds his arms in a very human-like gesture. “I have no intention of harming Talyn Phisher. You, of all people, should understand my intent.” He sounds like he has a speech impediment, of the growling variety.

Adrienne's men stay close but don't try for Merck again.

“The humans are just getting used to us being in the picture, we don't need the complication of introducing the entire supernatural underworld in all its stunning variety to them.”

“I don't give a damn about political correctness or the humansʼ sensibilities. I have a change, and by moon, I'm going to transition her.”

I frown, bristling. Oh really?

“Adrienne said you need to sex her,” Arden says unhelpfully, and I elbow him.

“Ouch! Damn—Tal, he's not going to beat on us.”

“And you're sure because this is so normal?” I swing my palm at the four dangerous supernaturals, a busted up house filled with estrogen, testosterone and everyone on edge. Odds are high for more violence. “I'd like to say something.”

All eyes turn to me, reflecting in the gloom of my place. The undercabinet lighting seeping from the kitchen is just enough to make out their shapes as the sun sinks for the day.

I push myself up on my butt, and lean against the underside of my kitchen peninsula, shoving a bar stool out of the way. The hard wood behind my back feels good. Solid. “Enforcer Adrienne just told me I'm,” I feel utterly ridiculous articulating the whole thing but what the hell, I have three vampires and a were-something in my house—it can't get much stranger, “a hybrid-Lycan woman.” I suck in a cleansing inhale. “I haven't asked to be one. I have a normal life and was happily living it.”

Adrienne's lips twitch.

I narrow my eyes on her. This situation is a lot of things but funny it's not. “What?”

“It's just the same song and dance I gave the guys.” She jerks her thumb behind her at the huge vampires.

I ignore that. “We are different women with divergent life circumstances.”

It's Adrienne's turn to shoot me a glare. “Not so different. I bet you look at this as a robbery of your independence.”

“Of course,” I bite back.

“It doesn't have to be. I'm still working.” She lifts an eyebrow.

I snort. “Look at you.”

Merck steps forward, and the vampires turn to him, hissing—talons tearing out of their fingertips.

I might make a tiny mewling sound.

The image triples in my vision and I start sucking deep breaths again. Heat climbs from my feet and I smack the surface behind me before I pass out.

He holds up his long-fingered hands, talons clicking with the movement. “Hang on.”

I choke back bile.

“Nice right hook, Lycan,” Adrienne says without rancor.

He nods as though she's an opponent on a Judo mat, his eyes steady on her face, while his body holds the tension of a possible fight. “Excellent reaction time, Enforcer.”

They stare at each other after their mutual admiration moment.

She steps back.

Her retreat leaves Merck wide open to our mutual perusal. Cold sweat beads on my forehead and I mark each breath. In. Out. In. Out.

The silence stretches between us seemingly without end as we check each other out.

Finally, his nostrils give a hard flare and he stretches out his hand in my direction. “You're degrading. My job is to transition you, female.”

My face jerks back like I've been hit, the warmth of my lust cools. The panic.

Merck just absolutely dismissed what I've just explained. He's Mr. Fix-it? No.

I've been clear about me owning my life. Mine.

My jaw slackens, and I shake my head. “Right. But this is not how I see things happening.” I squeeze closer to Arden, and God love him—he wraps his arms around me.

The gesture is not lost on Merck, whose blue eyes become slits of sapphire flames in his face.

Arden's presence clears my head and I stare defiantly back at Merck.

His nostrils flare and his head cocks to the left. It's the strangest sight I've ever seen. A human emotion etched on a face that is half-animal.

Merck's eyes fall on Arden and narrow with suspicion.

“Reveal yourself,” his voice grates, his mouth and nose taking shallow puffs of air to try to gather scent.

Adrienne and the two vampires turn to study Arden.

“What?” I ask, indignant. “This is Arden. My friend from forever. He has nothing to do with this.” I don't want any attention on the only friend who's truly got my back. Who has been there for me since before I was an adult. Him I know—trust. And I'll protect him.

Arden didn't ask to be in the middle of some supernatural war.

Suddenly I'm hauled up on my feet. Strong arms gently grip me from behind.

No one is looking at me. They're looking behind me

I hear flesh moving like wet sand sliding into the waves come to shore, bones relenting to shifting—tendons binding a new form together like rubberbands snapping.

I begin to tremble. But I manage to rotate to face Arden, not the smartest thing, giving Merck the Lycan my back.

It's not Arden who stands inches from me, but someone who looks like an echo of Arden.

My vision swims and I realize I'm getting close to passing out for a second time. I bite the inside of my cheek, the pain allows me to gradually come to myself.

Arden's six and a half-feet tall now. Gone is the geeky body with the mild-mannered persona. Eyes that don't look remotely like an owl's gaze steadily back at me.

This new man is hard. Every bit of him.

“Arden?” I croak.

He smiles suddenly and he's Arden in that brief sliver of time. When it fades, so does the resemblance. “Yeah—it's me.”

“Where?” I ask, my eyes roving his form.

He sighs, a finger stroking my face. His hand drops and he glances over my shoulder. “You've ruined it, Lycan.”

I look between the two of them, adrenaline spiking through my system. “Ruined what? Arden—you're scaring me.”

“You should be,” Merck says. “Because he's not who you thought he was.”

I whip my face to Arden. “Is he—is that Lycan,” I say with reluctance, “is he right? Are you something other than my best friend and biology geek?”

He shoots a glare at Merck.

“Yes,” he answers in a terse word. Honest. Raw.

Unreal. This can't be my life.

“What are you?” I ask in a whisper, and the othersʼ silence is deafening.

“A Masker.”

“Fuck me,” Merck says, folding his arms. His penetrating stare incinerates Arden.

“Makes sense,” one of the vampires says with a sage nod, and Adrienne groans a soft curse.

“Tell me what that is right now,” I say, palms on his now-muscular chest, ready to push off.

Adrienne doesn't look happy. “It's a shapeshifter who can scent-mask. He can live among anything—anyone, without them ever being aware of what he is.”

I back away a little, cupping my elbows.

Arden's face morphs to pained. “No—Talyn. Don't.”

“What. Are. You?” I shriek, backing away from them all. My eyes ping-pong around. No place is safe. My home is no longer a sanctuary. Arden isn't him, and I've got a half-werewolf in my house who's talking about transitioning me.

My teeth begin to throb and a wave of heat presses in from all sides,  igniting a fire at my core.

Great timing.

And where the hell is Pooky?

Merck moves into our space, his nostrils flaring to try and catch scent. His frustration is obvious. “Let me guess—Lycan?”

“Bingo,” Adrienne says without enthusiasm.

Arden tosses his hands up. “Among other things.” His gaze is weighted with his omission of the truth.

I look away. “So what does this have to do with me? Arden's my friend,” I laser my eyes back at him, “or was.”

“Still am, Tal,” he says, trying to step nearer. I give him a killer look and he heaves a frustrated exhale, stopping in his tracks, arms dropping to his sides. He doesn't look like Arden, and he doesn't look like Merck.

He looks like a competitive weight lifter.

His deception makes tears sting my eyes. I angrily blink them back and shrug. “Anyway, now what?”

“I assert first rights,” Arden says.

What?!

Merck's jaw clenches. “You don't get to pull that archaic loophole, pup.”

He says pup like chump. I am well-versed in body language and deliberate terminology. I see an explosion coming—a blast to level us all.

“What loophole?” I ask loudly, retreating even further from everyone.

“Claiming,” Merck spits out the word in obvious disgust.

“Nobody is claiming anything, especially me,” I say in a voice of conviction.

Pooky meows her agreement from somewhere in the kitchen and I slap a fierce grin on my face.

See?! My cat even agrees. It's settled.

Arden and Merck turn to stare at me at the same moment.

“So you think,” Adrienne says ominously.

2

Merck

This fucking figures.

A moondamned Masker has reared his head. Claiming first rights on my change.

My female, my mind echoes.

I shove away the internal thought and concentrate on the now.

“I'm not in the business of being an intermediary,” the enforcer states.

I listen to her words but keep my eyes pinned on the vampires. Though they might not be in the business of turning anything. They've already claimed their turn so now what are they doing?

The one named Aeslin steps forward suddenly and punches me in the jaw.

I fall back against the wall—hard. My talons spear the drywall and I use it for takeoff with a howl. I charge, and Adrienne rushes forward as a blur, coming between us.

I move to my tiptoes to escape mowing her over, talons clutching the ceiling like a lifeline as I whip out my free arm for balance.

Adrienne smacks me in the chest and I rock back on my heels. I plant my legs and ready myself for the abuse that three vampires can mete.

But they don't.

“You deserved that, Lycan,” Aeslin says, jaw moving back and forth, fangs fully extended. “You cannot go unpunished for the harm of our female.”

This guy's a broken record but I nod, understanding his perspective exactly, my jaw throbbing from his strike. “Fair enough, but she behaved like it would be her against my transitioning change. I need to get to Talyn.”

Adrienne sighs. “You can't just barge into her apartment, break everything and command her to begin her transition.”

I feel my frown. Why not? After all—it is my job. My only job.

Adrienne's dark chuckle weaves through the space, and one of the vampire's joins in. “What's so funny?”

“Your face says it all. That was exactly your lame-ass plan.” One of her tiger's eye gauges from her earlobe winks back at me in the low light as Adrienne cocks her head.

I shrug. “If it works?”

A breath of disgust shoots out of Adrienne and her vivid eyes slim down on me. “No—pal. Clearly, it didn't work.” She pokes her finger in my chest and the two vamps tense.

“I won't hurt the female,” I say, flicking my gaze to them. But she begs a good male to do wrong.

“No—you won't,” the bald Turner—Matthews—says with an ominous tone of voice.

“That's not how it works for every female.” She shakes her head as though in wonder over my typical method. “It wasn't that way for me.”

Another chuckle, covered by a fist. Adrienne slants a dirty look at the bald vampire and his laughter gives way to a grin.

“Talyn Phisher should be grateful for the relief a transition could mean for her,” I explain in a bland way.

“I would not classify her as especially grateful,” Aeslin comments dryly.

“Why, vampire?”

“Look around.”

I do. The Masker is gone. And with him—Talyn.

Fuck. Heat moves through me like an inferno. Here's what reasoning got me.

Let's talk and work shit out. Nope. Let's chat while another takes my change.

I whirl to leave, and Adrienne grabs my forearm.

I itch to toss her, female or not, so I can scent Talyn and get her before her friend does.

“Don't,” Adrienne cautions in a low voice.

“Why the fuck not?” I ask with true bite.

The vamps pull in beside her like boats coming to harbor.

I rein my frustrated anger back. Getting my ass kicked won't help Talyn.

“Because she's scared. She's not some twenty-two year old unsure woman who thinks you're cool.”

I shrug. “She's female, like every other female.”

Adrienne throws her hair back and cocks a hip. “Are all you Lycans He-Men? You think you're omniscient—like God?” she asks in a coy voice.

My brows come together. I don't have time for philosophy.

I strain forward, hands in fists as my talons dig into my palms. I ignore the posturing of the vampires. “No, I don't think I'm God. I think I'm a Lycan warrior—I change. It's what I do—it's what I've been doing for the last half century before Talyn Phisher came along. I don't need a hybrid vampire female to tell me how to transition.”

“Lycan—have a care with your words,” Aeslin says in a low voice of warning.

I move so fast his hands are sprouted and beside his jaw for a fight. But all I do is remark, “And when are words as good as getting the female who needs their true from—whose very essence begs the male assigned her to change her so the degradation is no more?”

Aeslin's hands drop, and he shoots out a rough exhale.

“I feel for you,” Adrienne says. “I just think you've let the job run in front of the goal.”

I shake my head. “The goal is transitioning Talyn Phisher. It's the only goal.”

My form trembles. I allow myself to melt to human and Adrienne doesn't blink an eyelash.

“You're not going to change her if you force it.”

I look at Matthews, hand on my hips. “And where is she now—with a male who played her for over twenty years?—while in secret—he was a Masker.”

Adrienne pierces me with her gaze. “It's exactly my point. Who does Talyn have to trust now? The one person she felt was in her corner is now maybe the enemy in her eyes.”

“Do you know what a Masker is, Enforcer Adrienne?”

“A shifter who can hide his stench,” she replies with a sarcastic lilt in her voice, giving me a hard gaze.

Cute. I nod. “That's partly it. They're an ancient species, crossing all supernatural lines. They can be vampire, Lycan, shapeshifter—even fae. It's like nature was making sure they had an ace in the hole—or she couldn't make up her mind.”

“And nature is a she?” Adrienne asks, her lips curling.

The vampires and I say yes simultaneously.

She heaves a sigh of disgust.

I look around the mess of glass and wood all over the house.

Talyn is gone. While I was fighting my nature and trying to talk it out with other supernaturals, the Masker took her.

“Talyn isn't like the females you've changed in the past,” Adrienne repeats.

“Listen—you might be the law, but I'm not taking orders or advice from a vampire. I'm scenting her out and transitioning her. End of story.”

“Have you considered she won't want what you're offering?” Aeslin asks quietly.

“I've never had to force a female once,” I say, offended by his implication.

“Would you?” Matthews asks from the shadows.

“Never,” is my immediate reply.

Though I think Charles would be less scrupulous.

Adrienne sees something on my expression that I can't hide fast enough. “What?”

“I wouldn't,” I clarify. My eyes meet hers. “But there are some who want a female badly enough to make her Lycan whether she wants to transition or not.”

“Who?” Adrienne asks.

I admit to what I can. There are darker truths that have not been earned by the vampires. “Rogues.” I don't concede there are other transgressors besides just that group aloud. As though admitting to their existence is enough to conjure them like a wish.

“Ah,” Aeslin says. “It is not dissimilar from vampires. We have a civilian population, of course, but there is always a group of bad apples...”

Adrienne barks out a laugh. “Bad apples? Nah—I think it's more like bad seeds. Or fangs.” She looks straight at me. “Or claws.” Adrienne smirks. “Anyway, find Talyn, trail her and the Masker—whatever he is,” she waves away the identification of Arden, “but understand the patience of a supernatural that would be her friend for twenty plus years, all that time waiting until she's,” Adrienne rolls her lip into her mouth, “what is the term? Ready?”

“Degrading,” I supply but I'm only half-listening, my mind is already on hunting down Talyn.

“Yes. He's been patient. Now you have to ask yourself why. Or better yet—how would he even know that she was a hybrid? That makes no sense. If you're a Changer, a Lycan who hunts the hybrid females for transitioning, why would he be any better equipped at figuring out her hybrid status? How is he any more sensitive to Talyn's hybrid status?”

The only answer I can come up with is the most disturbing of all. “I know she's a different change than ones I've transitioned in the past.”

Matthews grunts and I waste a glance at him.

“She is—vampire. She scents different, more. I don't know why. I thought it was because of her age.” I can't keep the frustration out of my voice.

“What about her age?” Adrienne asks in a sharp voice.

“She's mature,” I say simply. “It's what makes this such a complicated transition. There's no precedence for a female this old.”

Adrienne paces away, the malesʼ gaze following her every movement. When she turns, her face tells me she's touched on something. “What if she's special?”

I nod. Of course she is. I've always understood that Talyn is a unique change. It's part of my incentive to get her transitioned quickly. Pure instinct. And if there's one thing Lycans are, it's relying on their instincts.

“No,” she throws a palm wave my way, vigorously shaking her head. “No—I mean something rare. A woman that is unique might get picked up on the radar of other Lycans or supes when she otherwise wouldn't. God only knows, they're coming out of the woodwork now. Think, Merck,” she says in a sharp command.

“I am, vampire,” I lob back just as hard. I'm not an idiot—regardless of what she might assume.

When the revelation comes to me, it bottoms out my stomach. I forget I'm among my natural enemy, that my jaw's hurting from being hit twice, that Talyn's temporarily out of my sight.

She's of Lanarre blood.

It's such a rare exception the possibility didn't surface immediately in my consciousness. Or I had only superficially considered the potential.

Adrienne watches my internal debate with keen interest. “You've thought of something.”

Nothing I want to share. It's too critical.

“Tell me,” she says.

I look at her, weighing her worth.

“I won't tell a soul even under threat of torture.”

A smile tugs at my lips. That I believe.

Matthews growls at the torture part.

“I don't need your help. I can find Talyn myself, and I sure as hell don't need a female to give me instructions on a change.”

A smile curls her lips. “I am honor-bound to confidentiality.”

I look at the vampires.

“We would never compromise Narah,” the one named Aeslin speaks for them both.

Unbelievable. My eyebrows rise. “You compromise her every day that she works this thankless job.”

Matthews grunts. “True—do you think we like it?”

“Then why do you allow your female in harm's way?”

Matthews smiles as though he's a simpleton. “Love, you stupid dog.”

Aeslin dips his chin in agreement.

“I am not a dog, and I'm far from stupid.” I hold Matthews dark gaze for a few seconds then shift my attention to Adrienne. “You seem genuine.”

“I am,” she says, planting her feet wide, and crossing her arms over a bearing that can only be classified as militaristic.

“The only way that another Lycan—even a Masker—could be aware of her Lycan blood before she began to degrade would be if she were of royal blood.”

Adrienne whistles. “I know the history of the different supernaturals pretty well now.” Her lips quirk with a private thought, and she gives an eye roll. “Hell, in my field you never know what you'll run into.” Her smile widens into a grin. “So Talyn might be a princess?”

I shake my head and exhale in frustration. “It doesn't work that way.”

“What way does it work?” she asks lightly.

“Her pheromones alert every Lycan within a thousand miles that she's ready to breed. They'll come from everywhere. A regular,” I look at Aeslin and adopt his word, “civilian werewolf will defer to a Changer. They understand our role—its importance to the race.”

Adrienne's eyes glitter. “But a rogue...”

Heat infuses me. My talons itch to return to battle-ready mode. I need to get to Talyn. “A rogue will take.” Among others. My fingers close into a fist.

“Let me help you find her—convince her.”

I think about it. Finally I go against all principles. For Talyn. It's certainly not for me. Confession is not good for the soul.

“Our Alpha gave me two weeks to transition Talyn. She's mature and we have other changes. He doesn't want a Changer to waste time on a dead end. He thinks my scenting might be off.”

Adrienne's chin jerks back. “Why—from what I understand, you Lycan boys are the bomb on smells.”

I give a small smile. “Yes, well we are. All of us.”

The statement stands between us as I watch her think about it.

“So your boss knows you're probably on target, but he doesn't want to waste the manpower on a woman too old to what—breed?”

“Maybe,” I look her in the eye and decide to spill the truth, “probably.”

She puts her hands on her hips, looking angry, though I don't know her well enough to tell for sure. “That's bullshit.”

Yup, angry.

“So you're running solo, ignoring protocol to transition a change you're barely approved for? That your boss doesn't know might be a Lanarre?”

The vampires behind her regard me with interest.

Finally, I reply, “I guess that's about it.”

“Fantastic,” Narah says with a wink, “I'm in.”

Aeslin and Matthew groan.

3

Talyn

I jerk my elbow out of Arden's grasp.

He stops, arms dropping to his sides.

I go rigid, glaring up at him. “I guess I should thank you. But stop—just stop hauling me.”

“Talyn,” Arden reaches for me again and I back away, crossing my arms, and jamming my breasts up as I do.

He looks at my chest.

I frown.

Where the hell is my eunuch friend?

Nowhere, that's where.

His fingertips graze my forearm.

“Don't touch me,” I hiss.

He retreats a step, pegging his strong hands on his hips. “Tal—I can explain all this.”

“Oh yeah? Well I'm all ears. You've been dragging me for an hour to somewhere and I can't...” I cover my face with my hands. My chest is tight, my breaths—short.

My house is destroyed. Pooky is by herself.

I'm with Arden, but he's not Arden. And I know where the hell that tooth came from! Some werewolf guy that thinks “transitioning” me sounds like a great plan.

And that I should like the plan.

Well I don't. And I don't like that Arden seems to somehow be a part of all this.

I have patients. A job where I need to help others. I can't just run off to wherever until all this fun blows over.

Blows over.

My face gets hot thinking about it all.

“You're killing me, Tal—throwing off the Lycan pheromones. It's almost more than I can bear.”

I can't believe I've been reduced to gender and scent. The insults are piling up like a snowdrift.

My chin lifts and I stare him in the eye. I notice he's ditched the glasses. Probably a prop all along. “That's just too bad, Arden.”

He flinches when I say his name. My eyes narrow.

“Is that really your name?”

He nods.

I look around at where we're at and move as though I'll walk off. “Wait!” he calls out loudly.

I spin and his hand is on me. “Stay within five feet.”

“What? Why?” My eyes tighten as I yank my arm out of his grip again.

“I can't mask your scent if you're too far away from me.”

I fold my arms, the steamy summer night swirling around us like fragrant water.

“At this point, I'm wondering how that's better for me. Let me see,” I begin, tapping my foot, “you pretended to be my friend since high school—”

“Talyn, I never pretended.”

He sounds sincere, but I don't give a crap, going on, “And all this time you've been part of this supe community all us lowly humans were blithely unaware of.”

He's silent so I continue, “Now I'm supposed to let my office slide and the people who depend on me—oh my god—Pooky—and just trot after you like a well-trained dog? No. I will not. And for the record, this is equal opportunity—I'm not ʻtransitioningʼ with Merck either.”

Arden raises an eyebrow, and I hate that whatever he's become is damn hot. It weakens my resolve.

Because apparently my pussy is conflicted.

“Talyn, you're in heat.”

That's why. Heat. Like a dog! Impossible. I'm barren. “Even if that ridiculousness was remotely true, I can't have kids, remember?”

It's painful to recite. Yet again.

Arden dips his chin, scrubbing his hair and making the thick, honey-colored strands stand on end. “That's not exactly true.”

My heart begins to pound along with the beginnings of a wonderful headache. I massage my temples, my eyes going to half-mast. “Listen—I don't need any more lies. I can't tolerate it and I'm not going to.”

“I don't expect that.”

The silence is bloated.

“I'm a shifter. And I can scent-mask. But my primary identifier is Masker.”

Shifter.

I scrutinize his expression and know he's circling some additional and awful revelation. “What are you going to tell me I'm not going to like. Again.”

His exhale is rough. “All Maskers scent-mask. But not all Maskers shift into the same creature.”

I take another step backward and he steps closer. “Five feet, Tal.”

“Yeah, I heard you,” I answer softly, halting. “What does that mean?” My mind spins with the possibilities as my eyes search his.

“I'm not just a Lycan—I can just shift form. Any form. This is my natural human form.”

Oh boy. “What do you mean ʻhuman formʼ?”

Arden sighs softly, his head hanging.

The wind rustles, lifting my hair around my face. I'm exhausted, hungry and I have my best friend about to confess all his sins—and a sexed out werewolf scenting me out—and maybe a sexed up Arden.

Things aren't looking good.

I shift my weight. “Just tell me.”

“I'm a Mutable shifter.”

I blink at him. “A what? I thought you were a Masker?”

“I am. A Masker is what I can do. A Mutable is what I am. The two are not mutually exclusive.”

“Got you,” I say slowly.

Arden is insane, and I'm out in the middle of nowhere with him. Not a smart move, Talyn.

His eyes rove my expression. “I'm not crazy, Talyn.”

“Uh-huh.” I whip around and run.

I've never run so fast in my life.

I don't look behind me, only forward.

Something blurs past me. It looks like a streak of smoke and dots from the corner of my eye.

Up ahead I put on a burst of speed, relieved I might have left my crazy ex-friend in the dust.

I realize that an hour of walking didn't get us further than Falls Park. It's pretty empty at the witching hour.

Large, one hundred year old trees loom like gnarled guards along the pathway as I sprint past. I slow to a jog, lungs burning, and chance a glance behind me.

Nothing but the deep soft black of the most silent part of the night unrolls before my gaze. I hunch over, settling my palms on the tops of my lower thighs, gasping.

I look up. The whisper of the Big Sioux River falls over quartzite boulders, haphazardly arresting and simultaneously pushing the water's progress as the only sound.

Except a low growl.

A strip of ghostly grayish-white fur, shakes and whips from my peripheral vision.

I yelp, hand to heart, and hunt where I saw that streak of gray lightning.

A large feline prowls closer.

I know my animals. Biology major, remember.

Snow Leopard.

In the middle of South Dakota. Home of the Black Hills—not Central Asia.

I feel ridiculous. I ask anyway, “Arden?” I whisper his name.

Muscled fur ripples its way toward me. Large, luminescent eyes stare unblinkingly into my own.

The big cat stands on its hind legs and the fur of its body begins to scatter like fine pine needles of gray speckled silk, floating on a continuous breeze that ebbs and flows over the plains.

The cat's muzzle widens into cheekbones, the eyes rounding as the fur sloughs away like water.

The hind legs become the heavily muscled ones of a man.

A very, very well-endowed man. The V of his hips cradle everything that makes him male, widening to a broad chest of sculpted muscles.

My throbbing female parts come to horrible life and I groan again, clenching my thighs together.

To my shame I notice his face last. The final vestiges of feline melt into the human features of the new Arden.

I sit down on the sidewalk, looking up at my naked friend, who've I've never had a lustful thought about.

Until now.

I look away at the terrific view I just gave myself. Oh my God, if I'm a Lycan, I need to be spayed.

“So you're a cat?” I finally ask.

“Cat, Talyn? Really?”

I give a tired smile, and put my head in my hands. “This may be too much revelation for me at one time.”

“I can be anything. Nothing prehistoric. That's a special Mutable.”

“Huh, that's great,” I say in a dreamy voice. I rock back on my elbows, uncaring of the hard and pebbled surface of the asphalt walkway. My arms drop as I fall backward. I stare up at the black sky, only slightly obscured by the light pollution of the city. I blink slowly, my limbs feeling tingly and numb.

“Talyn?” Arden asks from somewhere far away. “Don't you faint on me.”

“Why not?” I ask in a slur. “You can make yourself a dragon and fly away. I'm not that heavy to lift, surely.”

“You're not making sense, Tal.”

That gets my focus all sharpened up again. “I'm not making sense?” I laugh, sitting up and flailing my arm wildly. “I thought I had a wolf problem. I thought I had a stalker problem. No. That's not it. I have a problem with a lot of things. My best friend lied to me. He's actually a shapeshifter who can take any shape, and he's hanging around me like a groupie because why?”

Arden stands before me naked as the day he was born, or from when  he was birthed from a litter.

I give a hysterical giggle and slap my hands over my mouth. There's no amount of psych training that can help me here.

He puts his hands on his hips. Mighty distracting. I blink rapidly, trying to displace the image. Still there.

“Because a Mutable can sense his perfect mate. She does not need to be mature, or in heat for a Mutable to understand her rightness for him.”

I scramble to my feet. “You mean to tell me you befriended me twenty years ago because you knew I was ʻthe oneʼ?” I half-scream as my fingers airquote the words.

“That's dumbing the concepts down in a way I'm uncomfortable with, but essentially, you have the crux of it.”

I swallow my fear, uncertainty and just the pure surreal quality to Arden's admission, the situation—my lack of sleep. It's a combination that's making me giddy.

“I—I've got this Lycan guy too.”

“I can take care of the Changer.”

Take care of.

I shy away from the implication of that comment and dig for more information. “But from what he says—if he's not lying too—” Arden's eyes tighten but I go on, “I'm supposed to be a werewolf.” I splay my fingers against my chest.

“He probably hasn't figured out what you really are. Only certain females are acceptable mates for a Mutable. I did what I could to mask your scent as much as possible but when you began to degrade and go into heat...” he spreads his hands. “My talons were tied. You were bound to be found.” A small smile ghosts his lips.

Talons were tied. “Not funny,” I seethe, “what am I?”

“You have royal blood. Shapeshifters who possess royal blood generally can mate with a Mutable.”

I bark out a laugh. “So if I was a dolphin you could just fish me up?”

Arden smile grows, and I try for eye contact, though I'm ashamed at how difficult it is for me not to peek at his package, especially given the state I'm in.

I suppose that means I'm not tired enough. If I was truly weary and shocky over tonight's great happenings, I wouldn't be contemplating his assets.

“You are Lanarre—Lycan royalty. You can mate with a Mutable, or a Lycan, of course. But it would be a waste to have you with anyone other than a Mutable.”

“Right,” I say with sarcasm, “because you are a Mutable.”

Unbelievable.

“Correct,” he replies so neutrally I laugh again.

Arden frowns.

“You're as bad as that Merck guy. You two can't see the forest for the trees. I'm a person! Not some brood mare to birth everyone kids. Besides, I can't have kids.”

“True, you can't have children with a human male.”

His words drop like a lead weight in my brain. My eyes lock with his. “What do you mean? And don't you dare yank my chain on this Arden. I don't care if you're naked right now. Or that you can change into a donkey, hippo or whatever—don't play me over my infertility.” I bite my lip to keep it from trembling. I can't even admit to myself how deeply sad I am that I'll never have children.

I'm fully aware it's a horrible world to bring children into.

Even with all I know of humanity, I still want to have children.

Arden walks slowly toward me, and to my credit, I don't look down.

He cups my face and I breathe in his scent, going liquid in all the most dangerous places. “How come I feel this way?” I ask softly, dizzy over his effect on me.

“Because of what you really are, Talyn. And what you could be with me.”

He leans down, his mouth hovering over the edge of mine and my lips part for him.

His tongue licks a hot wet line against my bottom lip and I groan at the tactile sensation. “I would never lie to you about your chances of being a mother, Tal.”

“But you'd lie to her about everything else, right Masker?”

Arden shoves me behind him.

Merck stands twenty feet away.

I don't think there's anything I can do to stop the violence this time.

4

Merck

That fucking Masker is strutting around naked, his hands on my change.

I listen to his comment about her ability to bear children. The goat. He's using words to soften her to his position. Not having that. “But you'd lie to her about everything else, right Masker?”

He tosses Talyn behind himself as though I'm a physical threat to her. A female. It's insulting on principle.

The only one who is a threat to anyone here is me threatening him.

“A lie of necessity, Merck.”

“No lies are necessary, Masker. I've not lied to Talyn since I made her acquaintance. However, you've known her two decades, and just now revealed your true self. Why don't you tell her why you chose now. Let's see what Talyn thinks of that.”

Talyn doesn't hide behind Arden.

She steps forward and her pungent sex hits me between the eyes. It's all I can do to not fall to my knees and worship her with my mouth. My dick. My everything.

Get a grip, Merck.

I stand stoically, a half-century of training and fortitude pull me through the moment. It feels a little like being torn through a knothole without grease.

But Talyn's scent is a heady thing. Royal blood is a fine wine, when partaken too much of—gets a Changer more than drunk, but obliterated. I've heard the stories and they're not pretty. And having just put two and two together—I realize why she was always so magnetic.

It's up to me to resist her, yet change her.

“Arden doesn't speak for me... Merck,” Talyn says and my name sounds funny from her lips.

“I don't know what's happening. But it sounds like the same thing that happened to Enforcer Adrienne is happening to me.”

“You don't need a Changer,” Arden says from behind her.

He smirks.

I give him my deadliest glance.

She quickly looks between the two of us. No doubt gauging the escalating violence. “No. Just stop this. I want to go home. I will not run from this. I will face whatever this means for me head-on but I want more details. Is there any way I can get home, Arden gets clothes on and you stay human so we can discuss this like rational people?”

“We're not exactly human, Tal,” the Masker comments.

I roll my eyes. Arden is supposed to be some kind of scientist? He seems slow to me.

“It's not safe for you to be out here in your condition,” I begin in a steady voice, inching closer.

Arden's brow lowers, his face going hard.

“No closer, Lycan.”

Talyn whips her arms out between us. “Stop. I don't want any male posturing.” Her eyes meet mine, the normal soft gray now the pewter of a coming storm. “I'm already up to here with that.” She makes a slicing gesture across her throat. “And you guys might not be fully human, but you're male. So that counts, never seen it not. If I didn't know better, I'd say you mimic regular human men pretty damn well.”

“That's insulting,” I say.

“If the paw fits,” she quips, lifting a shoulder. Her eyes gouge me. “And what do you mean by ʻmy conditionʼ? You make it sound like I have terminal cancer.”

She's not far off base. Not the cancer part, of course—but she's terminal.

“What?” Her dark brown eyebrow arches.

I'm silent.

“You're not answering me,” she notes, a slight waver in her voice.

“Tal,” Arden moves to the front of her and I snort. His nakedness is no big thing in the shifter culture but it's not going to do shit for his chances with Talyn.

Sure enough her eyes go round and she backs up a step. “Okay, I really can't have this discussion with you dangling.”

I cover my mouth with a fist, trying not to laugh at his expense. Because, it's just a hunch but I don't think Talyn will appreciate that either.

What started as a complicated change just got elevated to near-impossible.

My nose twitches as the fine hairs on my body rise in response to scent-recognition. I call out to Arden, “Shifters—coming fast.”

Arden's face instantly changes. His snout elongates into the one I hold in part-Lycan form—woflen.

His nostrils flare and he grips Talyn by the shoulders.

“Lycan, hold them off, I'll take Talyn home.”

Smooth. Real smooth.

“How you going to do that, Masker? You going to run through downtown Sioux Falls with you dick hanging in the wind?”

Arden smiles but then it vanishes into a grimace of pain.

“Get on, Talyn.”

“What—no!” she yells then turns her wide eyes to mine. “What is this, a trick?”

“Do you think I'd work with the competition unless it was to safeguard you?”

The shifters are close.

I can't stall any longer. “Go with him, I'll be there momentarily. We'll discuss shit.”

She crosses her arms. “Oh that's eloquent. Yeah. Pfft.”

I heave a harsh sigh as Arden becomes a stallion behind her.

That's when I know I've made the biggest mistake of my career. Arden's not another Lycan who can scent-mask. He's more than a Masker.

He's a Mutable.

And I just handed him over the prize.

Arden's animal kneels and Talyn hops on, like I told her to, I remind myself. Her fingers thread tightly into the mane of the horse Arden's shifted into.

He races away and a bare minute of time later, the shifters appear.

It almost makes me wish I'd taken Adrienne and her two vamps up on their offer to accompany me here. But I'd convinced them—and myself—that Talyn would react better if there weren't so many supernaturals around.

She seemed overwhelmed. Now the tables have turned.

Shifters of every brand surround me.

Five against one are shit odds.

The life of a Changer.

5

Talyn

My grandparents owned a farm out north of Brookings, South Dakota when I was a child.

Babbling brook, a prairie filled with wheat without end, and a sky stuffed full of cotton ball clouds in a sea of blue deep enough to taste.

And horses. There'd been horses.

You never forget how to ride a horse.

Even now—knowing this horse is actually Arden, doesn't faze my body.

It remembers.

My thighs clench around the heaving flanks of an inky stallion, so dark a black that it blends with the night.

My unbound hair streams behind me like sideways water and I part my lips to taste the smells—the freedom of the ride.

It's not like the Talyn Phisher of last week to just—be.

I usually have to be in total control of everything. But so much has changed in the last twenty-four hours I can't keep a hold of anything that was known.

Now everything that was—falls under before.

Before Blue Eyes showed.

Before Enforcer Adrienne told me the Lycan's job was to fuck me into werewolfdom.

I suck in a sob—yes, let's fuck it out for pity's sake.

My grip tightens as my mount charges up the last existing cobblestone street in the downtown area I call home.

And then there is the before of Arden. A million moments glued together of shared memories, events—and the sheer quantity of companionship. That history rolls into my consciousness like a fog that clings to the rocky shores of my mind. While the truth crashes against my defenses like unrelenting waves.

Arden's hooves are a disaster of noise against the thick quartzite pavers.

My eyes search the gloom. Eyes that will soon be werewolf, if Merck has anything to do with it.

Or Arden.

Hot tears burn the back of my eyelids, blurring my vision to searing blindness.

Arden slows to a walk and I lay down on his sweaty back, my arms flat against his sides, and the motion of his body lulls me.

My eyes clear, taking in the deep crevices of the cobblestones in my own alley as they follow the blocked pattern I've driven over a thousand times as I realize my home is within kissing distance.

Arden steps into the driveway and there I sit. A woman bareback on a horse.

I arch backward as Arden kneels and manage a clumsy sliding dismount.

My grandpa would have clucked for an hour if he'd seen that.

But they've been gone for years. There's no one to witness my lack of finesse.

I touch Arden's neck out of habit and jerk back when it's not the velvet of the horse I just enjoyed.

But the skin of a man.

“Talyn.”

I turn and there Arden is. Naked. Again. Sweat coats his body. Every bit. Every hard inch.

I look down. Yup. That's hard too.

I spin in the opposite direction, my female bits throbbing like an aching tooth. “Let's get inside—wow. I can't have a naked guy standing in my driveway.”

“Yes—what will the neighbors think?” His lips quirk and I swing back around and punch him in the arm.

“Jerk.”

I stalk around him and walk to the gate leading to the back yard. I open it and walk through. Using the narrow concrete walkway I stride to the back yard and my ruined patio doors.

I stop in my tracks for a handful of seconds. Taking in the sight of the boarded up french doors covered with recycled plywood.

Still, to see my house marked my the violence of the evening makes me want to cry. Again. I probably have Enforcer Adrienne to thank for the repair. And maybe her carpenter vampires, I think with grumpy thanks, stuffing my volatile emotions back where they belong.

I move to the back door and depress my thumb to the pulse lock.

A green light flashes and I turn the crystal knob, walking inside with  Arden on my heels.

“What if I'd fallen off your back!” I toss behind me as I traverse the turned over furniture and lamps in my living room, thankfully noting there's no glass.

Somehow I don't think supernatural battle clean-up is part of the Final Enforcement's job description. However, Adrienne left me to my own devices against Merck. Shouldn't she have like—I don't know, mediated the entire “transition” thing? Or maybe her only job is to nail the criminals?

What can I expect, she's a hybrid herself. Not the same flavor but part-supernatural.

“I remember the stories about your grandparentsʼ farm,” he says with mild smugness.

I rotate slowly and look at Arden.

His mouth is twisted in a vaguely satisfied tilt of lips.

“So you figured even though I hadn't ridden a horse in twenty years I'd just—what—fumble around somehow?”

Arden nods happily. His stomach muscles clench and release with the movement and I feel my eyes dip.

His mouth isn't the only thing that's happy.

“Can't you,” I point at his crotch. “Now that you're not a horse and you're back to being a guy—do something with that?”

“Yes, I can.” His voice lowers to a seductive growl.

And then his hands are on my shoulders as he pulls me to him. His mouth grazes the sensitive spot behind my ear, his hands yanking all my hair back as he does. “I can find many things to do with that, Tal.”

The words hung like a horse flash in my mind. Oh god, I can feel his erection against the front of me and I can't stop wanting it.

Wanting him.

Arden. My geeky best friend who's anything but.

“No,” I say in whispered denial. Full of want.

“Don't feel guilty, Talyn. Your body wants this. You were made to change. It doesn't have to come from the Lycan. I can transition you.”

With the last ounce of my willpower I pull backward. His hands grip my upper arms loosely, but I can feel the immense strength of him like a tuning fork that vibrates to my core.

“What will happen if I don't want to be this ʻLycan femaleʼ? What happens if I just keep being me—Talyn Phisher—” I put my fingers to my chest and his arms tangle with mine, “counselor to the humans. You know—people that I can help experience something other than sadness? Maybe even joy. That's not a small thing, Arden. I can do something bigger than myself.”

He shakes his head. “I need you. I've always needed you, Tal.” Arden's eyes are his. The ones behind the owl lenses. Deep and soulful, so dark a blue they rival the slate of soapstone perfectly.

I step away and he reluctantly releases me.

“I don't want to be that needed by anyone. It's not normal. In fact, if I put my psych hat on, I'd say it's pretty damn dysfunctional.”

“Dysfunction be damned. I've tried to reason with you—and I know this has been a lot to absorb.”

I laugh. Damn straight.

“Totally,” I say, sweeping my palm at his naked self.

“Fine,” he grumbles and goes straight to the guest closet and jerks out a spare pair of sweatpants I keep around for my brother when he bothers to visit.

Handy that he knows where I keep them, I stew.

He jerks them on and my breath catches at the sexy view of his ass hopping into the soft black athletic pants.

I don't realize I've clenched my eyes shut until Arden says softly, “Tal.”

I open them. “Is it a fate worse than death that you have sex with me?”

It's open season on him with my eyes.

The old Arden, with the exception of his slate blue gaze, is gone. This is the new and definitely improved version.

I'd be blind not to notice him as a man.

He's a huge muscled specimen now. Dark honey brown hair falls in waves from his forehead and just brushes his nape, lithe muscles flow down his body like flesh covered steel.

I'm tall, but this Arden is much taller. I could wear my favorite (and painful), four inch heels and I'd still be inches shorter.

But in all this, even with my new sex drive pounding on every bit of me—begging for release—I can't just screw him like an alley cat.

I frown. Or a bitch in heat. My lips quirk at the image but I shake my head and say, “You might be able to turn the light switch on and off.”

“Pulse switches now.” He winks.

I always forget the new technology, and I'm old enough to remember regular electricity, even still have some in my old house.

“Yeah,” I reply softly. “You're right. But—I can't just have sex with you for the sake of turning into this creature. I think I'll pass. And somehow,” my eyes rise from his body to his face, “somehow I'll get past the dissolution of our friendship.”

Arden comes forward, eyes edged with sadness. “The Lycan can't offer you what I can. He can transition you—true. He will not bring you harm, he will bring you over. But then he's on to the next change. You're just a number. Another female hybrid who's checked on the tally of ʻNow Lycanʼ for them.”

That's awful. Somehow, that one comment makes me feel diminished. Like my value isn't in who I am but what I can become. And not even for myself. For some regime I've never been aware of until this last twenty-four hours.

Arden's finger slides down my face like a sigh that's felt instead of heard. I lean into his touch.

My emotions are tipping on the precipice of yes.

“I can offer you something more, Talyn.”

“Do I have to be a Lycan?” I ask softly. I liked my status quo. My life is boring and I'll admit to a certain degree of loneliness—but it's mine.

Arden slowly nods.

“But why?” I lament. “Why is there a stipulation of being with you only to change into Lycan girl? If I even said I wanted that.”

“Because you'll die,” a voice that sounds like crushed gravel says from behind me.

I spin around and there is Merck. A badly beaten Merck, but he's here in my house.

I open my mouth to ask what he means when Arden attacks.

“No!” I scream.

Nobody listens. Not like that's never happened before.

6

Merck

He's Mutable—and a Masker.

Would have been great info to know before I ran into his conniving conveniently naked ass in Falls Park.

Of course, where would the fun of that be? Leaving me to face the shifters who were hound dogging on Talyn's scent.

But he can't scent-mask in every form.

The horse thing didn't work. Sure—it got Talyn away from me, and to safety quickly. However, it's only a matter of time before my Lycan nose smelled barn and here I am.

Standing in her open back door.

I flick my eyes around the immediate environment, notice that Adrienne and company cleaned up the majority of the shitstorm we left behind and hear Arden trying to get in my change's pants.

What does she mean why she can't just stay a human? Who'd want to?

Stupid question. “Because you'll die,” I say plainly.

The pup gloves have come off. Arden and me are going to come to an understanding. Now.

He doesn't disappoint, reacting immediately, he lunges across the small space, talons in whatever form he's just chosen sprouting like knives at his fingertips.

“No!” Talyn screams in her throaty contralto. Her voice wouldn't carry if she tried.

I use Arden's momentum and toss him behind me.

He stabs his talons into my back and uses them like a fishhook.

I arch forward in pain, my body flushes with heat, already feverishly trying to knit damage from a shifter gang bang twenty minutes ago.

I can't.

Then Talyn is there.

Arden jerks his talons out and I slump for a nanosecond, then spin, swiping my own razor-sharp set at him.

Furrowed and jagged marks streak across his naked chest and blood pours out of the wounds.

I swing back, readying to skewer his lungs when Talyn steps between us.

I check my strike with a curse, swinging away to give the momentum somewhere to go.

“Stop this, you fucking peacocks!”

Peacocks?

“Oh—wipe that dumb look off your face, Merck—or whoever you are! This is my home. Not a gymnasium for the two of you to wreck everything within ten feet!”

Arden touches her shoulders and she shrugs off his hands.

My eyes meet those of the Mutable behind her and I smirk. If I were human, I'd flip him off.

But I'm not and the games are over.

Talyn Phisher will transition. I am a Changer for her flavor of supe. “Just because Arden says he can transition you doesn't mean he's the best shifter for the job, Talyn.” I say it to her while I look at him.

She puts her hands on her hips. We both track her movements.

“God, you boys are all sexed up. Great. Listen to me and listen well—I am not a boss open for taking job interviews. I'm not hearing what you're saying. I trust what Enforcer Adrienne said: that I'm some kind of hybrid. But I'll be damned if I'm going to hump my way to being a werewolf.”

I spread my hands away from my body. “Talyn, this is the way it has always been done. A Changer finds a hybrid female whose human side has covered her scent. When she begins to degrade because her Lycan side is taking over, and trying to transition, your scent—and all those females before you, begins to attract those who seek it out. It's biology, not emotions.”

Talyn crosses her arms, glaring at us. “I am not ruled by emotions!” she yells and swipes a tear off her cheek.

Arden and I look at each other.

“Stop doing that!” she rants and walks away.

Her feline streaks past, hissing at the Mutable and me as it does.

“Pooky!” Talyn moans with relief.

Talyn flops down on the only piece of furniture upright and covers her face with her hands. “I don't want this.”

“There's no rewinds, Tal. We can't take away what you are.”

She looks to the Mutable, and his face is closed down like a drum. At least we're together on that.

“Don't manage me, Arden.”

He throws up his hands in the universal gesture of I give up.

“Talyn,” I begin slowly, “this isn't a game. You will die unless I transition you.”

“One of us does,” Arden glares at me.

“Is that true?” Talyn asks.

“Probably,” I admit. “But the Mutable has how many transitions under his belt?”

I know this answer—but Talyn doesn't. She needs too.

Arden gives a hard sigh. “None.”

Talyn laughs. “So you were going to what—practice on me?”

I grin.

She swings to face me and I wipe my face of expression. “And you!” she roars.

I scowl.

“You're nothing but a Lycan man-whore. You sleep with any female that needs the ʻchangeʼ. I'm just a notch in your werewolf belt. Nope,” she says, walking into her bedroom and tossing a small rollaway suitcase on a bed covered in a lacy, feminine quilt, “I'm not going to sleep with my ex-BFF who can change into a menagerie. Nor am I willing to just have sex with some Lycan because he says lie down and spread ʼem.”

She punches clothes inside the suitcase.

Arden gives me a helpless look.

Okay, maybe this will work. I stride behind her, sliding my arms around her waist.

I press my mouth to the soft spot where her neck meets her shoulder.

Talyn struggles.

I bite down and she moans, throwing her head back against my other shoulder.

“Stop,” she says. The word is no but her body is throwing off breed me hormones like a freight train.

“God, stop it,” Arden says.

My eyes flick to his and sweat is beading on his face. “She's too ready. I can't hold back.”

I narrow my eyes at him. I'm not sharing.

Arden's gaze challenges me as Talyn rubs her ass cheeks against my raging erection. I give a painful shift of my prick and it settles in the crack of her ass.

Not an improvement. The placement makes my control worse, not better.

I growl against her shoulder, asserting my dominance as a male Alpha Lycan. It's a last resort in an effort to evoke compliance.

Her animal should recognize mine. See that I'm here to help, to ease her.

Arden moves in a blur to her front.

Our eyes meet and I growl against her flesh.

Talyn whimpers.

She's mine. I feel her animal submit. I scent her readiness. Her degradation to Lycan is near. She's ripe for the taking.

Though I need her assent.

“Talyn, look at me.”

I can't see her face but I know Talyn is responding to Arden's command when her chin dips from its perch on my shoulder.

“Let us help you,” he whispers and his hands move to cup her breasts.

She moans and our pelvises both arch toward her in response—toward her sex.

I can't take my mouth from her shoulder until she gives consent. Which means I can't tell Arden to fuck off.

The Mutable thinks he'll have a ménage à trois with my change?

He's mistaken.

“Yes,” she answers with a thready sigh.

I shudder in relief, and my teeth release her flesh. Perfect indentations mar the smoothness of her upper shoulder, though I didn't break the skin.

Stealthy creeping erupts from the hallway. Arden's eyes flash to the source.

The shifters who I gave the slip have arrived.

A languid Talyn hangs between us. Ready for transition. She would take any male in this state.

With the Mutable's help, I put her there.

A huge Lycan male crosses the threshold into her bedroom. “We'll take it from here, dogs.”

He smiles, his many rows of teeth glow softly in the dark bedroom.

I lay Talyn on the bed and loosen my hands, crouching low.

They won't have her.

I don't look behind me to see what Arden's doing, but I hear the crunch of bones shifting. Tendons snap wetly as they realign into a form of his choosing.

He'll take me out of the equation while a mutual enemy threatens Talyn.

But he doesn't. Arden charges the shifters.

As a grizzly.

I leap into the fray, fangs bared.

THE END

SHIFTER

An Alpha Claim Brief-Bites® Novelette

Episode 3

New York Times Bestselling Author(s)

MARATA EROS

TAMARA ROSE BLODGETT

All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 2015 Marata Eros

Copyright © 2015 Tamara Rose Blodgett

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

www.tamararoseblodgett.com

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Cover art by: Willsin Rowe

Proofed by: Corinna

Synopsis

Talyn finds herself in a compromised position—literally.

Having escaped the supernatural battle raging inside her house, she falls into the wrong set of arms, and soon finds herself alone in a prison constructed of Mutables; a group of shifters that can change into virtually any animal. They too, have a limited female population.

Talyn doesn't care. She refuses to become the Lycan Merck and Arden insist she'll become, though her beast is clawing to escape.

But a revelation about her lineage makes becoming a Lycan a surety, rather than a choice. The question that haunts Talyn is: who will transition her? Friend, foe—or lover?

1

Talyn

This is my life.

Yup.

Fighting among supernaturals while they devastate my house.

Check.

Pooky MIA.

Check.

Swollen female bits making me absolutely crazy.

Double check.

A roar fills my ears and I want to flinch, but no part of my body moves. I'm languid, as my house is coming down around me.

Plaster dust fills the air in a cloud and I cough.

Blood splatter flies over my head as it dots the ceiling above my head like paint thrown from a can.

I try to come to myself but I'm numb.

All I remember is Merck's teeth in my shoulder—Arden's hands on my breasts.

Paws.

I giggle, and on some level I understand I've moved into hysteria. Any woman would be after what I've been through in the last day.

Tonight I found out I'm sort of a werewolf. And a human. And a counselor.

Like a tootsie roll with a gooey yummy center.

I bark out a laugh and get a case of the hiccups for my trouble.

Pooky sprints into the room, hopping onto my chest. My breath whooshes out of me and I'm fighting.

Fighting for my sanity.

Fighting the new instincts that rise like vapor from a boiling pot deep within me.

A raspy tongue runs over my nose. Golden-green eyes blink raptly into my own.

I wake as though from a dream.

Growls, and a horribly wet sounding, rubberband-like snapping has me sitting up in my bed squinting into the haze of dust and debris.

My nipples tingle, my crotch feels like a soaked donut.

I need to get out of here.

Fur flashes in my peripheral vision and Pooky lets out a squalling meow that lets me know she's ready to vacate.

I scoop my cat, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed and eye the window.

I stand carefully, inching along the narrow space between my bed and the wall that holds the window, praying that all the shapeshifting zoo behind me is too busy to notice their prey is making a getaway.

Half-changed bodies blur in my periphery, talons slashing into torsos with mottled hair and shredded flesh.

I gulp back my fear.

I turn my back on the melee, flipping the latch and open the double-hung window. It slides up and I punch the screen out.

Pooky accidentally claws me as she escapes through the hole I just made.

Thank God—she's safe.

I don't bother to wipe the blood from my arm, scooting through the opening in the brittle screening.

A hand latches around my ankle and I kick back with everything I have.

I connect and a howl erupts, the grip vanishing.

The urge to pee suddenly burns. I scoot out, tumbling into the shrubbery. Thorns embed themselves and I wince, thrashing my way out.

Scrambling out of the bushes, I lurch forward. Sighting the fence, I  race for the six foot tall slats of wood like shadowed soldiers bordering my property.

I never even consider the gate. I grab the rough wood and hook my toe on the cross member, ungracefully heaving myself up and over. The fence groans at the abuse but holds.

Unfortunately, I don't fly over the top, I fall—the sidewalk rushing to greet me.

But strong arms find me instead.

Jamie Duncan gazes down on me with a look that cannot be classified as anything but triumphant.

“Gotcha,” he says softly.

A beat of time thumps between us then I'm smashing my elbow into his nose.

He drops me, and I crab walk on my hands and knees.

Can this get any worse? Whacko stalker happens to be outside my house while the shapeshifting zoo beats the beejezus out of each other?

I can't make this shit up.

I flip over and begin to stand. His foot plows into my ass and I fly forward, chin hitting the cement in the rawest abrasion I've ever suffered.

“Ow!” I cry, my hands covering my abused chin and shredded cheekbone.

“Bitch,” he seethes from behind me.

I roll onto my back as his hand looms over my neck in an effort to drag me to him.

My foot slams his nuts and Duncan goes to his knees.

I roll to my side, shoving off and struggle to my feet. My blood litters the ground like dark polka dots on the pale concrete.

Staggering, I don't look behind me, and begin a limping jog down the street. My eyes latch onto the barely lit Family Dollar Store sign like a beacon.

They're always open. I'll just plaster myself to the front door. Maybe all the shapeshifters will take pause.

Instead, I fall like a felled tree, someone's arms wrapped around my legs.

I manage to arrest my face bashing into the concrete again my a millimeter.

Jamie Duncan roughly throws me on my back and cups my sex, brutally squashing the tender area.

My raw scream shatters the night.

“Shut the fuck up.”

His slap slams my face into the concrete, conveniently chewing up the unmarred side of my face.

Great, didn't escape the Beating by Cement after all.

I groan, my vision tripling.

Harsh panting is all I hear. His rancid breath fills my nose.

I cough, trying to beat him back with my fists.

When he hits me again I can't hang onto consciousness, my vision swimming from the dual blows.

Like grabbing for smoke, wakefulness escapes my grasp.

Blackness moves in, swallowing me whole.

2

Merck

I pile the bodies into the center of the room as Arden drags the last one over, and with a gentle heave, tosses the headless Lycan at the top.

He winks at me. “King of the hill.”

I frown, correcting him, “Lycan.”

He barks out a laugh, shrugging dismissively. “Whatever. At least we kept them from nailing Talyn.” He meets my eyes. “Now we have to find her.”

My eyebrow hikes, my body tensing. “Where is she—I don't smell her.”

“Took off with the damn cat.”

My lips quirk. “Well she can't be too far. And for the record,” I clap Arden on the shoulder and he staggers forward, “thanks for the help.”

His brows lower, hands going to strong hips. “Does this mean you'll share?”

I shake my head. “I understand you think you're capable of transitioning, Talyn. However, with zero changes to your record and her being of Lanarre descent—” I let my words trail off. Arden's no dumbass, he can figure out what happened here.

I am an alpha Changer, it's not in my nature to share a female.

She's just a change, but she's my change. When she becomes, Talyn will find her true mate.

“You're growling.”

I give him a sharp look, the humming deep within my chest quieting. “Fuck,” I mutter.

“Having a tough time reconciling the whole, ʻI'm a Changer and she's a changeʼ deal?”

He smirks.

I glare.

“Can't beat your chest then leave her?” Arden continues, smile widening. “I got your back on that one. I loved Talyn the instant I met her. I think I was too young to know what she was to me—biologically.”

I turn faster than Arden can track and jerk him to me by his thin ripped up shirt. The cloth makes a soft shriek as it falls apart from my harsh grip. “Listen up. I'm not giving Talyn over to a Mutable. Period. My job is to change her, then offer her as a breeder for the Lycans. Got it.” I shake him for emphasis.

Arden covers my hands with his own.

His grip begins to crush mine.

I glance down, his hands are no longer human, but talon-shaped. Like an eagle.

One that would have a twelve foot wingspan.

“Fuck!” I yell and he releases me.

My blood is hot as it runs down my forearms. The heat of healing burns through the sliced up top of my hands.

“Dick,” I grunt.

“Bully,” Arden chimes back softly. “Now you listen up—I know you don't give a shit about Talyn—the woman. But I do,” his thumb jabs his deeply muscled chest. “A Mutable doesn't have many stabs at a female whom they can mate with.”

I roll my eyes, folding my arms. “Nice choice of words.”

He shrugs. “It's no different than what you want Talyn for. You'll breed her for transition then you're on to the next female. It's perfect for the Lycans.” He flips his palms out. “But what about the females? What happens after they're discarded into the new Lycan society after only knowing humans?”

My jaw clenches. I hammer a shoulder up in a abrupt shrug. “I don't know—I change—like I keep saying. I do that part really fucking well. What happens to the females after I get them to their full Lycan forms is really none of my concern. I've been told they're assigned a mate who's good breedable stock. Period. What else is there?”

Arden's laugh shoots out of him like a bullet as he cocks his head to the side. “I don't know, you fucking one-dimensional prick—a life?” He slaps his thigh. “Talyn is a person, with unique desires, goals—dreams. Who are we to steal those away unless we have something to offer in return? Don't you see that perspective?”

My eyes slide away from his. Of course, his points make sense. How would I feel if someone told me it was time for me to be human now? Forget my strength, beast—hell my sense of smell. It's time for me to play mortal, and I'd get whatever female someone else thought would be a great match for me to be a stud with.

Like a real animal—without freedom of choice.

I feel a sour expression overtake my face.

Arden begins to nod, his eyes roving my features. “You're getting it. She's not resisting for the sake of being stubborn—Talyn's resisting out of a sense of lost liberty. She wants a little choice. Biology just handed her a shitty hand in a deck of cards not of her making. All I'm saying is, if you're just going to breed her into Lycan-ness, let me share so I can be her mate afterward. So that Talyn—the woman—is not exploited because of her genetic make up.”

I stubbornly shake my head, hands fisting. “I am not changing her for you. I'm changing her for Lycans. We don't have enough females. I can't just volunteer a change to you because you've been waiting in the wings for twenty years.”

“I was hoping to reason with you.”

What is he talking about?

“But now I'm going to give it to you straight.”

I cross my arms, my jaw set like stone. “Give what to me straight?”

“We're better together than apart.” His palm sweeps toward the dead  mound of Lycans we dispatched together.

I nod. “We can agree on the protection of Talyn, and I think I was clear how much I appreciated our collaboration.”

Arden nods at my factual statement. “But we've been jawing about our differences while she's running around, possibly enticing another rogue group of Lycan or others to her like a dinner bell.”

“Others?” I say, taking a menacing step forward.

He laughs. “Do you think I'm the only Mutable on the planet?” Arden makes a noise of disgust. “I am the only Mutable that gives a shit about Talyn. We're not the mating type, Changer.”

“What are you then?” I ask, coming to stand three inches from his face.

“We're the breed them and leave them type. It is a Mutable's role to impregnate as many viable female candidates as possible.”

I jerk my face back. “So you're no better than a Changer?” I scoff.

He purses his lips, giving a slow, grim nod. “So much worse. We do not need a female's consent.”

The gears of my mind grind to a halt. “Fucking rapists?”

Arden nods again. “I was orphaned. A chance meeting with a Mutable, who was part of a colony, told me what I was. I met Talyn before puberty.”

“What?”

He looks away, blowing a strand of hair out of his eyes. “I bonded with her. It's rare, but it happens.” His deep blue eyes meet mine within the gloom of her destroyed bedroom.

“If another Mutable finds Talyn, she will not be transitioned well.” He interprets my expression. “Oh—she'll be transitioned alright. In the street, alley, or wherever the Mutable can drag her off to.”

“No!” I roar, his words creeping underneath my sensitive skin like slivers of glass.

“Yes,” he answers flatly. “I thought between the two of us, we could change her. And together, she'd gently be given her new life. I could be her mate—what I've always wanted.”

Damn, I didn't like hearing any of that. “But I didn't help.”

The corner of Arden's lips lift. “No.”

I have a sudden epiphany. “Mutables can't get to her after I change her?”

“They can't with me in the mix. After my scent is mingled with hers, they won't bother—figuring she's already bred by one of their own.”

“And mine?”

Arden's lips tweak in a sad parody of a smile. “Fair game.”

“Fuck!” I yell again, yanking at my hair.

My hands come away with the blood of others.

“Meow.” Our heads swivel toward the window.

The feline is on the sill, black tail twitching. Her eyes implore us.

“Pooky's here,” Arden says in a tight voice.

“So where in the blue fuck is Talyn?” I seethe.

“Meow,” Pooky seems to reply, leaping out the window.

“Gone,” Arden says.

We look at each other.

Silence ticks like a silent clock as we race out into the back yard, looking for the only scent that matters.

Talyn.

Our disagreement about sharing doesn't preclude Talyn's importance. The struggle against each other only solidifies it.

3

Talyn

I wake with a pitiful groan.

I feel like I consumed every bottle of liquor inside my cabinet.

Every. One.

I rise up, ass in the air, and use my elbows as a prop for my throbbing head. Dumping my forehead into my hands, I groan again.

Just kill me now.

Then I remember that Jamie Duncan was at my sidewalk to conveniently catch me as I tossed myself over my fence while escaping the shifter catastrophe inside my house.

I sit up, rocking back on my heels as a temporary perch.

A stained mattress is tossed in the center of the bare floor like a discarded deck of cards. My eyes bounce around. There's nothing else. There's no amount of training that can prepare me for this.

I flatten my palm on the gross floor and hoist myself up. Pins and needles dog my lower legs and arms. I must've been in the same position for hours.

I have to pee so bad my bladder feels like a bomb ready to explode. I whip my head first to the right then left in search of a handy toilet.

The pain from the abrupt movement brings me to my knees, and a whimper squeezes past my lips. The wounds of my face begins to pulse to the beat of my heart where Duncan hit me.

I need a bathroom.

I lick my cracked lips. I need water.

I roll my face against the cold hard floor, wincing, and spy two doors. The one to the left has a barrier in place at the bottom where fresh air and light would normally travel. It darkens the room.

The other door has soft black at the edges.

I pull myself to my feet, careful not to move my head too quickly. Gradually, my eyes adjust to the vague light seeping around the edges of a pull-blind shade that's completely closed.

I half-stagger to the door that has a vague outline around it.

I press my forehead against the cool surface and clasp the circular handle. Swinging the door wide, I step inside. I stand there for a moment in the soft blackness and a drop of water echoes against what I assume is a sink basin.

Thank God.

I smack the wall behind me, feeling for a light switch. A familiar plastic nub fills my palm and I slide my hand up.

Bright light snaps into the space like white blood and I yelp, closing my eyes and throwing a hand over my face.

Vomit pulses inside my stomach, begging for a chance to escape. I resolutely swallow back the rising gorge.

I don't need dickhead Duncan to come back to me while I'm vulnerable and puking so he can work his fists on me again.

A startled laugh bursts out of me with the thought of what my life has become in a day's time.

Fucked up, if I'm any judge.

I'm so far away from coiffed and in-control counselor it feels like I've been reincarnated.

A bare bulb swings from the ceiling and I jump when the thin pull chain smacks me lightly on the cheekbone.

God! I deliberately calm my breathing and slowly peruse the bathroom, easily finding a toilet that hasn't been flushed in so long the water is a stagnate swamp of mildew. I hit the handle and the water engulfs the choked dark water, swirling it down and away.

I sit and pee.

And pee some more, head in my hands. I bite my lip, as the stingy, hot stream evacuates, breathing a sigh of complete relief when my bladder is finally empty.

I stand in a half-squat, using one square of toilet paper.

I open the under sink cabinet—nothing.

Okay. Conserve TP.

I turn on the faucet of an ugly mustard porcelain, 1970s chrome-rimmed sink and splash delicious water on my face.

The cold water stings my injuries... and I don't care. Cupping my hands, I gulp down greedy handfuls until my stomach slushes with it.

Cold water drips down my face, landing like soft drops of rain on my collarbone and dampening my t-shirt.

I survey the bathroom. No towel.

My gaze shifts to the mirror and I give a choked scream at my reflection.

I step back, hands to my throat and stare at my face.

But it's my eyes that are the worst.

A huge bruise circles my left orb like a raccoon's eye. Abrasions litter my chin, and a stubborn piece of gravel has embedded itself on the side of my jaw. I look like a war survivor.

Worse—My naturally gray eyes look strange. Like a second layer of clear crystal floats over the surface of the irises.

Without glancing behind me, I pull the filthy chain from the bulb and the room is silenced to black again. A noise issues from my throat like a squeezed trickle of misery.

Where my eyes would be, discs of silver flicker reflectively back at me within the near-complete darkness of the bathroom.

I'm not me anymore, but something new.

Just as I think it, a piercing pain lances my female bits. With a defeated sigh, I slide down the wall and push the door shut with a finger.

It's just me inside the miserable suffocatingly blank bathroom.

Waves of heat pulse from my sex to my toes, radiating back to the center of me and spreading like a wildfire inside my body.

I remember what Arden said. And Merck.

I needed to be transitioned.

Changed.

My head drops. I guess this will happen the hard way or the easy way.

Right now, I'm not even with the men. Even if I caved to what they wanted—and I almost had—there's one tiny problem.

Jamie Duncan.

4

As if on horrible cue, a door slams open. The tread of heavy boots stomp around outside of the inky bathroom. I hold my breath, my body tight against the wall, the cold of the floor leeching into my ass cheeks.

He's searching.

Talyn Phisher is no coward. I shake off my lethargy and stand. I will fight until he kills me.

I back away from the door, stepping backward into the shower stall.

The bathroom door slams open, and the light switch is swatted into compliance.

Hateful light flares on, illuminating a pissed-off Duncan.

“There you are—cunt.”

He says the horrible word with a hard T.

I shudder.

Duncan reaches inside to snatch me out of the shower and I chop his wrist with a hard downward arc. He instinctively jerks his hand away and I step out of the shower, doing the one thing he doesn't think I will.

I head butt him. Hard.

I stumble back, stars bursting in the field of my vision.

That fucking hurts.

I rush out of the bathroom and blindly ram myself through the partially open door and into the arms of a man.

“Whoa, filly!” he laughs good-naturedly.

I loathe horse analogies.

Like a woman is a horse? Instant hate ignites and I knee him in the groin.

He crumples to the floor as a wicked smile lights my face.

A hand grabs my ankle and I shoot a kick backwards, making contact with something that rewards me with a dull crunch.

I scramble across a mid-century ranch floorplan, fingers digging into shag carpeting as I spring to a stand again. Everywhere I look there's stained mattresses and couches. Chinese take-out boxes litter surfaces, empty of food.

It's a nightmare and from deep within, something claws to escape.

Not yet, I command in instant instinctive recognition. Whatever's happening to me is going to have to wait.

Because this girl is leaving the building.

Footsteps pound behind me and my heart races, adrenaline giving flight to legs shaky from fatigue, the bludgeoning and zero food.

Despite that, I fly.

Aided by new strength and a changing physique.

I whip open the front door, and pour myself through the threshold like a streak of lightning.

My hair is gripped from behind and I rotate, bringing my fist around as I do, and smashing it into a face.

A face of a half-changed animal I don't recognize.

Manic laughter slithers over my skin. “Whoo-hoo! She's a feisty one!”

I'm already sick of the hospitality.

I move in close, driving my knee into his nuts too, a new favorite maneuver. He falls, his grasp loosening from my hair as he grabs his package.

“Now that hurt, darlinʼ!” he squawks from the ground.

My ragged breaths are the only answer I give.

I run across a lawn pockmarked with the leavings of stray animals, and tear open an archaic cyclone gate.

It smacks the fencing, causing it to shudder with metallic indignation.

Scent, Talyn, my mind whispers.

I pass a tree as I run, dragging my forearm over the bark to mark my progress. The rough surface tears at my flesh, blood smearing the furrowed passage as I drive by, pumping my legs.

I hope to leave the men my calling card if they're looking.

I sprint down a generic neighborhood cul de sac. It's the dead of night. A few porch lights glow from narrow stoops but most houses look like rotten teeth in need of pulling.

Great.

The other inside me, gifts me the strength I don't have—the elusive wolf that I'll become.

Maybe if the men had bred me as they'd warned me they would, I wouldn't have been caught. I'd be out of biological reach from Duncan and crew.

But Merck and Arden had made it clear. I was in danger until I became this Lycan woman I'm meant to be.

I toss on more speed, the breath whistling through my teeth. My lungs are on fire and tight.

Can't breathe.

When the first guy tackles me, I buck him off, jerking to a stand. I gasp an inhale.

Three more nail me, holding me down against the rough asphalt.

Jamie Duncan saunters to the center of the street, planting his feet wide and folding his arms over his muscular chest as he looms over my prone form.

I'm so glad I turned this douche down.

“Jerk!” I spit, searching frantically for bystanders.

The deserted street sucks wind like a tunnel. It's the only noise.

No people.

“We own this neighborhood, Talyn.” Duncan shakes his head as if I'm a misbehaving child.

That just pisses me off.

Each man has a wrist and I stop squirming, trying to conserve energy for the fight that will surely come.

“What do you want?” My eyes cruise his features, seeing nothing helpful.

Duncan smiles, and I shy from the predatory glint of teeth too sharp for being human.

He slowly spins in the middle of the empty street. “It's not what I want, Talyn.”

“Then who!” I scream.

“My colony.”

I blink.

The others who hold me down smile at his words that sound suspiciously like a confession to me.

My eyes touch each face of those who hold me.

None of them look human.

And none of them appear to be the same half-animal.

“Colony of what?” I ask in a low voice.

Fucking ants? Like Duncan has a hill of swarming insects somewhere?

Maybe he's like a drone bee or something.

I can't believe this is my lovelife—considering animals and bugs as possible—what—breeding stock?

Despair creeps in, filling the fissures of my terror with neat abandonment.

“Mutables, Talyn. What else?”

Oh no.

His smile vanishes. “Take her back, boys.”

5

Merck

I'm out of gas—Arden too, from the looks of it.

We plow forward, keeping pace and trying not to lope too obviously. We're still feigning human.

The sun has risen like a slow explosion of pale fire over the horizon, touching off small sparkles of the need to sleep from my very marrow.

My beast presses me forward, knitting the damage from the fight as I jog alongside Arden.

Fatigue from being awake for almost two days straight trails me like a smell.

A Lycan's wolf doesn't give a fuck about rest when a female's in heat. It's the one instinct that supersedes the basic needs of living.

Eating.

Sleeping.

Then there's fucking—and that one reigns supreme.

We're scent trailing Talyn. I smell another but can't identify what. Every time my sensitive nose thinks it's got a bead on who has her, the scent cleverly morphs.

But there's something about the scent that is familiar.

I can't place it.

Arden whistles out a breath when the scent shifts to something new yet again. “Mutable.”

I stop, watching his broad back continue jogging toward the small town of Tea, South Dakota.

Arden turns, striding back to me. He braces his hands on his hips. And only I can see the quarter-change he's made to Lycan.

It's all about the nose, folks. I can't believe I can summon any humor at a time like this.

Arden's nose is like an unattractive beak stuck between two glowering eyes of flecked hazel. “What the fuck, Merck—” he swings his palm toward the rushing interstate to the east, “she's out there, let's get a move on.”

“You can't just throw out a muttered ʻMutableʼ as we're trotting to our doom to rescue my damsel in distress, and have me not take pause over that little detail.”

Arden rolls his eyes.

I fight the urge to knock his teeth down his throat. Guess my humor's not so hot after all.

“Listen—Merck. I told you the colony is always hunting. We have even fewer choices of breeding females than Lycans.”

“Pfft! Not my problem, Masker.”

Arden rubs his nape back and forth with irritated swipes. “Right, so we got off on the wrong foot. Technically, I should be the enemy.”

“Which you are,” I drawl the obvious.

Arden nods. “But none of that matters. Right now Talyn is in trouble. With my own kind, no less.”

An idea bombards me, exciting at the same time. I lean forward and Arden's eyebrows hike as I clearly switch gears.

The roar of the interstate threatens to capture my words so I use a higher frequency.

Arden's ears twitch forward, changing slightly to anyone who was observant. Such as myself.

“Are they Maskers like you?”

Arden shakes his head. “Doubtful. You must be a shifter to be a Masker—as far as I'm aware. However, most Mutables are not Maskers.”

My head spins with the complications, but I latch onto the beauty of this circumstance. “Then mask us so we can have the element of surprise.”

Arden's brows pull together.

“Whoever took Talyn, expects someone to come after her. Hell,” I don't bother being quiet here, “they must have been aware of the battle of the Lycan in her house?”

Arden chuckles. “That sounds like reality pulsevision, Merck.”

“Whatever,” I tear fingers through my short hair, “can you do it or not—the clock's ticking.”

His frown deepens into a scowl. “That is what I just reminded you of when you stopped our momentum.”

“Isn't our momentum worth more if we're cloaked in true stealth?”

Arden hesitates, cupping his chin. “Never tried it before Talyn—with two people.”

His dual nature might give us the edge we need to snatch her from under their noses.

I snort. “Well give it a shot, Mutable—we've got nothing to lose.”

His eyes meet mine.

“Except Talyn.”

6

Narah

Murphy grabs my elbow, steadying me as I trip over the second shattered glass tabletop. I hate this new klutziness.

I give him a grateful little smile. “Thanks, Murph.”

He grunts a welcome, and I smirk.

He's so fucking grumpy since I turned his ungrateful ass. Always complaining that the ladies aren't really into him anymore.

Being a vampire is an attraction-killer in this day and age of vamps being outed.

And then there's the bit where human women are attracted to the newly discovered vamps—fang-bangers. So not sexy, apparently.

I contain my smile with an effort.

But Murph needs blood, and he's proclaimed the bagged variety shit.

So here we are, rummaging through the debris of Dr. Phisher's home instead of finding blood donors—a new favorite pastime for Murph.

Donors, not debris. I feel like adding a winky face to my thoughts.

My eyes skip from pile to pile of broken and scattered household items. Destroyed house, more like.

Murphy strokes the ebony head of what I presume to be Talyn's cat.

Cats love vampires.

She purrs, barely containing herself from clawing Murphy. Instead, her little furred paws swoosh forward and backward rhythmically, the claws barely peeking out then retracting.

Murphy flicks her collar, where a glittering name tag shaped like a crown dangles.

“Old-fashioned,” he comments.

Yes, it's weird that the kitty has an etched name on the collar. Why the cat can't be just thumb-pressed between the eyes for instant pulse stats is beyond me.

“She's older,” I shrug, thinking of the good doctor.

“Forty?” he asks, eyebrow hiking.

I bite my lip. “Nah, maybe a little shy of that.”

Memory's fuzzy too. Marvelous.

“Yeah, but this beauty was around before the pulse days. Probably resisting the tech.” He cocks an inky eyebrow.

“Probably,” I say sarcastically.

“Hey!” Murphy throws up his hands and the cat launches onto the back of an unbalanced couch.

The overstuffed back sways under the ten pounds of feline weight, and she springboards again, landing on the next busted piece of furniture.

I sigh, kneading the back of my neck.

Talyn's going to shit when she sees what her house looks like.

“I've finally come on board with everything Brain Impulse Technology. Admit it, Narah.”

I kick a shard of glass into a new hill of trash, and slide a knowing glance his way. “I admit that Casper said you either come on board or your ass could find new employment.”

“Humph.” He stabs a finger in the air. “And I did.”

“Coercion doesn't count, Murph.”

My eye catches something, and I sink to my haunches, automatically swinging my blade out of the way as I do.

“What is it?”

I pluck a strand of hair, caught as though between teeth, from a splintered table leg and the flat nail head it's caught on.

I hold it up to the meager light.

We don't need light. We're vampire.

Besides, light alerts humans of our presence. Or things that aren't people—so we never turn any on. The advantages of being a vampire aren't lost on me. I can't believe what I could do when I was human.

Murphy's brows come together. He plucks the single strand from my fingertips.

Running it underneath his nostrils he scents deeply. His eyes spring wide. “Wankers!” he exclaims.

My brows knot. “Okay, don't hold back, you know I can't scent like you.”

Which I hate. And Murphy loves to lord over me.

“Well,” he waggles his brows, “I am superior, being that I am full vampire.”

I plant a swift elbow in his gut.

He doubles over with a whoosh.

The hair floats between us and I grab it. “Stop fucking around, Murph. Talyn is missing. Yʼknow—a client, you asshat.”

Murphy straightens. “I don't hit the ladies,” he says in an offhand way, reflective eyes steady on my face.

“Sounds like you're reminding yourself,” I comment slowly.

His eyes glitter at me with dark promise.

I don't scare easily. But this new vampiric Murphy is a different ball of wax.

“I am,” he says. “If you were a bloke, I'd have already bloodied your face.”

My hands drop, swinging loosely at my sides. “Bring it.”

Murphy's nostrils flare.

It's not the first battle of wills we've had. He is my youngling. A position I've not been fair with—or asked for.

But no one gave me the Vampire 101 Handbook.

I made Murphy a vampire to save him.

It's mega unfair.

Turning Murph was also a knee-jerk reaction. Now we're living with the consequences, and it's been rough going.

“You know that I can't.”

My shoulders sag. I'm suddenly ashamed.

“I'm sorry,” I whisper in a voice uncharacteristically humble.

Murphy drags me to him and hugs me.

I don't deserve it.

“I can't hurt you, Narah. You're my sire. And beyond that, you're a woman.”

Painful tears leak from the corners of my eyes and he pulls away. This guy that's been my obnoxious friend since the day I got out of the orphanage is giving me comfort—when he should have kicked my ass instead.

His fingers grip my shoulders painfully, not in aggression, but from sheer lack of knowing his new undead strength. “What is it—truly?”

My mouth opens and closes. The damn cat streaks by with a strangled meow and I jump. His hold gentles.

Murphy scoots down, planting his face in front of my eyes. I can't miss him, or the compassion I see in his gaze. “It can't be that a client's in danger? We've gone that route before. There's always a client in peril. Now that vamps are out in the open, we get more and more work policing what the human lawmen can't master. What might it really be, love?”

I roll to my tiptoes and his hands slide to my upper arms.

I speak it softly in his ear.

No one could hear my softly uttered words but another vampire.

My two vampire mates aren't around. I'm with Murphy and that's my reprieve from the guys.

The guys that don't know my secret yet.

Aeslin and Matthews trust my youngling. As they should. He can't go against his biology of protection.

Even when I beg him to with my immature behavior.

Murph jerks back as though struck, his eyes darkening to a pewter-mercury with surprise and wonder.

“Brilliant,” he whispers in a voice that lacks its usual cocky bravado.

“Not,” I say, and begin to cry in earnest.

I'm not much for tears but hormone overload will do that to a chick, apparently. And I'm not immune to what every other woman feels at a time like this.

Pregnant.

7

Talyn

The Mutables have me trussed up like a turkey.

I really wish I hadn't taken off when the zoo was kicking each other's ass in my house.

I close my eyes, so exhausted and hungry I've gone beyond hunger pains into sort of a numb emptiness.

These jerks are fond of zip ties. I can see why. They're tight and hurt if one tries to wrest themselves out of the compromising position of hostage.

Just as my eyes flutter shut again, something is jammed between my lips.

Straw.

I suck greedily, and cool water slides down my parched throat. Hostage or not, I can't think for my thirst. My hunger begins to abate as the more important hydration issue is tackled.

I sigh.

“Thanks,” I say to whoever gave me the drink.

I finally open my eyes and I'm relieved to see it's not Duncan. A tenseness I didn't even realize clung to me sloughs off a little.

I study the face in front of me and a giggle escapes. I don't mean to. But somehow, his half-donkey face is hilarious.

“Really?” I ask, without any sense of self-preservation, “do you—you couldn't think of a different animal?”

He scowls, and the long droopy ears hike with the expression.

“Think of the comedic potential here,” I add, heaping on insult to injury. I'm giddy with exhaustion, spent adrenaline and insufficient nourishment.

My give a fuck has officially given up.

He slaps my face, the little bit of water that hadn't traveled down the pipe comes up, flying out of my mouth along with enough blood to sober me.

“You're here to be bred, Lycan female. That is all. You can be half-dead for all we care. We're just keeping you barely coherent and in minimal health so we can breed you, then we're on to the next female.”

He smirks.

On to the next female.

His lecherous grin widens. “I'm clever, even if I look like an ass.”

I spit out more blood, giving him a look filled with my hate. “Your play on words is not impressive. Anyone can be on a female if said female is bound. And ass works, even if you're not a donkey in the present.”

His hands ball into fists.

“Go ahead,” I goad. I'd rather miss their rape of me. Just knock me out and turn out the lights.

I don't have any hope that Merck and Arden will find me. What if Duncan's a Masker like Arden?

“Don't,” someone says in quiet command behind Donkey.

Donkey visibly restrains himself from beating a bound woman.

I can see it pains him.

Donkey Dick is a better name, I decide.

“She needs a lesson, Drake.”

The new man—Drake—says, “Maybe, but not by you.”

Donkey whirls, his ears flapping, and I bite the inside of my cheek not to snort hysterical laughter again.

What's wrong with me? I know—death wish!

“She's got a mouth!”

The hidden Drake comments, “I can think of better things to do with her mouth than shut it with our fists.”

Uh-oh. My urge to laugh drains away.

Donkey turns, his lips twisting in ugliness as he surveys me on the floor. “Good idea.”

He jerks me to my feet and slams me against the wall. My head bounces, and I find I can't stand.

I've been in one position too long. My teeth float with the need to pee again.

“Bitch,” he seethes.

“Hee-haw,” I croak.

“Alex,” the guy named Drake says in warning.

“What?” he asks between his teeth, hands at my throat.

My eyes roll, trying in vain to find Drake, soft gray edging in at my consciousness.

He squeezes my neck.

“Leave the female for now. Duncan said we each get a piece later tonight.”

Not a good development.

Donkey, who I now know is Alex, punches the wall next to my face. I yelp as my head bounces off the surface. His grip releases suddenly and he grins.

I track him as he stalks off, allowing myself to slide down the wall with a shoulder. My wrists burn, and I wince as I roll my tongue along a swollen and cut lip, courtesy of the last slap from Donkey.

“Hey.”

I look up, and a huge man stands before me.

Drake, I intuit.

“Yeah,” I croak in answer.

I understand no one is my friend in this little palace I find myself in, and I'm not allowing myself to soften toward this guy because he delayed a beating.

“I'm Drake.”

“Okay,” I answer, eyeing him warily.

I guess it doesn't make sense that he'd beat me too—having just saved me from Donkey. So at least I'm spared that. For now.

He reaches out to me and I flinch, trying to raise my bound hands defensively, though I can't get too far. Drake cups my chin, forcing my eyes to his.

“I won't hit you,” he says through gritted teeth, and I notice he's not a horse's ass.

Sharp teeth line a wide mouth, and lips a shade too full to be within human norms. His eyes are slanted, the pupils are oblong, instead of dots.

Snake.

“Oh my god—cobra man!” I try to scoot away as new panic surges through me. I attempt to wrestle away from him, but his hold on my chin tightens instantly. Painfully.

He could crush my jaw.

I still.

His fingers lessen their bruising pressure.

“I'm not a snake.”

I scrutinize him more closely. His skin isn't flesh-toned, but iridescent. The outline of scales shine in the dim light of the room. Drake turns his head to the side.

His ears lie flat against his head, shaped like an elaborate fan that sweeps up from the back of his head and ends in three points, a swagging split is evident between each point as they ascend in a graduated arc.

Drake's lips part and steam rises from his mouth.

My lips part. “Oh dear God—you're what?”

“You know what I am.” His muscular arms cross, and the barely outlined scales on every surface of his exposed skin morph, flashing prismatic color and deepening.

His eyes sweep upward, the colors of the irises swimming and changing.

I'm dizzy.

“I'm no donkey.”

I nod slowly, in awe of what I suspect he is. In more awe as to the level of finesse he'd need to become a tiny bit more of his animal to reveal his identity to me.

“I thought you guys were Mutable? Any animal?”

Drake nods. “Of course. But our base animal, the one that is our animal in rest, that is the shape we hold form without effort. The other forms we must shift into. And there's the matter of being Alpha.”

My breathing is shallow. Hyperventilating might be an option in my near future.

“Our base form determines the hierarchy of who is Alpha of the colony.”

“That's why Donkey backed down?” I ask.

Drake nods, a smile ghosting his lips. His golden brown hair is a short mat of spikiness tight to his skull.

He smiles. “Dragon trumps Donkey every time, Talyn.”

I duck my head between my knees. It's not easy with my ankles bound but it's that or pass out.

I guess I want to stay awake for my gang rape after all.

Even if Dragon-man extended a temporary olive branch, it's only a matter of time.

And time isn't on my side.

8

Merck

Arden and I lie on our bellies a mile outside of the target area. Our gazes lock on a run-down neighborhood in the slums of the sleepy suburb of Sioux Falls.

Tract houses run together without a break in style. There are no obvious dissenters in the uniformity of cookie cutter living. Every house sits mournfully similar. Unkempt lawns, and crookedly bent cyclone fences surround forgotten yards.

Looks about right.

“Typical Mutable breeding lair.”

I grunt at Arden's assessment. “Nice shifter community you have.”

Arden shoots me a look of sharp scorn. “We're not a community. We're a colony of the only shifters who have more than one animal. Maybe you Changers are so much better because you have your pick of Lycan females and the occasional hybrid female to change. Us Mutables? We have whatever female we can impregnate.”

“Talyn is not going to be bred by Mutables,” I say in a voice bloated with menace and filled with promise.

Arden rolls to his side, elbow bent, palm supporting his head. “Listen Changer—this is Talyn. My best friend in my human existence. But never confuse things. I am Mutable. The breeding fever chokes me—like it's choking them.” His eyes shift to the distant houses. “If I'd been part of a colony, I'd be down there deliberating my hierarchy within the breeding order.”

I jump to my feet. “What?”

He stands too. “Haven't you been listening? The Mutable colony has a scout. He goes out, taps into any female heat signal he can find, and brings the rest of us. The best breeding males are sent. They breed the female. If the pregnancy takes, they leave. If it doesn't, they come back when she cycles again.”

“So there's no one who takes care of her? The female's just bred and left with young to care for—no mate, pack or anything?”

Arden shakes his head. “I didn't make the rules, Merck. This is what the one Mutable I ran into explained. He couldn't believe I'd bonded with a female. He behaved as though it was sacrilegious or something.”

I give him a tight look. “It shows that females can be more than breeding vessels for Mutables. How many females have been broken, and bore young they're unable to care for? How many are raised in broken homes or in the criminal foster system?”

Arden shrugs. “I'm not being blasé here. I know it's a faulty system. I didn't create it, and for the record, I adore Talyn. Clearly I wouldn't have hung around until her heat cycle if I'd just wanted to be part of the colony and its ways.”

He turns his head in the direction of the house where Talyn's scent vaguely clings.

I know we can't just charge in, but my palms dampen with the need to react immediately.

“And I know my position would be high.”

What? My face swivels to his. “High?”

“Alpha. My base animal is snow leopard. Rarity and power count within a Mutable colony. Some males get stuck with a really weak base animal.” A low chuckle escapes his lips.

Arden sees my expression and laughs again. “Sure, and an elephant can stomp on a hyena, but the hyena is faster—has survival instincts at the top of the food chain.”

I grunt. “So it's good that you're a cat?”

Arden heaves an exasperated exhale. “Large feline and rare.”

I frown. “What's more Alpha than you?” Being Lycan seems much simpler.

Arden's face closes down. “Anything prehistoric would be a problem.”

I jerk my chin in the direction of the derelict neighborhood, mouth agape. “You think that's down there?”

I feel like being a Lycan warrior is plenty enough to bring to the party. Not that a little grizzly back-up hadn't kicked ass, I reflect.

“No,” Arden replies. “Prehistoric is so rare...”

“But things have been fucked up from the beginning of this change,” I say almost to myself.

“There's that. It seems like every time I progress, something comes up to separate Talyn and I.”

“Like me?” I say in a low voice.

The tension thickens between us like molasses.

We square off.

“I don't have time to fight you now. And as you found out—we're better together than apart. And yeah, in answer to your question, your timing sucked. I could have had Talyn already transitioned if you hadn't come along.”

I circle him, talons sliding out of my fingertips. I welcome the pain of my half-form. The transition to—wolfen—keeps thoughts at bay. I need to not intellectualize shit right now. I need to be reactive, get to Talyn—and somehow—get rid of Arden in the process.

His grim face notes my hands. “The enemy's down there, Merck.” He jerks his head in the direction of the forlorn houses below.

“You know who I trust, Masker?”

His lips thin.

“Me.”

“Then trust your instincts. Do your instincts tell you we want to save Talyn?”

He's right, of course. Arden's no fool. He understands if he keeps mentioning Talyn, he'll get a stay of execution until she's out of harm's way.

“Yes,” I finally spit out my answer.

“Then let's go.”

I flick a glance at the horizon. Twilight has bruised the sky plum, clouds skittering across the bluish-purple blanket of encroaching night like escaped smoke.

I don't reply, glancing over my shoulder at the enemy who's my friend.

For now.

Arden's eyes reflect back at my challenging stare like coins of icy blue silver in the rushing darkness, his cat form swarming his features like rain sheeting glass.

“I've masked us.”

I growl.

He better have, or they'll smell us already.

9

Narah

Murph pulls away, his eyes searching mine.

“Narah, don't tell me the fellas don't know.”

I inhale deeply—let it out slow. “They don't know.”

He hisses, his breath whistling between clamped teeth, a sliver of fangs showing. “Awful news, Narah.”

I press my lips tightly.

His inky brows come together, once a golden-brown—his appearance having changed so much since I turned him.

More guilt strikes me like a well-honed weapon.

I did this.

Murphy gives my shoulders a soft shake. “No. Don't—I can feel your guilt. This isn't about me.”

“You were mad at me.”

Murphy silvered eyes swing heavenward. “Not mad. Rage-inspired.”

My lips quirk. “Same thing.”

He shakes his head, a strand of hair breaking loose from his hairband at his nape. “No. Being a vampire, as lovely as I am—” his lips curl, and  my eyes narrow, “takes some getting acquainted with.”

His gaze meets mine with impunity. A human wouldn't want that silver stare trained on them. It could mean thrall.

Which could mean everything a human being doesn't want.

“I wasn't saying you having a babe was the bad news, love. I said that I'm fond of keeping my limbs when Aeslin and Matthews find out you told me before them. They're your mates,” he thumbs his broad chest, made even more so with him being a vamp, “not me.”

“Can't we just grow arms and legs back if they're plucked off?” I keep a straight face.

Murph glares. “I'm not keen on finding out. I'm a vampire, not a starfish.”

I burst out laughing. “You don't care if I catch the bad guys?” I ask, changing the subject.

Murphy's hands leave my arms. “I love you catching the wankers. I love catching them. However, I don't fancy you getting your pregnant bum beaten.”

I fold my arms across my narrow chest. “Thanks. You sound like a typical dude. Chicks can't give back what they get. Is that it?”

He gives me a narrow look. “You know that I understand—intimately—how lethal you are. You're a proficient level 10 for fuck's sake, Narah. They don't hand those assessments out like candy.”

“So what's the issue?”

“Selfishly? You die—I die. True death. Secondly, I enjoy our clever repartee far too much to have all that excitement end prematurely because your stubbornness wins out over logic.” He cocks an eyebrow. “A trend amongst your gender,” he holds up a palm before I can protest, “overall.”

My mouth clamps shut.

I blow out an exhale. “Fine. I will tell the studs, but I want to nail this case first.”

Murphy eyes swing to the ceiling again. “Lord have mercy! You heard me, but you don't listen.”

“I know,” I reply softly. “But I have to help Talyn.”

“Why?” Murphy seethes. “She's a Lycan's change. She's that Merck fellow's responsibility.”

I nod hastily. “True. But she didn't believe me.”

“Believe you?” His eyes slit, shoulders lifting in a small shrug.

“Believe that I could protect her—save her.”

Murphy sighs, his gaze pointedly moving around the destruction of Talyn Phisher's home. “And we can't. She's in too deep—Lanarre royalty? Even Merck admitted she was the strangest change he'd ever had. And the complication of the Masker...”

“Mutable.”

His eyes darkened. “That too.”

I grab a handful of my pale braids and toss them behind my back.

“If Casper finds out you've gone off the rails you won't have to worry about not having told the gents your news.”

My gaze latches onto his.

“He'll terminate your employment without a thought. You can't go solo on this, Narah. This case no longer falls under client needs anymore. Once you and I—as your partner—though I feel like a tolerated sidekick—discovered that Talyn was a Lycan hybrid, our duty was done. Lycan politics don't impact Final Enforcement's ever-changing model. We distribute justice to the criminals our lovely police force doesn't want to dirty their hands with. We help humans who have problems of the supernatural variety.”

I blink. That's the longest speech I've ever heard Murph make. “Until the circle closes,” I reply.

Murph nods. “Yes. Until our obligation comes to its natural end. Which it has. We've already used Enforcement resources for clean-up. Now you're saying we need to find Talyn. It's clear that others were here.” He gives an abbreviated laugh, stabbing his eyes at the mess all around us. “They fought. And now Talyn is gone. And it is abundantly clear that Merck—and Arden—for that matter, will not stop chasing Talyn until she's transitioned. Let. It. Go.”

My hands go to my hips, and I dip my chin.

I struggle internally with not following through. My nature intrinsically sees a task or promise through to the end. Possibly because no one saw anything through for me. All promises broken.

Until I was turned and mated by vampires.

I wish I could let it go. Let Talyn's life come to whatever conclusion fate has in store for her.

“You can't let go,” Murphy says softly.

I lift my head, giving Murph level eyes. “No.”

“Fuck it,” he says, taking my hand, he hauls me out of Talyn's busted up digs.

“Where are you taking me?” I yank my hand out of his.

We turn to face each other.

“If you're committing possible suicide, I might as well have some skin in it.”

I jerk my chin back. “Huh? You've lost me.”

“I might be a lot of things, but saving my own skin is top on the list. I might actually live to see the next night if I help you get this out of your system.”

“And if I say no?”

Murphy steps into my space, looming over my small frame. “You tell me to piss off, and I'll run straight to the boys and let them in on your secret.”

“Bastard.”

“Yes.” He jerks his head in an enthusiastic nod. “But someone has to look out for you since you won't.”

“And look out for you,” I say, sarcasm like thick honey on my tongue.

The corners of his lips turn up.

I shove him good-naturedly in the chest and he stumbles back. “Hey!”

“Let's go, ya brute.”

I wink.

He glowers.

10

Talyn

“So—what? Duncan was always a derelict criminal, bent on kidnapping me?”

Drake's head kicks back, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Pretty much.”

I sigh, tipping my head back against the wall. “The whole ʻasking me out on a dateʼ after workout at the gym?”

“Ruse,” he replies in a bored tone.

“God.”

“Not a believer, I'm afraid.”

I narrow my gaze at him. Like Merck, this guy is super-tall, built like a pro-wrestler and maybe he'd even be attractive.

Except for the scales.

And probably a forked tongue. Wait a minute—does he breathe fire?

I shiver.

Drake sees my reaction and smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

I'm so thrilled by his amusement. I shake off my curiosity for the moment. “You know, I think you shifters have to change into an animal that actually exists. It has to be a rule somewhere.”

A smile hovers at his lips. “And you're the authority on shapeshifters.”

“No,” I say defensively, “but in our world's ecosystem, I've never heard a breath of dragons as a real species. It's just bad science fiction.”

Drake's eyebrow cocks. “Really?”

He paces away, and I admire his wonderful body. In the middle of being a hostage, a crushing warmth steals my breath, piping through my system like lava.

I groan.

Drake whirls, staring intently at me, his concern is evident. “You're close.” His nostrils flare and a disconcerting twitch of his strange yet delicately constructed ears flicks. A rainbow waterfall like a shadow of colors ripples over his flesh head to toe.

I wheeze.

“Get these restraints off me!” I say loudly, denying my sexual needs.

Drake's hands fist, his eyes furtively moving about the room.

“Please,” I beg. My crotch is on fire, I'm exhausted and dirty and so low from lack of hope I can taste it.

He seems to come to a decision and extracts a knife from his back pocket. The blade flicks out with a smooth movement of his hand.

My eyes widen at the reflection of the metal.

With large eyes and a speeding heart, I watch him come.

I went too far, I demanded, and now the Dragon shifter guy—Mutable, whatever—has decided I'm more trouble than I'm worth.

“Don't hurt me.”

He comes to stand in front of me then sinks to his haunches.

A single tear swells, tipping over the rim of my eye.

“Don't.” My voice is hoarse, my terror rides my skin, raising goose flesh everywhere clothes don't touch.

Instead of answering, Drake leans forward, his arms going behind my body. I instinctively tense just as he gives off an odor unlike anything I've ever smelled.

I relax instantly. It's air and sea and earth, wind along my nose. His scent is all these things and more.

The pressure of the ties snaps off my wrists and my aching arms fall forward. His hands move down first one shin.

“Ah,” I gurgle embarrassingly in response to his touch.

Cut.

Then the next.

When my legs are free he grasps my hands and lifts me to my feet. I come to his shoulder.

Fear sweeps in again.

More of Drake's sweet scent pumps into the air around us, assailing my nostrils, and I find myself falling forward. Into his arms.

At his mercy.

My intellect batters at the new scent drunk closing in. I'm drowning—and I like it.

I don't notice the commotion at first. When my feet leave the ground, my arms automatically tuck against a broad, muscular chest.

My face rolls to the flat muscles of his chest and I inhale deeply.

His scent is a drug, and I'm an addict.

A sudden crack breaks through my lethargy. My head jerks up and I peer out of the arms that hold me.

Merck and Arden burst into the room.

Oh, I think through the fog.

And they're not alone.

Enforcer Adrienne and her companion—a vampire by the looks of him—have arrived.

The cavalry is here to rescue me.

I look up at Drake and that small smile rides his full lips.

His eyes are no longer human.

“Leave and live another day.” Drake says.

The answer to the forked tongue question has been answered.

I randomly wonder how enunciating S's must be. I giggle and Merck and Arden look at me.

“This is bad,” I hear Arden say like he's a million miles away.

“Which part?” Adrienne asks as a chair sails over her head, crashing into the cheap wall and buckling it.

“The part where a dragon has claimed Talyn.”

Someone groans. I realize it's me.

Claimed?

“Oh shit.” I recognize the enforcer's voice but my eyelids are already closing. Drake's scent is so intoxicating, I feel the buzz of his nearness take over.

“Bloody hell!” another voice yells.

But I'm already fading. As another fight ensues, I vaguely wonder what escape really means for me.

The noise dims, and even that question becomes unimportant as I doze off.

THE END

SHIFTER

An Alpha Claim Brief-Bites® Novelette

Episode 4

New York Times Bestselling Author(s)

MARATA EROS

TAMARA ROSE BLODGETT

All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 2015 Marata Eros

Copyright © 2015 Tamara Rose Blodgett

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

www.tamararoseblodgett.com

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Cover art by: Willsin Rowe

Proofed by: Corinna

Synopsis:

Talyn wakes to find that she's not with who she started with, and tragedy dogs her every step of the way.

Narah works to secure her safety while Mutables make a bid to have her.

Can Merck claim her before it's too late? Or will Drake find a way to insert his dominance above all.

1

Narah

“For fuck's sake!”

I so didn't need a dragon Mutable mess. Didn't order that.

A chair cruises over my head, the leg catching the mess of my braids and jerking hard.

I know my hair's a liability—I've stubbornly kept it in a bid for femininity. As I land in an ungraceful pile on the floor, I regret the long hair, and not telling the boys I'm knocked up.

With a... I don't know? Fang baby?

As the enemy pours through the door to see what all the ruckus is about, I fight crying. I'm so in my damned head, my thoughts are cannibalizing my brains.

“Love,” Murphy calls out with soft urgency, “move your bony arse!”

I whip a palm into the air and his slaps mine, hoisting me up.

Jamie Duncan walks in, looking decidedly toothy.

Great. This is the stalker dude—he's not a human? My glare falls on a drunken and claimed Talyn Phisher in the arms of a hot dragon Mutable.

Not hot as in sexy, but hot-underneath-the scales.

Can't I just catch the criminals anymore? Now I'm refereeing mating too?

Ask me if I care. “Grab the client,” I say to Murph.

“Oh no, love, I don't do dragons.”

I turn to Murphy, hands on hips. “I'm not asking you to do him, Murph. Just get Talyn.”

“What?!” he yells. “Have you noticed anything a more sensible person would? Like scales? And fire-breathing? I will be a barbequed vampire if I get near his claim.”

My eyebrows shoot down. I stalk over to the dragon, muttering about how I have to do everything myself. I look up, way up—as steam lazily pools and dissipates out his ears and nose.

Wow. Up close he's a thing.

I suck in a balls-to-the-wall inhale.

Whatever.

Jamie Duncan is sleazing along the wall, and my blade is suddenly in my hand without me thinking about pulling it. Obsidian—volcanic glass hardened metal of champions—gotta love technology. “Back off mutt,” I say without looking at him. My peripheral vision will have to keep tabs on the Lycan because I've got fire-breather holding my client.

“Stay out of Mutable business, enforcer,” Duncan replies from my left, conveniently allowing me to place his position.

I give a hard eye roll. “Fuck off,” I say, and my blade's already flying. A satisfying meaty thunk and yelp have me curling my lips.

My focus returns to the Mutable. “Drop the chick, dragon.”

His eyes are like a snake's. Golden green, bisected by oblong-shaped inky pupils.

They're dilated, eating away at the smoldering peridot color.

Those riveting eyes fix on me. “No. This transitioning female is mine now.” He glances at where I stabbed Duncan, his eyes moving back to me. “However, I do appreciate you taking one more Mutable out of the equation for my goals.”

This guy. “Fine. Whatever fuels your fire, dragon-boy.”

“Narah,” Murphy says from behind me.

“What?” I turn slightly, grumpy from all the interference but still keeping a wary eye on Dragon.

The males who are connected to Talyn stand there—Merck and Arden.

God. Can't catch a break. Okay. “You two,” I wave my finger between the two, “flank dragon, get him all hot and bothered and we'll snag Talyn.”

Murphy says, “You do understand you're telling the Mutable what your intentions are?”

“Yup.” I nod. “Like he's wondering about my intentions?” I snort. As an enforcer, my intentions are always known.

Big exhale from Murph. Exasperation. Hear it a lot.

“I am Alpha to all,” the Dragon says.

My eyebrows rise, and I fight yawning; I'm all draggy. And hormonally pissed off. But Dragon doesn't know that.

Who the hell wants to deal with an Enforcer with all-day-morning-sickness, and who is also conveniently, a vampire.

Quick answer: nobody.

I feel the Mutables at my back. I guess it's not too great a sign that none of them will come near the dragon even with the prize of Talyn in the mix.

“Here's the thing,” I begin, “you just lay the client down right there, and I'll let you live, big boy.”

The hard edges of his lips twist. “You're charming, but I must refuse.”

Figures.

I don't wait for Arden or Merck to make their play. They've got my back or not.

I charge, low and hard.

Dragon's eyes widen at my speed.

Surprise, ember-dick.

Being tiny has its uses. Like now. I plow into his knees, wrapping his lower body and rolling as I do.

Heat warms my back.

Shit.

I tuck hard and begin to heave his large body with my momentum. A vague hiss ensues and I know Murphy is preparing to strike.

Dragon falls with Talyn.

Their body weight pins me.

Oh shit. Not feelinʼ it.

Dragon's eyes meet mine. A forked tongue slides out.

I pride myself on having nerves of steel. But when that hot tongue tastes my face, a scream wedges itself in my throat.

“Narah!” Murphy bellows from above Dragon's shoulder.

Fangs sink into Dragon's neck as half-changed Lycans each take a piece with their teeth.

A roaring fills my ears and heat encapsulates me.

Stealing the scream I never get out.

2

Talyn

I remember when saunas were in vogue.

It was the cool thing to do. Work out, use the sauna, cleanse your pores.

It's overrated.

My eyes pop open to the smell of singed flesh and air that tastes like metal.

Drake stands above me, his mouth opening and fire pouring out.

Oh. My. God.

Maybe I can just crawl away. Seems to be a theme.

I subtly begin to back away from between his legs then my eyes peg his dick.

It's very... sizable.

My core pulses, enjoying the view.

That again.

I close my eyes in defeat. First violence, now this irritating lust issue. It doesn't matter, I tell myself, if I can just get away.

I scoot back as Drake blankets the room with fire.

Fur shrinks on bodies, melting against skin without a protective barrier. I gulp, breathing through my mouth. The smell of burning flesh, and the blood flowing underneath is gorge-worthy.

Enforcer Adrienne is hanging onto Drake's legs. She can't get purchase because they're covered with scales.

Time to go.

Drake seems to ignore her. Every subtle shift of his weight, and the hardened shapes shimmer like multifaceted jewels.

I'm mesmerized.

Sweat breaks out on my forehead.

The shrieking and chaos of the room is total. There doesn't seem to be  a piece of silence in all the world.

A vampire hangs off Drake's shoulder like a tick with fangs. When my gaze catches sight of Arden I'm on my feet before I realize I'm moving.

“No!” I yell.

His spots are running together like melted candle wax, his animal is wheezing, fur standing like strangled patches of singed ivory islands in the raw charred skin that lies beneath.

I run to him.

The fire recedes, vaporing heat shimmers between us.

“Talyn, stop!”

Merck.

I slide in next to Arden, heedless of the torch of Drake's mouth all around us.

My fingertips hover over his wounded skin, unsure where to touch first. An unburned paw lands on my thigh, twice the size of my hand, and I close my fingers around claws meant to kill.

“Arden?” I say brokenly, huge teardrops landing on his charred fur.

He doesn't seem to mind.

“Talyn,” he chokes from the back of his throat, “get out of here.”

I shake my head, making myself dizzy. “Drake can torch us both, I'm not leaving.”

“Yes you are,” Merck jerks me from the floor. My frantic eyes move to Arden's, and he manages to shake his head, his dying eyes encouraging me to leave.

Drake's gaze finds us, and he smiles, striding toward us.

Adrienne rears back, a black glittering opaque blade arcing downward.

She embeds the blade, hilt-deep in his thigh. “That'll stop a truck!” then, “or a dragon.”

He kicks out viciously and Adrienne flies, hitting the nearest wall, and sliding down into a heap. Drake roars, fire leaking from his lips. But he doesn't hurt Narah, though his thigh has to be absolutely killing him.

He limps to her, jerking the blade from his flesh. “I don't hurt pregnant females. But you test my limits.”

Pregnant? I twist to look at her.

Enforcer Adrienne gives me a sullen look. “What?”

“I—I can't believe this!” I say, Merck's hand on my upper arm.

“Let me go! I need to stay with Arden.”

Merck shakes his head. “He's too far gone. No shifter can heal damage that extensive—especially by fire.”

My head feels half-attached at the news. “What?” I ask, shaky.

“He's dying,” Drake says dismissively, whirling in our direction, and beginning to hobble determinedly toward us again.

“Dying?” My voice sounds far away, breathy—bereft. I shake my head, as though by denying Arden's impending death, it won't happen.

“Dick,” Adrienne spits from the wall where Drake flung her.

Drake smirks. “It is the way of the Mutable, female. The leopard knows this.”

The vampire swings from Drake's shoulder, hanging on as iridescent blood flows down his muscular chest.

Arden doesn't even manage a gurgle as Drake steps over his body,  reflective eyes dimming as our gazes collide, locking in silent mourning and goodbye.

I shift my eyes to Drake's, boring into him. “If you think that you're going to win me over by killing my best friend, you're sadly mistaken.” My lip trembles, but my chin kicks up.

Drake stops, his unblinking gaze fixed on me.

I cough at the smells in the air, not bothering to wrench my arm from Merck's hold, covering my mouth.

“I don't need to win you over. I just need to breed you. Transition you to your true Lanarre wolf.”

I'm so tired of that line.

His forked tongue slides out of his mouth as though licking his lips is the only thing that matters in that moment.

I don't hang around for a round two.

Somewhere in the room, Duncan groans, still bleeding out from the wound Enforcer Adrienne gave him.

Her eyes widen on mine as I jerk my arm from Merck's, sprinting to where Arden lays.

A low growl of warning sounds from Arden. He's still trying to save me, even though he's dying. I duck low, tucking my hands underneath his matted bloody fur.

“No,” I sob.

Crystalline eyes meet mine, the last vibrant thing left of Arden. “I love you, Talyn.”

I know. I know he does—and I ran from what he offered. Transitioning with him and Merck doesn't sound so bad anymore.

A hand falls on my shoulder, ripping me away and Arden's eyes flutter shut, a final breath shuddering out of his failing body.

I lift my hands in front of my face, my fingers come away bloody.

I'm numb. Numb to who has me. To what I'll become.

To my life.

I close my eyes and let the arms that hold me take me where they will.

I might as well be dead, like Arden.

3

Merck

I should've known the change would be this screwed from the beginning. Now I've got a Mutable dragon in the equation, and there's nothing I can do but pray that I can avoid him long enough to get Talyn transitioned.

Enforcer Adrienne heals from the toss by the Mutable, and stands, removing her sanctioned weapon, she levels it at the dragon's back.

“Stand down, Dragon.” Her eyes take in the vampire Enforcer hanging off the dragon's shoulder. “Murphy—let go of him for fuck's sake. I can't take a shot when you're dangling off the perp.”

“I can't,” comes the vamp's muffled reply. His mouth is full of dragon so it's hard to tell.

I grab Talyn, and she's vacantly presence in my arms. Her eyes stare, but no one's home.

Fuck. Shock.

I glance at Arden. He's dead. His human form lies on the floor, naked, pock-marked and razed with severe burns.

I begin my retreat, a look shot at the enforcer which conveys a message I hope she interprets.

Enforcer Adrienne dips her chin, and for the first time in my life, I'm thankful for some form of the law. Or back up. As a Changer it's usually just me.

Arden will never back up anyone again. And no matter how much I loathed his bid for Talyn, he hadn't been a half-bad male. Just been in the wrong place at the exact wrong time kind of thing.

Like now.

“Give me the female,” the dragon warns me.

I hike Talyn up in my arms, leveling a look at the first shifter dragon I've ever laid eyes on. “Torch me, Mutable.”

The dragon smirks, vampire still clinging like a tick with fangs. Dragon reaches behind him to grab the vamp just as the vamp's palms cover his snake-like eyes.

See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil, I think randomly.

I whirl, sprinting for the door as a shot's fired. I don't bother to look back, slow down or hesitate. Instead, I clear the front steps of the shitty house, racing down the walk.

I hit the piped top of the chain link fence with one hand, and throw myself over the four foot divide, landing with Talyn held in one arm.

She doesn't stir.

I feel the heat from here. Like a wave from an open furnace, it hits my back like a hot slap.

I keep running.

Run to escape the Dragon, and protect Talyn from a fate of gang-breeding by rabid Mutables. It's not an end for any female.

When I reach the end of the block I turn, facing the carnage behind us. Flames shoot like exploded torpedoes, causing a false orange glow to saturate the night sky.

I don't see the vamp, enforcer—or most importantly, the dragon evacuate the burning house.

I have a pang for the enforcer. A female—and pregnant, though I'm not sure how the dragon knows—left behind to a fiery death.

I gaze down at Talyn.

She is my change—the only female I am responsible for right now.

I will get her to safety—everything else is secondary.

I keep running until I'm where I need to be. Wishing the entire time I could mask as Arden can.

Could.

4

Talyn

My eyes open slowly. Swollen and puffy from the tears.

The smoke, blood and ash of my life flows like a river of singed grief, wrapping my soul, tugging at it like an anchor. Sinking me into a despair I'll never wake from.

It's the only thing where I feel my schooling comes and saves me. My intellect chants the reality.

Arden was my friend. He tried to save me—he also wanted me. He's not human—was not human. My eyes shut against the realization of his death.

I'm not human either. Not really.

The distant tick tock of a clock in the space measures my heartbeat. My despondent thoughts.

“You're awake,” a quiet voice says from close by.

I jerk up and off the couch, tumbling to my knees, and Merck's hand is at my elbow. I look up, trembling.

I give a weary shake of my head. “I can't take much more of this, Merck. Arden's gone, and Drake's tailing me.”

I giggle. Tailing me. Nice word selection, Talyn.

“Hey,” Merck says, voice soothing. He lifts me up by the armpits, and gently sets me back on the couch. I suck in a sob, releasing an exhale so full of grief it scents the air between us. I know it does because Merck's nostrils flare.

Or maybe my breath is bad. I dump my face in my hands and cry.

He silently sits beside me, sliding a strong arm around my shoulders. “I usually change a female within seventy-two hours. I understood your change would be different because you didn't fall within the norms. But I couldn't have guessed this fucked up outcome if I tried. It's, hell—like a pulsevision drama.”

I laugh again. My life. Made for pulsevision. Pathetic. Like those early 21st century reality shows about people famous for being famous.

I groan.

Merck laughs.

I punch him in the thigh.

“Ow,” he says in a mocking voice. “Don't abuse your protector.”

I look up at him, his blue eyes like ice chipped off a glacier, but somehow warm when they gaze at me. “I don't know what to do with all this.” I helplessly flip my palms over on my lap. “Last week, I was a therapist.”

“You still are a therapist for the humans, Talyn.”

I snort. Right. I bet there'd be so many people wanting advice from wolf woman. They'd line up at the door.

“I was a therapist,” I emphasize, and Merck is silent. His arm remains a comforting weight around my shoulders, “but now I am a mouse in a maze. All these men are vying for a chance to be with me. But it's not a flattering thing, Merck. It's not me they want to be with. You—you want to be with me because that's your sole job. You find human women of mixed Lycan blood, and you sex them into a change.”

His lips thin, eyes tightening with my implied put-down. Or not so implied.

“Then Arden, my friend from high school, jumps on the ʻlet's hump Talyn and make her preggersʼ train.” I suck in a breath, shoring myself up. One oxygen hit isn't enough, but I manage to stop shy of hyperventilating. “Then there's the Mutables. What an awful group of nothing but misogynistic fuckers.”

My fists ball.

Merck covers my clenched hands with one of his own.

My sigh is a shudder as his touch ignites another wave of heat from my core, wetting my walls like a mini fire hose.

Merck, for once, doesn't flare his nostrils, make a comment about my ʻreadiness,ʼ or otherwise distract me from the words I need to say. “So there's no going back. I have to screw you, so I can avoid this rape fest, then everyone will leave me alone, right?”

Merck blinks at the baldness of my words. “ʻEssentially, yesʼ.”

I cross my arms, shrugging off his big arm, and turn to face him. “What do you mean, ʻessentiallyʼ?”

Subtle color infuses Merck's face, his neck and lower jaw growing ruddy.

“Uh-oh. What are you going to tell me that I'm going to hate?”

He stares back at me silently. “You need to use the bathroom or get some water?”

“Don't patronize me!” I yell. “I'm almost thirty-nine years old. I am not some naïve twenty-something. I have heard horrible things for too many years to be anything other than jaded and indifferent to whatever news you want to unload, so don't try to distract me.”

Merck runs a hand through his golden brown hair, yanking it. His arm leaves me, his palms falling to his jean-clad thighs. “I change you then you're handed over to my Alpha for placement.”

My lungs deflate like a pierced balloon. “Placement?” My eyes search his face, “I'm afraid to ask.”

His features grow wary.

Definitely afraid to ask.

“After I see you through your transition, you'll be assigned a mate that is compatible to you.”

I fold my arms. “You mean, a stud that will have the highest degree of viability with children as the outcome?”

Merck nods, his flush deepening.

Unbelievable. I scoot away from him on the couch. “I can't have children. We've gone over that.”

Merck flops back against the couch, eyes to the ceiling.

I look up too. Black rafters intersect twenty feet above our heads. My eyes travel the space. A large brick wall with a faded gray wash of paint says Foundry in a pale ivory. The cursive is old-fashioned, oversized in an almost cartoonish way. Tall windows sit at my right, framing people just two floors beneath having coffee. Shopping.

Going about their normal day. While nothing is normal for me.

It won't ever be again. I successfully blink back tears.

“Have you never explained this to other women? They just go like good little sheep to the den of inequity to get their husband handed to them?”

His eyes tighten, hardening to ice again. “I wouldn't say it like that.”

“Oh—I know. You don't do a lot of talking, Merck. It's all about doing.”

Anger flashes through his eyes. “That's not fair. I am a Changer. It is my role in this life, for the good of all Lycans.”

“So there will be little Lycans,” I comment quietly.

“Yes,” he replies in loud relief like, the dumb doctor is finally getting it.

Well fuck him. I stand, and he does too.

“I've never been one to follow the path of least resistance, and I'm not inclined to now. Arden's—Arden's gone.” I bite my lip to stop the quaking. “And there's a pack of stupid Mutables...” Merck raises his eyebrow, and I ignore his obvious irritation, “...waiting to ʻbreed meʼ.”

I don't say anything about the possible Lycan hubby. Or Drake.

“But that doesn't mean that I've got to be part of an arranged match with some man I've never laid eyes on, give up my work. My freedom.”

Merck smirks. “You'll have to give up something.”

I want to punch him. “I know what you're thinking.”

“The same thing your body has been trying to get you to do since you met me.”

A tear slips out of my eye. I'm cornered and frustrated, and my sadness has turned into rage.

I glare. “Fine, I'll fuck you, Changer. But that's all it'll be. I'm not saying yes to this mating thing with a stranger.” I spit my words into his face.

He stands before my seething rage and says nothing. When he holds out his hand, something inside me dies.

My humanity.

5

Narah

“Did you hurt her?”

Murphy.

I'm dizzy and flat on my back.

Not a good place to be. I peek from behind the slits of my eyelids. The house I was inside isn't there anymore.

The dragon is.

I roll to my side, hopping to my feet, arms loose, hands fisted.

Murph smirks. “Damn darling, I thought you were in trouble.”

I scowl, fighting coughing. “What does your blood tell you?”

Murphy cocks his head, mentally analyzing our tie. “You'll live.”

“Right-o.” I turn my head to Dragon. “What's your story?”

His gaze narrows on Murph. “Your associate was a hindrance in my acquisition of Talyn Phisher.”

A huff breaks out of me before I can stop it. “Not my problem.”

He walks to me and we stand chest to chest. Actually, it's my nose to his sternum. I could really pop that about now. With my new vamp strength, it'd be kindling.

I don't.

Because the dragon has not really shown violence toward me. I show restraint. Generally not my first reaction.

“Female. I will not harm you. Stop inciting me to do so.”

We lock gazes for a handful of seconds. I sigh, retreating a step. Murphy comes behind me. Has my back. But we both know who is the more lethal of us.

It will always be me.

But Murph knows my secret. And now, for reasons unknown, so does Dragon dude. Got a lot of hate for that.

I glance at the blown up house behind him. “What happened to the house?”

“Propane tank, love. I think it's a brilliant outcome.”

“Agreed.” My eyes narrow on the dragon.

“Drake,” he says, holding his big hand out. I give him my non-dominant hand in return. He notices, a slight lift of lips touching his mouth, an echo of a true smile, but what probably passes for humor with the inscrutable dragon and his strange half-form.

“Narah Adrienne.” I jab my thumb behind me. “This is Murphy.”

His nostrils widen, scenting us. “Your youngling?” he asks, but it's more like statement.

I lean toward him and he stands his ground. “Good sniffer you got.”

His smile widens, a dimple appearing. “Nice blade.” He hands me my obsidian blade, hilt first and my eyes sting.

The business end faces his torso. It's a show of extreme trust. And the change in our status isn't missed.

I lift my eyes to his. “What do you want?”

“You know what I want.”

I sigh, sheathing my dirty blade and placing my hands on my hips. “Listen, I'm an enforcer. We've just began taking on supe cases. I'm out of my league here. But I do know that Dr. Phisher is not interested in changing.”

Drake tips his head back. “It doesn't matter that she isn't interested.” Disdain rolls over his features. “Interest has nothing to do with changing. It's about living. If she doesn't breed with someone who can transition her—she dies. It's a simple concept, Narah.”

“Yeah,” I answer softly. I jerk my chin up. “Let the Lycan. He's a Changer, she's Lanarre—royalty for the werewolves. He can get her fixed, and then she can figure it out.”

Drake shakes his head. “He won't ʻfigure it outʼ for her. He'll change Talyn then hand her over to the Alpha of his den. He will choose whatever male within the pack he deems worthy.”

I wrinkle my nose, hope fleeing. “She's not gonna dig that noise.”

A laugh bursts out of Drake, and Murph snickers behind me.

I elbow him.

“Oof!”

Drake glances at a sullen Murphy then his eyes come back to mine. “You're very plain-spoken, Enforcer Adrienne.” The glint of humor sparkles in his eyes.

“You have no idea,” Murphy grumbles from behind me.

Jerks.

6

Merck

Talyn walks to the sink, fills a glass of water and downs it. All the time her eyes shoot daggers at me.

She drinks the last of it, popping the glass down hard on the pure white quartzite countertop. She brushes by me like a guy that wants to begin a fight and strides to the bathroom.

I follow her, stopping when she opens and shuts the door in my face. I press my fingertips to the door. I listen to the sounds of running water, a toilet flushing.

The door swings open and my hand flies to the jamb. Glad I'm holding on to something.

Talyn's naked.

“Like what you see?” she asks with bite.

I do. Very much, recovering nicely from my shock.

But her manner doesn't work. It's not her. It's like someone's invaded Talyn, and an imposter is in her place, using the shell of her body.

She shoves off my chest with her palms, and I move back of my own volition.

“What are you waiting for?” Talyn calls over her shoulder.

I follow, tracking the smooth sway of her wide hips, round ass and wasp waist. She's a female made for birthing pups.

I keep that tidbit to myself. The mere mention of which, would secure my castration. I smile at the thought.

Talyn moves to my bedroom, a straight shot from the bathroom.

She tears off the covers. They float downward, puddling on the smooth poured concrete floor. She lies down on the bed, spreading her legs.

I halt like I've been sucker-punched.

I really like what I'm seeing now.

“Go to it, Merck. Stick me with your Lycan weenie and make me a wolf.” She lifts her head up, eyes lasering on me. “Do it, you coward.”

I blink.

My dick's a limp noodle. I've never been less turned on in my life.

Talyn's spread open, pink, wet and ripe in front of me, and I can't bring a boner to life if it was my dying wish.

“Cat got your tongue?” she asks in a purr.

Hell yes it does. I open my mouth, can't speak. My eyes dip to her ripe pussy, her fleshy thighs are mouth-watering.

I want her.

But not like this. I'm a Changer. If I tell myself that enough times, maybe I'll believe it, and do my fucking job. She's splayed out before me, ready and waiting.

Her wolf howls for me. Not in the space where anyone can hear, but in the space of my head.

My heart.

And it's cramped. “Talyn,” I begin, clearing my throat, “I do want to change you.”

“Then get to it.” Acid drips from every syllable.

“I won't rape you.”

She lets her head fall back and laughs. “Everyone wants to have sex with me, and then when I offer the all-you-can-eat-buffet, you're not hungry? You get cold feet? I mean—cock?”

I shift my weight, my uncomfortable stiffy like a flagpole between my legs. I put my hands to my hips. “My wolf knows if you're truly willing. And while your wolf wants this—what I offer. You, the woman, doesn't.”

Talyn spreads the folds of her pussy and I look, helpless not to. She slips a finger deep inside herself and I groan, my dick twitching.

“Still wondering if I'm ready?” She works her finger in and out, groaning. Talyn's needy—for a relief only a Changer can give her. My cock hardens further, my intellect departing.

Moon dammit.

I have to think of Talyn, and how opposed she was to the Change. How her best friend Arden just died. How alarmed I should be that I don't want to turn her over to Charles.

My Alpha won't have soft feelings for her. She'll be a breedable Lycan female. Better yet—a Lanarre. They've been known to throw moonless changers. Keeping Talyn is not only an illegal act, but a deficit to Lycans as a species.

She mines her depths. The very place I want my mouth, my cock.

I lick my lips, wavering.

How can I admit something to her I'm not willing to admit to myself? I take a step toward her, the delicious smells of her arousal hitting me like a physical slap.

My eyes stay riveted to her pumping finger. I blow apart when her hips lift, highlighting the entire show.

Growling, I cover the distance between the door and the edge of the bed in two strides.

Her finger slides out of her glossy wetness and she lifts her hips high. I dive forward, my little head thinking for the big one.

I don't wait, grabbing the globes of her ass, I stab my tongue inside her.

“Ah!” Talyn screams into the space. “So good.” She spears her fingers through my hair, pushing my face deeper between her legs and the heat I've been wanting.

I don't resist, planting my fingertips on either thick thigh, I push them wide and her tenseness melts. I lap at her entrance, and she shudders.

The fingers of my right hand release her thigh, walking their way to her clit. They land, tweaking and rolling the slick little nub of flesh between my thumb and index finger as I work her rhythmically.

I don't go down on Changes. But Talyn isn't a change for me.

She's a mate.

I can't ignore the beat within my own brain. I don't want to transition her.

I want to claim her.

7

Narah

“So now what?” I look between the two of them, shoving my singed braids behind me.

Drake surveys the smoking remains of the Mutablesʼ hangout.

Rape-station. My eyes narrow on the place, and I can't say I'm sorry for its destruction.

“We locate the client?” Murphy suggests automatically.

“You know I'm trying to hold onto the hope you're smart, right?” I ask him.

Drake whistles. “You're a bit of a shrew, Enforcer Adrienne.”

I flip him off. “Yeah, I know. I grow on people.”

“Like a wart,” Murph comments.

I cross my arms. “Okay,” I hold up a palm, “I can be a bit of a bitch.”

Murphy's mouth pops open, his black eyes disbelieving.

I take a deep breath, let it out. “Or maybe more than a bit.”

Sirens begin to wail.

Smoke rises in a lazy spiral, coals like orange eyes stare unblinking back at my perusal. “Let's split,” I say, tapping Murphy's arm.

“And me?” Drake asks, brows like arrows above his glittering eyes.

My eyebrow sweeps up. “You don't seem like you do a lot of milling around.”

His lips quirk. “You have mates.”

“Yeah.” I sound sullen, even to myself. I tip my head to look at him, he's so tall. Like my guys. I sigh. “You've got a keen sniffer,” I say for the second time. He smells that I'm pregnant—he scents my mates, plural—on my person.

Drake says nothing for a moment then, “And you carry their child.”

I nod, flicking my eyes away. Bastard. Guilt rushes in. Crippling, horrible.

The sirens grow louder. “Why are you unhappy about this news?” His eyes crinkle at the corners, a puzzled smile strapped to his face.

He's a pretty man, for a dragon.

I tell the truth to a stranger, when I can't even admit it to myself. “Because I live for being an enforcer. But now I'm all fucking expecting and that.” My shoulders jerk high enough to hit my ear gauges then drop.

He folds his arms, chuckling.

Nothing funny about my news.

Why didn't I kill him when I had the chance? Oh yeah, I got knocked out in the blaze. My eyes narrow.  “Let's go. You can yuk it up after we're out of here. I don't want to explain this mess to the local law.”

His eyebrows hike. “You avoid your own?”

I jerk my head back, a sour pucker slapped on my face. “Ah—newsflash—they're not ʻmy ownʼ.”

“Then what are they?”

“I'm an enforcer. They pick up the low level criminals. We get the ones who go before the Magistrate.” Even saying the M word curdles my stomach.

A hand lands on my shoulder.

I lay my own over Murphy's, deeply grateful for his presence.

Drake watches us closely, his gaze noting the intimacy. But he's never been the sire to a youngling. Until he is, Drake can keep all that assload of judgy I see swarming his face to himself.

Blue and red lights can be seen in bright rhythmic flashes in the distance.

“Narah,” Murph says softly, squeezing my shoulder once.

I nod. “Let's go.”

I toss a look at Drake. “You can come. Where we're going, it's safer than just standing here with a bunch of BBQ'd Mutables.” I shudder. “What a paperwork nightmare.”

Murphy frowns. “What do you mean?”

“It's an expression. I just meant, I don't want to dick with the  documentation. My thumb'll get sore.” I'd be pulsing for a day straight.

I wink, sprinting toward Sioux Falls. I know Murph will follow, and I don't give much of a shit if Drake the dragon does.

8

Talyn

My wolf doesn't give a good goddamn about shame. She's all about breaking free.

Becoming.

She tears at me, forcing my hips into Merck's face. I fight. Lose. I just can't resist.

The little seed that makes me Talyn Phisher remains. Buried in the need of this thing I'm changing into.

But that part of me germinates. Taking root.

I'm not going to assimilate into some Lycan cult. Where they pass off women to whatever man they deem worthy.

I'm not becoming the star attraction for their orgy.

But right now it's all about Merck's wet attention to my throbbing sex. He kisses my labia, taking his time on each fleshy ribbon of sensitive skin that lines my entrance. His tongue pumps as his fingers pinch my clit.

I moan, my breathing changes—my entire body flushing with broiling heat. Deep down, I know that Merck bringing me pleasure won't change me.

I need his seed deep inside to make me whole. My womb will open, and accept the cooling relief only a certain male can give. Talyn, the woman, doesn't know that.

But the wolf hiding underneath my skin does.

His tongue leaves me and I feel the edge of my orgasm hovering on the precipice of my pleasure. I want to rip his tongue out of his head because Merck doesn't care.

Because I'm using him to change me so I can become this thing. Maybe I'll escape the role they so neatly carved out for me.

Merck crawls up my body. Those blue eyes never leaving my face.

I drown in his gaze as Talyn tries to swim to the surface.

Somehow his jeans are long gone.

Something large and stiff skims along the flesh of my stomach. He curls his body protectively around me, ignoring what must be the biggest case of blue balls in the universe.

Because that's what Changers do, my struggling intellect inserts into my thoughts like a tossed SOS ring.

They sex women and turn them into wolves.

I stiffen and Merck cups his hands around my face. “I won't change you unless you want it. And right now,” he gestures at our bodies pressed so tightly together, “this is what you've been fighting since the moment I met you.”

I nod wordlessly, silent tears cascading down my face. My wolf shimmers over Talyn, through her, superimposing her needs over my own.

I gasp at the sensation of overlapping beings.

I can still survive this. I have sex with Merck and I become.

What does it matter? Arden's gone.

My life's a shambles. I lift my chin. “I want it.”

I slide my hand between our bodies and grab the steely length of him, squeezing hard and he groans.

His head dips, eyes blazing from underneath hooded lids. “Yes,” he says in a whispered breath.

What I couldn't have known, is how much I wouldn't want to leave him after we had sex.

9

Narah

“I can't just take a dragon shifter into Final Enforcement.” I flick my palm at the office. “They're kinda sharp—enforcers. They're gonna notice.” I don't hold back on the sarcasm.

Come to think of it, I never really do.

“That's not an issue, Enforcer Adrienne.”

I toss my wrecked hair over my shoulder, the scorched ends light against my back. “Lose the scales or we can't have the pow-wow, Drake.”

“Jesus, Narah...”

“Can it, Murph.” My eyes are targeted on Drake like a big six foot seven inch bulls-eye.

He smirks.

Then like water running down a drain, the scales stop shimmering, becoming dull and flat-looking. The hard edges disappear, going to smooth, then the rigid texture of each scale wavers, flattening and finally ending in a dusky, flesh tone.

Drake's ears shrink, the tips melting from pointy, to nubs, then flattening against his skull and just becoming ears again. Steam stops rising from the less-interesting orifices of his body, his nostrils narrowing to within human norms. He stands there with his stunning greenish-gold eyes, sandy hair and striated ropes of muscle.

And I'd thought to kick his ass? Hell yeah, I did. The bigger they are, the harder they fall. Right? “Wow,” I say softly.

“Spectacular, yes?” Drake says, admiring his shift to human a little too much.

I wince. “I'm not gonna lie—kinda choking on the self-love, Drake.”

He ignores me, whirling to face something unknown in the dark corner of the alley between Dakota and Minnesota Streets.

“What?” I say so low only Murphy can hear me.

Drake answers, “Vampires.”

Marvelous. Awesome hearing too.

I hiss a warning. Letting whatever vamps may be lurking around that I mean business.

In the next moment a tug hits me hard in my center, and I know. I straighten with a grin, sauntering into the gloom. Drake's hand is suddenly on my arm, and I yelp like a girl. That makes me want to kick my own ass on principle.

Along with the hormonal overload, I guess I have a case of the jumpies.

Murphy laughs.

I eye him up, and sullenly realize he's too far away to hit.

“It's my mates,” I tell Drake.

“Get your hand off her shifter, or lose it,” Matthews says, suddenly in front of me.

My hand moves to his arm. “He's okay, Matthews.” I never call him by his real name. He doesn't like it. He likes it fine when I shout it out while his tongue is on me.

Rolling to my tiptoes, I put my mouth beside his ear, “John, it's okay—he's okay.”

His eyes stare down Drake. “Don't ever touch our female again.”

I sigh. Males.

Aeslin runs his finger along my nape.

I shiver.

A small smile graces his lips—he knows the effect he has on me. His eyes slim on Drake. “What is your business, shifter?”

“I am Drake.”

Aeslin waits—and so do I. Because my night's gone to shit, it just wouldn't be normal if another shoe didn't fall.

And I'm right.

“What are you doing with Narah?” Matthews ignores his introduction, pulling me tight against his body.

Only a very small part of who I am allows me to feel protected when I'm with the men. I've spent so many years fending for myself, I'm still not totally accustomed to their compete devotion. But I realize with a little spike of fear—I'm liking the process more than I ever thought possible.

My eyes meet Murphy's, his reflective gaze shines back at me. Potent.

Ominous.

I feel something build, and I'm too fucking late to stop it.

Drake opens his mouth and sticks his spiked tail in there. Whole. “I hear congratulations are in order,” he says, grinning broadly, clearly thinking he's breaking the ice with some great shared news.

I blanch.

Murphy stuffs his hands in his pockets, studying the rough asphalt at his feet.

Drake looks from Aeslin to Matthews, his grin fading to nothing in an instant.

I sort of think dying would be great about now.

Matthews carefully rotates me, his eyes traveling from the top of my ravaged hair to the tips of my combat boots. “Is this shifter—is he telling us—your mates, that you are expecting young?”

Oh baby Jesus.

Wordlessly, I nod.

Aeslin ignores Drake, moving past him he comes to stand beside Matthews.

Two sets of condemning vampire eyes glare down at me. And I deserve their anger.

My avoidance has cost trust, putting a firm wedge between us.

“Tell me they knew, Enforcer Adrienne,” Drake says with soft realized horror.

“It's Narah,” I correct needlessly, “And no, they didn't.”

10

Merck

My balls throbbing painfully, I decide I must take Talyn at her word.

Her body has been saying yes for the last half hour. I wear the sure wetness of her arousal on my tongue. I taste her need everywhere. Her pussy, her lips—I read it in her eyes.

Still, I hesitate.

“Do it.”

It's a command, not a concession.

My iron clad control vanishes, lust neatly inserting itself as I begin to push my way inside her tightness. I pause, my dick so rigid and ready I have to wait or risk damaging her.

Talyn doesn't.

She shifts her hips forward, capturing me deeper inside her, and I groan, breathing through my aching need to claim her—take her as I should, as my beast commands me to.

“Come on,” she says, breathlessly. “Fuck me, fuck me.”

I trap her body between my palms and thrust hard, her pussy resisting my size, length, the speed of the thrust.

It won't be long before her wolf helps mine.

Talyn tries to swim back to herself, the woman I first met, the spitfire intellect surfaces in her eyes for a pressurized moment.

Vulnerability.

Fright.

Resignation.

Those emotions all take position inside her, while I'm buried to the hilt and her features go slack with release and acceptance.

I rock backward, and she sighs at the temporary relief it gives her pierced body. Then her wolf, breaks the surface, covering Talyn.

Spinning eyes regard me, glowing like twin suns captured in amber fire. Her hands move to my ass, talons that were only nails before stabbing deep. Pinning against her.

I howl, the sound echoing inside my bedroom, the acoustics of metal, brick and cement transferring, reverberating it—shaking our eardrums.

Her answering howl rolls through my body like a wave breaking over the sand of my soul.

Then I'm rocking back and forth, Talyn meeting every thrust as I make them.

It's just a change, I lie to myself as her hands shove me further. As my wolf thaws the male part of me.

I can't stand up to it.

The dam breaks as an orgasm sweeps her body, gooseflesh rising. Her gorgeous large breasts jiggle as she quivers and her pussy pulses around my dick, milking—milking.

I grow impossibly harder, and then I'm flooding her with my seed. Talyn keeps her grip steady, but her eyes open, finding mine.

They are not Talyn's eyes, but those of her wolf. They're grateful. The pain of her transition recedes into post-coital bliss.

I cup her face, propping my body weight up. “Welcome,” I whisper to her wolf.

A low growl begins in her chest, and my prick begins to automatically grow in response to the desire, her need.

“Again,” she says, a husky catch to the word.

I cage her with my arms. “Yes, my queen.”

Because that is what Talyn is. A Lanarre wolf, birthing her beast in this tenuous moment of sexual intimacy.

I'm here to serve her.

*

Talyn

Oh my God.

My body flushes with heat, chicken flesh pebbling my skin. I run hot then cold. I can't stabilize.

I don't want to.

Merck tenderly takes my body, thrusting again. I'm deliciously sore. Chagrined to the core. This is what I was worried about? This is what I was resisting? Simply put, I wish I'd done him the minute I met him.

Merck's not using me. He's cherishing me. Knowing that causes a fresh bout of tears to threaten.

The second time Merck makes love to me is even better than the first. He's cooled the banks of fires that were raging out of control. I can think.

I also feel her.

My wolf loves his wolf. Loves. They swarm each other inside our bodies, rolling together with every deep unforgiving thrust of him into the willing vessel of my body. He's so large, but built so perfectly, as though Merck's is the custom-made size for my body.

As though he is the key and I'm the lock.

He smooths my hair back from my face with both hands, burying his length so fully inside I feel as though we'll never part.

“Merck,” I say, the tears I held at bay running out of my eyes and sliding along the seam of his hands.

“Don't cry, Talyn.”

I cry because I know it could never be this perfect with anyone. I weep for his job of just this—then he hands me off to strangers. I grieve for wanting this forever.

Wanting him.

Because he won't return the sentiment. Merck told me what he was.

A Changer.

And that is all.

He gently seats himself inside me, and I accept the second course of his healing essence, my wolf—my body, relieved and ready—but my heart remains heavy.

My future is not set.

There's only now. And maybe now isn't enough.

11

Narah

I don't use tears, though I know they'd break the guys. I'm too honest for that manipulation.

They're not hardened criminals that need to be goat-roped.

Aeslin and John are the males who made a baby inside me. Whatever it is, it's mine. And that's a first.

I've always been someone else's

Someone to abuse, rain unkindnesses down on, dismiss.

Torture.

I ignore everyone, especially Drake the diarrhea mouth.

“Narah,” Aeslin says softly, tipping my chin up. I look into his eyes and tears shimmer even though I vowed I wouldn’t cry. “I have never wanted for something more than this.”

“I don't want to discuss our personal business with the shifter as an audience,” Matthews says.

I sigh.

“We'll wait for you, love,” Murphy says. “Come on you, before your fat claptrap gets your arse in more trouble.”

Drake gives me a look with a question buried inside. “We'll get her,” I say as an assurance I don't feel. Pretty tough to assure anyone of anything when I have my two mates looming over me, and a bun in the oven.

I swallow past it, and Drake must see the resolve in my gaze because he nods, taking my words at face value, walking off with Murphy.

Matthews watches his retreating back with a mixture of anger and wary curiosity then turns to me. “Aeslin may handle you with kid gloves but I know you're not a delicate flower, Narah.”

My lips twitch.

“Is it true—are you pregnant?”

I quickly nod, biting my lip to keep the thick wetness coating my eyes from falling.

I'm really hating the hormonal swings.

“Why, Narah? Why did we have to find out from some strange shifter?”

I look at the ground. “He smelled it on me. It wasn't a plan to have you find out that way,” I say with quiet regret.

“Smelled it on you?” Aeslin and Matthews exchange a glance. “That wouldn't be possible.”

My chin rises. “It is.”

Aeslin cups my face, kissing away escaped remorse. Not tears. Just some leakage. His silver eyes are gentle on my face. “Narah—answer us. Why would you keep this happy news from us?”

I roughly inhale, gripping Matthewsʼ forearms. “I don't want to quit my job. I'm not that fragile.”

Matthews—John—places his big palm on my still-flat stomach. “But he or she is, Narah. Promise me you'll quit when you begin to show.”

I knew it would come to this.

That they'd want to shut down the beating heart of what makes me—me.

Aeslin's palm falls beside Matthewsʼ on my stomach. A tiny flutter, like butterfly's wings, trembles inside my belly and I gasp.

Their eyes meet mine then Aeslin's narrows. “I feel the babe within.”

Matthewsʼ grin is wide, his normally neutral face vanishing with the baby's movement. He frowns at Aeslin. “Why the long face, Aeslin?”

“How far along are you, Narah?'

I can't lie, but my eyes shift from his intense sliver gaze. Damn. “Five months,” I whisper.

Matthewsʼ hand leaves my stomach as though burned. “What?!” he yells and I wince.

They scowl.

I gulp, confessing, “The doctor says because of my size I'll be small then suddenly blow up.”

Aeslin scowls. “That's a dire prognosis.”

Matthewsʼ smile flashes like lightning. “You're so literal, Aeslin.”

I nod, smiling. “He is.”

“So technically, you're not showing, but you should be,” John clarifies.

I nod.

“God!” he shouts, stalking off. John rakes fingers through his dark hair then turns, hoods shadowing his eyes.

I know they're angry without looking, and I don't want to look.

“Tell me you'll quit now,” he says in a low voice.

“Normally, I wouldn't agree with Brutus, here...”

I snort and Matthews glares.

Aeslin's piercing eyes glow with mercury fire. “Yet, you must see reason, Narah.”

“Fine,” I say, offering the only concession I'm capable of. “I'll take a hiatus,” Aeslin's brows drop, and I ignore the rage cloud filming them over, “but only after I close this case. I have to figure out where Talyn Phisher is, find out if she's okay.”

John says, “Have Murphy do it, you're his sire—command him. Any vampire would.”

I cross my arms, my own anger surfacing. “I am not any vampire. I'm still half-human, and pregnant—and fucking responsible.”

“You are responsible only for your safety, and the safety of the unborn child. Our unborn child.” Aeslin looks at me until I drop my eyes.

Dammit.

They let the silence fill the space between us. A very effective maneuver. But in the case of the guys, they don't maneuver. They are always who they present themselves to be. Another thing to get used to.

“Okay,” I agree softly.

“And we are not trusting our pregnant mate's safety to the youngling.”

I don't roll my eyes. Murphy would jump under a bus for me.

“Let's go get the dragon and get out of here, wrap this enchilada.”

Matthews stands stock-still. “Dragon?”

Oops.

Aeslin strokes his jaw. “He's a prehistoric shifter. That's why the heightened sense of smell.”

I laugh. “That's what Drake said. I call bullshit.”

Matthewsʼ lips quirk.

“What? There's no such thing as prehistoric dragons because they don't exist, never did.”

Matthews nods, gripping me by the nape and drawing me into him. “Exactly my point. They might not exist but Drake seems real to me. And dangerous.”

They look down at me, their bodies protectively close, achingly perfect. I want to sink into that healing love. I covet it so hard it freaks my shit out. Fear makes me angry. My hands fly up. “He didn't hurt me. He could have baked me but he says he doesn't hurt females.”

Matthews grunts.

Aeslin shakes his head. I rise on my toes, kissing his hard mouth. His flesh softens, molding to my lips. Arms encircle my waist as he whispers beside my ear, “Don't ever keep things from us, Narah. We can't protect you if we don't know what to protect.”

Matthews grips my shoulders. “Yeah, what suave and debonair just said.”

I break my kiss from Aeslin, letting my head fall on his shoulder. “Nice, Matthews.”

John grins, slapping my ass. “Let's go get dragon, and see about your client.”

“No—you two hang here. That's all I need is Casper up my ass about too many vamps in the chicken coop.”

Their confused looks keeps a grin affixed to my face.

Until I walk into the office and a brained Murphy is writhing on the floor, moaning about arsehole dragons.

12

Merck

Talyn's wolf is gorgeous.

The rumors about Lycan royalty are true. The females, Jesus-on-a-stick—she's Eve reincarnated.

Smooth, muscular hips roll smoothly as she paces across my apartment.

Nude.

Which I will never get tired of looking at.

Gone is the modesty of the woman, true Lycans aren't worried about a little tit and ass vaulting around. And Talyn is uncovered, her beautiful pussy is accented with a dark patch of short hair right above her slit.

I could dine on the delicacy of Talyn. Forever.

“Why are you so nervous?” I ask casually instead, putting on the finishing touches of our meal.

I'm ravenous. My beast has coupled, and now requires satiation. Fucking and food. But first, the woman who I've claimed must be fed.

Claimed.

I try to remain untroubled by the scent that the dragon coated Talyn with.

That my seed wiped away.

His was only a partial claim. In the end, only cum nails the claim.

Talyn stops gracefully in the middle of the floor, the city illumination backlighting her perfectly. I still, knife raised from chopping fresh tomatoes, the pinch of cilantro still clinging to my fingertips.

“I'm naked!” she yells. “I have no clothes.”

I glance down at my half-finished salsa, and calmly set the knife down on the cutting board. Inhaling deeply, I release a slow breath, trying for zen. “I noticed.”

“Of course! Who could not help noticing?” Talyn crosses her arms, shoving her gorgeous rack into delectable view. I try not to grin but that always makes a face look funny.

Her frown becomes a scowl. “Don't you dare laugh.”

“Never,” I say then bust up, shoulders shaking soundlessly.

She rounds the peninsula of the kitchen and punches me in the arm. I'm utterly distracted by her tits bouncing as she does. “Sorry,” I croak.

“You're not sorry,” Talyn seethes.

I nod stupidly. Caught.

I grab her shoulders. “You've taken a shower, you need something to eat. What's mine is yours. You could have grabbed a t-shirt from the drawer, but I do appreciate the view.” Then I kiss her.

Hard.

At first she's stiff then Talyn melts into the hold, and my rock-hard erection falls between us like the plank it is.

“You do a lot of this?” she asks, her tongue dipping inside my mouth, eyes taking in the food spread, the apartment—our undeniable intimacy.

Only with her.

“No,” I say.

She pulls away, chest heaving and nipples hardening beautifully. “Fine, I'll go get a shirt.”

Talyn struts away, and I admire the bit of wolf that peeks through. The spinning amber eyes, tinged with the shadow of her human gray. The new muscles, larger hips and breasts, the surefooted litheness her animal allows when she's in movement.

I finish the salsa, smiling vaguely at the noise of dresser drawers being opened and shut with more force than necessary.

She has a temper, my Lanarre. When the moon goes full, she'll own it.

Talyn appears with a t-shirt that comes to her knees. I give her a critical once-over.

“I liked the other outfit better.”

She smirks, but it's happy at the edges. “I bet you did.”

I load my hands with plates of food and take it to the table. Taco meat steams alongside guacamole. City lights twinkle just outside floor to ceiling height glass windows.

We sit at one of two benches that line the length of my long, wooden table made of heart pine. Our elbows brush as we dig in, sharing the meal in companionable silence. I'm not frightened by the profound satisfaction of my female's consumption. Of me. Of the food I prepared with my own hands. Contentment coats my insides, stealing into the dried crevices of my heart, whetting my appetite for more than food, for more of Talyn— this.

Talyn licks her fingers, another pang of satisfaction running its course. “What's for dessert?” Talyn asks in a coy voice, disrupting my thoughts.

“Gelato from the freezer,” I say and grab my package, “Or beef stick?” I wink, feeling lighter than I have in a long time.

Talyn smiles and leaning over, she wraps her arms around my waist, resting her head on my shoulder as a moment's bliss descends like a soft cloud.

A scent hits my nose. Alarm thrumming through my guts and lighting up adrenaline like a match struck to a line of fuel as the apartment door bursts open.

The Mutable walks in, slamming the door so hard a hinge pops. The dragon looks between the two of us, and I shove Talyn behind me.

“You fucking dog, couldn't wait two minutes before you bred her, could you?”

Nope.

I shake my head, a quaking Talyn pressed against my back while the remnants of our meal cools on the table. “You're too late, Mutable.”

His head kicks back, and my sense of smell tells me before he makes a move.

“Never too late, Changer. I'm not a Mutable—yet I was able to pass. Now that the Mutable colony is an ash pile, they won't be giving us any further trouble, and I can get down to business.”

His scent permeates the apartment.

My body tenses at his words, the arrogant prick. “You think you can still claim Talyn?”

“I'm a prehistoric. Of course I can.”

Prehistoric?

He charges.

Talyn screams, scrambling behind me.

My last thought before we collide is can my claim remain? Or will an ancient shifter overpower even that?

THE END

SHIFTER

An Alpha Claim Brief-Bites® Novelette

Episode 5

New York Times Bestselling Author(s)

MARATA EROS

TAMARA ROSE BLODGETT

All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 2015 Marata Eros

Copyright © 2015 Tamara Rose Blodgett

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

www.tamararoseblodgett.com

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Cover art by: Willsin Rowe

Proofed by: Corinna

Synopsis:

Talyn's been accidentally poisoned with dragon's blood. Can she allow the cure?

While Drake and Merck fight over Talyn, Mutables move toward her like a magnet, seeking her for what she offers them.

Will Enforcer Adrienne be able to protect Talyn from a predator who is not what he seems?

1

Talyn

Drake mows right over the supper table I've scurried behind, Merck traveling over the top of our food and scattering Tex Mex all over the floor.

Fists fly as Drake pounds on Merck.

Merck's face shifts, changing into what he told me is his wolfen form. A snout develops, sharp teeth springing from his gums.

He sinks fangs into Drake.

Drake howls, scales rippling over his body like a rainbow of cascading water. Oh no. I leap forward, no plan—just pure reaction.

I can't have Drake hurting Merck.

I don't care if Merck's only plan was to transition me then dump me for the next bitch in heat. We'd shared something dammit.

I leap, talons bursting from my fingertips.

Hurts! I have time to think, and then I'm impaling Drake's back to the knuckles.

He bellows in pain, trying to toss me off, but I hang on. Mainly because I don't know how to let go.

Drake swings from side to side, attempting to dislodge me while Merck's eyes widen at the sight of my wide, terrified eyes.

I yelp as a talon breaks to the quick. I jerk the other seven out, pushing backward with my thumbs. It's the distraction Merck needed.

Steam rises from Drake's ears, nostrils—mouth.

“Oh shit,” I say from my butt on the floor. Nude from the waist down, Merck's huge t-shirt is hiked to my waist.

Merck stabs Drake in the torso with talons that are longer than mine. His mouth opens in a silent scream, opaque smoke belching.

Oh my God, fireball time.

I scramble to my feet and lower my head, sprinting to his back like a bull charging a red flag.

Thunk.

I hit him and see stars. He staggers forward, as I stumble backward from the impact, feeling a moment's pride in my new strength and speed before I land on my back, the air rushing out of my lungs.

Drake hurls Merck. He lands on the O in the word Foundry integral to the brick wall. My eyes bulge as Drake stands over me, taking in the fact that my honeypot's on full display.

Merck hits him from behind, the tips of talons rip through his sternum and blood splatters on me. The drops that hit my shirt don't matter.

The ones that land on my bare thighs begin to burn.

Acid.

His blood is acid. I scream, frantically trying to wipe the blood off. Instead, my hands start to sting as Drake's blood eats away at the skin of my fingertips. “Get it off me!” I shriek. I stand like I'm on fire as trails of his blood begin to sink into my flesh like ribbons with teeth.

“What the fuck is this?” Merck shouts, jerking his talons out of Drake.

Drake sags to his knees—desperate to heal the damage. But he doesn’t matter, all that matters is the agony. I rush to the sink, slap on the tap and toss my leg over the countertop, throwing cold water on the wounds.

“Merck!” I scream, in a high pitched wail. “It's burning me!”

Merck rushes to my side, takes one look at my skin and sprints back to Drake. He grabs him by his hair, dragging him to me.

I watch his glittering blood pool and drip along the cement floor in a oil-slicked trail.

Tears run down my face, my breathing is erratic.

My crotch starts to sting.

Oh dear Lord—no.

I moan, sobbing in earnest now. Death by Dragon's blood.

What a way to go.

“Help her,” Merck grits, hauling Drake up by the armpits and dumping his upper body on the countertop. His head bounces on the solid quartz.

He groans, blood flowing everywhere, hissing as it eats at the stone.

Merck dances to avoid it, and I begin to sink.

Drake grips the edges of the countertop, eyes rolling over my wounds. He gradually comes back to himself, but I can't sit still. My crotch is on burning, my thighs feel like a spiderweb of lacy fire has been woven over my body.

I bite my lip to keep from screaming—passing out.

Merck puts his arms around me, holding me up. My vision flutters gray at the edges.

Drake's eyes grow large, the pupil dilating. “I must lick her, it's the only way to slow the poison.”

My eyes roll up in my head. I want to die.

“No,” Merck says in a low voice.

Drake lifts his head from the countertop, seizing Merck by the throat which jerks me, and I moan in pain.

“My saliva will halt the progress. Battle blood is deadly.”

“Fucking moon!” Merck yells, pissed. “Do it you fucking reckless prick.”

Drake's eyes meet mine, but I'm so far gone I see peridot perfection, oblong black slits widen as his mouth parts. Then his tongue is on my thigh.

Raspy wetness coats the wounds, and I whimper in immediate relief. The pain begins to subside and I fall limp within Merck's arms. “Yes,” I whisper-hiss.

Merck gives a rough exhale but he holds me steady.

Drake's face moves uncomfortably close to my crotch. My eyes snap wide.

I can't ask. But I know if I don't say something, I won't recover. Fresh tears fall and Drake's tongue catches each one.

“A female of our kind—her tears are precious.” My breaths pile up uselessly, one on top of the other.

Merck growls, “You've done enough damage, back off.”

Drake's teeth show as sharp as an alligator's.

I shiver.

“Is there any other place where my battle blood touched you, Talyn?”

A hoarse sob escapes, and I cover my mouth, twisting within Merck's arms. “Yes,” I answer, the pain is so raw I can barely breathe.

“Where?” Merck asks.

I shut my eyes, shame and pain war inside me. Finally, I can't stand it anymore. I open my legs, and Drake's eyes move to my vagina.

“No!” Merck shouts.

“Yes,” Drake replies and dips his head.

2

Merck

Every fiber inside me is screaming to kill the fucking dragon. If he were dead, Talyn wouldn't be dying from Dragon's blood.

But if he dies—so does Talyn.

Drake gives me a split-seconds consideration. But he knows.

He knows I won't let Talyn die.

Drake moves his mouth close to her pussy. When his forked tongue exits I tense, Talyn's flushed face turns to me, her eyelids breaking open.

Then Drake begins to lick her.

Talyn's eyes snap all the way open. She moans, and I die a little inside.

It's not a pain sound. It's an: I love how that feels sound.

Drake easily scoops her naked ass cheeks into his large palms, cupping them and pulling her hips into his mouth.

The movement drags us all closer.

His tongue penetrates her deeply, I watch each forked inch disappear inside her.

Talyn throws her head back, gripping his shoulders, her breaths coming in quick pants while I hold her suspended.

“That's enough,” I seethe at the fucker.

His eyes rise to meet mine, golden-green and piercing. His tongue slides out of Talyn's wet depths.

“You wish to take a chance with this rare female's life because you don't want me to taste her sweetness?”

The tip of his tongue trembles, and I realize it's like a cat's tail twitching in agitation.

Good moon.

“No!” I say just below a shout. “But I think you're doing more than what's necessary.”

Our noses are almost touching over Talyn's splayed body. “Perhaps. But what if I do not do enough, and we watch her die an agonizing, preventable death?” His eyes hold mine. “Choose—her death or your pride.”

“Pride,” Talyn whispers between us.

Fuck. I nod, wanting to head butt him. The dragon is right. But I can hate it if I want to.

I do.

He moves to her pussy again and begins licking in earnest, really lapping as she writhes.

His finger moves to her clit and I grab his wrist.

“Don't, Dragon.”

“It is Drake—let me give this female pleasure, Lycan.”

I jerk my hand away as he inserts his tongue to the hilt, swirling a finger on her clit.

Talyn lasts a half-minute more and shatters apart in my arms, screaming her pleasure at the top of her lungs.

That bastard Drake keeps tongue-fucking her.

I look away in disgust as the female I want as mate comes in another male's face.

Finally, Drake removes his tongue and finger from Talyn and she lays limply in my arms. Drake takes a hold of her thighs and gently closes her legs. Leaning forward, he lays the side of his face against her knees in clear tenderness.

I seethe. “Don't pretend.”

He lifts his face, scales undulating, appearing and reappearing like moving opalescent glass across his skin. “I am not.”

I pull Talyn up and she wraps her hands around my neck. I cast a venomous look at Drake and carry Talyn to the bathroom. Turning on the tap as the water fills the tub, I review my options. There aren't a lot.

Drake has found us. He saved Talyn after putting her in danger. I haven't reported to Charles. He's most likely already pulled me from this change and reassigned it to someone else.

Definitely.

I want to go rogue. I've moved against all the directives of Changers by committing the greatest sin.

Claiming a change.

Then I allowed another shifter, not even a Lycan, to be intimate with my chosen female. It's a clusterfuck.

“How is she?” Drake asks from behind me. He didn't surprise me, I scented scale boy before he came in.

“She seems okay.”

“I'm fine,” Talyn mumbles, trying to cover her nudity inside the clear water. I hear her shame even as she tries to hide it. Smell it.

Her emotions burn my nostrils.

It's time for Drake to answer some questions. “What do you mean—your kind?”

Talyn rolls her head against the edge of the tub, looking at Drake. Sweat and blood mat his short hair to his head.

I probably look the same.

“What I mean is, my saliva would not cure Dragon's battle blood unless you carried a little in your own genetic makeup.” He shrugs. “I took a calculated risk.”

I stand, hands curling into fists.

Talyn's eyes brim with tears, tracking us.

“She is Lanarre. I've transitioned her. She is Lycan now, Dragon. Thank you for saving Talyn—now get the fuck out.”

I point to the bathroom door, and the one beyond.

Drake shakes his head, as though I'm a misbehaving child.

I stand, stepping into his space like I own it.

“Please, Merck—no more.” I turn my head to her.

Talyn's lip trembles, a fingernail nearly gone from the hand that grips the side of the tub, and shame burns inside me.

Talyn tried to attack Drake in wolfen form, having never shifted—done any of the things she should have known or been taught how to do.

I step away, hands on hips, head tucked low, trying to rein in my anger at Drake's presence, his deeds. His existence. “Now what?” I bark at him.

“Talyn Phisher has dragon's blood. Not much, but enough that I took a chance outing myself as trying to pass as being a Mutable when I was anything but.”

“Oh and those guys just let you be part of their colony without you proving you could be something besides dragon?” I ask in mock horror.

His scales grow hard-edged, and I realize his emotions play a part in the manifestation of his beast. “They never asked. They were so thrilled to have a dragon as part of the colony when I claimed I was Mutable, they just accepted it.”

“Why?” I ask.

Drake sighs, raking his hands through his hair, getting shit on his fingers and sighing in disgust. “Because hiding what I am in plain sight is the smartest choice for me. A prehistoric nomad gets gang-killed if he, or the rare she is discovered. No one wants us around unless we're working for them.”

Ah. So protection. Don't understand why a dragon would need protection.

Drake searches my face. “I am formidable—as you've found out.”

I twist my lips. He's not getting dick out of me—confession or otherwise.

His eyebrows jerk to his hairline. “But I'm only one shifter. I'm no match against ten shifters. That is why I got lucky with Talyn. I played along with their sick games until I could find a way to slip her out.”

“She's Lanarre, Dragon.”

“Just call him Drake, Merck. I think we're past trying to treat him like the enemy.”

I give her a look to silence, and she huffs, folding her arms. “Jerk.”

“You keep repeating Talyn's Lanarre status. It does not negate the possibility she is a female of my kind.”

Talyn does a slow blink, looking between the two of us. “So I have a couple of drops of Dragon's blood.” Talyn shrugs her naked shoulders, excavating the mounds of her tits like smooth mountains surfacing the water.

Drake and I salivate at the view.

She laughs, shaking her head. “You guys are single-minded.”

Drake shakes it off. “It matters. You have no idea how much. There have been no females found with prehistoric blood—of any kind—in a decade.”

“Oh shit,” I put together the meaning behind his words, flicking a glance at Talyn inside the cooling tub of water.

Her face is tight with anxiety. “So we have the whole saber tooth tigers, and woolly mammoths flocking to get a stick at me?” Talyn asks with a snort. She's trying to lighten the potential, but her face shows her fear.

Drake's face tightens. “Yes.”

I sit down hard on the side of the tub. “Well how the fuck am I supposed to keep her safe?”

“How indeed?” Drake asks.

Talyn's eyes narrow at him even more than mine.

“I'm sure you have a plan,” I comment with slow suspicion.

He grins. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

Figures.

3

Narah

“Murphy!” I yell, falling beside him. He's pale. Well—paler than normal.

“He'll need blood, now.”

“Over my dead body!” Mollie spits, the co-worker from hell.

“That can be arranged,” Aeslin comments smoothly.

“Fuck it! I hate all the fangs in here, I'm leaving!” Mollie grabs her jacket and begins to stalk out.

I have a lot of hate to hand out today and she gets the first helping. I tear open my forearm with a sliding swipe of fangs and my blood wells.

Matthews grabs my wrist. “Narah—no.”

“I have to!” I yank my wrist from Matthews and place it on Murphy's chilled lips. “Come on!” I yell, working my opposite hand down from elbow to wrist, prompting my blood flow. It drips slowly at first, then it fills his mouth.

Murphy groans, choking then swallowing. He sits straight up like a propped plank of wood, his soulless gaze stares blackly at me. Gripping my body, he pulls me onto his lap, all the while siphoning my blood.

I rest my head on his shoulder as he takes from my vein.

“Get him off her!”

Matthews.

I feel sleepy.

Aeslin pulls at Murphy, trying to dislodge him without hurting me.

Impossible.

I'm getting lightheaded. “Murph,” I say.

He ignores me, staring and suckling.

Fuck. My scalp begins tingling. “Stop,” I say in a low voice full of command.

He shudders as though juiced with something abhorrent. His fangs release me, and I softly fall backward in the middle of our office floor.

Aeslin catches me. Then Matthews fist catches Murphy's jaw. “Fucker!” he roars.

Oh shit.

Aeslin cradles my body.

“Stop, Matthews—I'm okay.” My voice sounds like a croak.

“You're okay when I say you're okay.”

I roll my eyes.

Aeslin winks. The sane vampire of the three of us.

Matthews hauls Murph up and shakes him like a rag doll. It doesn't sound like much but from my perspective on the floor, jerking around a six foot plus dude who weighs over two hundred pounds is no small thing. Of course, Matthews is now vampire.

“Stop beating the shit out of my youngling, John.”

He growls until it becomes a hiss, dumping Murph on the floor. His ass lands with a bone-jarring crack.

I wince, covering my eyes.

What a shitty night. The guys find out I'm baby mama, then Murph gets his ass kicked by a rogue dragon, and my client's somewhere with a Changer—unwilling to be transitioned.

Marvelous.

“Help me up, Aeslin.” He scoops me from the floor, my arms and legs dangling. “No,” I sigh, “I'm not a fragile little girl, set me on my own two feet.”

Murphy smirks from the ground. “I live for these sights, love.”

I scowl but manage, “Fuck off. You cost me.”

He gives me a sullen look.

“Why did you let Dragon kick your ass?”

Murphy splays his fingers on his chest like who me?

“Yes you,” I answer out loud.

“He's a prehistoric, Narah. My fangs can't even pierce his ridiculous armor.”

“You managed!” I harp.

“Once!” he yells, standing and trying to dust off the seat of his pants.

“Watch it,” Matthews warns.

Murphy gives an irritated swipe of his nape. “Listen, the bloke had me wrapped and clocked before I could react. The only reason I'm not dead right now is that bitch Mollie walked in and distracted the wanker.”

I scab for patience from the vast trenches of my endless compassion.

Nope, don't have any—as per usual. “Murphy. Listen close—I want this guy. I need to get to Talyn. Hell, we need to. She's a client and if she's even still alive it'll be a miracle. Now the dragon is after her and she's with Merck.”

“It is problematic,” Aeslin says, stroking my arm.

“It's more than that, Aeslin.” I jerk away from him.

“She's really touchy with the babe and all,” Murph explains.

I glare at Murphy. “Don't try to help, Murph. Just tell me what you know.”

His broad shoulders slump. “I know as much as you know. He ran off after our client, using his wonderful beak to find their scent.”

“Great!” I say, waving my arms around. “He's probably already there and there's been a battle and who knows what else.”

“Do not borrow the worry, Narah,” Aeslin says, wrapping his arms around me. “You cannot save them all.”

“I want to though.” I don't stop the tears, but I don't let them dissuade me from my goal.

Talyn Phisher.

I wipe my eyes, ignoring the males as they stare at my hormonal meltdown.

I stalk out of the office and they follow.

Even with the hormonal upheaval, it warms a secret part of me I keep hidden.

No matter how prickly I am, they've got my back.

4

Noah

“What do you have on Drake?”

Jacob grunts. “Same old thing, nomad and loving it.”

I tap where the pulselocator beacon silently blinks red then nothing then red again. His dot is moving.

“Drake is not following the colony. His plan to ʻhide in plain sightʼ might not be working.”

“I never liked ʻthe planʼ. Drake's the one who sweet talked the council into allowing him this risky experiment.” Jacob paces away, hands on hips, his animal peeking out from his mouth. Though his tusks are a twentieth of the size they'd be in animal form, it gives proof of his agitation. If you can't keep your teeth human, emotions are in charge.

“Tone it down, Jacob. We'll find Drake, and when we do, he can tell us what the fuck's been going on.”

Jacob whirls, slapping his fist on the wood table. It's solid, one hundred year old oak. A crack forms, running like an escaped ice skater over the polished surface.

“I'll tell you what's going on. He's found a female, and he's keeping her for himself.”

I fold my arms. “Well we can't very well share, Jac.”

He straightens, his fist flexing and loosening. Jacob's not a believer in shaving, five daysʼ worth of stubble trying for a beard covers his square jaw, coal black eyes shifting back to mine. “That's never the point. He was sent out as a bridge between our clan and the other, lesser shifters in search of females. The other shifters are searching too. But them—pfft—they can find a few females a year. What about us? A couple a decade?” Jac shakes his head. “No—I say we find Drake and force his accountability.”

Jac's right. And he won't like what I tell him. “The colony of Mutables?”

Jac's black eyebrows sink low over his eyes. “What of it?”

“It's gone. Burned to the ground.”

“Drake,” Jacob inserts decisively.

I can't dispute it so I don't. “Probably.” My eyes meet his. “The human firefighters said some of the wreckage was burned to beyond three thousand degrees. They'd never seen anything so thoroughly incinerated.”

Jac grunts. “They've seen nothing—they know—nothing.”

I meet his eyes. “And I'd like to keep it that way, Jac.”

He nods. “I got you.”

“If—and that's a big if. If Drake has somehow stumbled on a female with prehistoric blood, she might know of others. You understand the rule of the circle?”

“How could I forget?” Jac asks with derision. “If any female is found to have prehistoric blood, females of like blood habitate together.”

“Correct. So even if Drake has found a compatible female, it gives the prehistorics hope.”

“That's in short supply,” Jac mutters.

I agree. “It's the same for all the shifters. Just doubly for us. We've been hunted by our own kind—humans that were threatened with what they didn't understand. At least our births are smooth.”

Jac laugh is hollow. “When there is a birth.”

True.

“So what do you want me to do? It's dangerous for me to be out alone. I'm fair game as a nomad shifter.”

“Go mammoth, brother.”

His lips twitch. “Might get noticed.”

I chuckle. “Yeah. But you can just pancake anyone who gives you trouble. Even your half-form is pretty impressive.”

“But it's like Drake says, it's only impressive if the ratio is alright. If there's ten to one, I'm screwed. If I go full mammoth, the humans will gun me down like an elephant whose cheese has slid off its cracker.”

We stare at each other, a grim smile affixed to my face. “I don't have anyone else. We can't spare a single male who has a female. They have to hump to death if she's in heat. That's the priority.”

Jac smirks, clasping his hands behind his broad back. “Nice.”

I shrug. It's the truth. Desperate times call for desperate measures, as they say. “Find Drake. Help him with the female, if there's one in the picture. If he torched the colony's holding, he was desperate. Not only does it get us noticed by humans, but it gets other Mutables suspicious. How can we pass as Mutable when our dragons are torching houses?”

“I'm going to put my tusks up Drake's ass,” Jac mutters.

My lips thin. “If he has a female, if by some roll of the lucky dice—try to resist. If not, go ahead.”

Jac grunts a reply, walking to the pulse map.

He presses his thumb to the security pad and it comes to life. A single red LED dot blinks like a heartbeat. “He there?”

I nod. “Phillips Street, downtown.”

“Real inconspicuous, Drake.” His voice is disgusted, but layered underneath, is worry.

“Probably didn't have a choice. If the female's in danger, she might have gone wherever she could.”

Jac looks at me. “Or maybe she's in that mecca of shifters who soldier up together. We've got Turners, Changers and other warriors who are hard chargers. Going after females with one glaring goal. Find and acquire.”

I lift my shoulders. “Well yeah. No different than us.”

Jac scowls. “The moderns are way different than us, and you know it.”

My eyes slim down at him. “I can't afford to be elitist about this, Jac. We're only as powerful as we are able to perpetuate our species. If there are no females to claim, we die out. That's why our cousins are gone.” My fingers fling out, miming dust particles floating away to nothing.

“You have a way of hope-sucking, Noah.”

I nod, I'm a half-empty glass kind of guy. “I want to offer encouragement, but I'm never going to lie to a brother.”

“I know.”

I clap him on the shoulder, giving him eyes as troubled as his own. “Go.”

Jacob nods, heading for the door of our clan.

I stare after him for minutes after he's gone, lost in the thoughts of my species.

Or its demise.

5

Talyn

I stand, the water rolling off my skin like rain.

“I know you gentleman have seen me naked.” I throw a look at Merck. “You certainly have, and Drake here...”

My eyes dip. This is so awkward.

I thrust my hand out, cooling water dripping from my wrist to plop, plop, plop back into the tub. “I'd like a towel. I'm not listening to any grand plan without a little coverage.”

Merck silently stands, walking to a tall slim linen cabinet and plucks a fluffy cream-colored towel from its depths.

I turn bright red as Drake's eyes travel my body. I remind myself I  wasn't embarrassed when his tongue was shoved up inside me.

“Do not be ashamed, Talyn.”

“I thought you were just like one of the Mutables,” I say, giving a small smile to Merck in thanks as I take the towel, wrapping it around my body.

Drake shrugs. “I had to play the role, Talyn. Even when no one was around. I have to protect all prehistorics.”

Merck's brow draws together. “What do you mean?”

Drake points at Merck. “I don't owe you any explanations, Lycan.”

Merck grabs the finger and yanks them together, their chests almost touching.

“What you do owe me are assurances about Talyn's safety. If you hadn't come here, she wouldn't have dragon's blood poisoning.”

“And I wouldn't have found her.”

“You haven't found her, dragon!” Merck shouts.

I cover my ears. “Stop,” I say urgently.

Merck releases Drake's finger in disgust.

“I won't share, sorry Talyn,” Merck says.

“That's what you told Arden,” I reply, proud that I don't burst into tears at the mention of him. “You also said your job was to change me. And here I am, a Lycan, Lanarre—whatever I am. Now you can go, leave me. I'll get back to my life as a therapist and you can go make some other woman wolfy.”

I clutch the towel more firmly above my breasts and glare at Merck. His beautiful blue eyes are remote. I can't read his thoughts, his anger toward Drake seems somewhat justified. After all, if he bothered changing me only to have me die because a dragon shifter bled all over me, how does that get his precious job done?

Suddenly, I'm tired. Tired of these dumbasses. Shifters. The entire thing.

I perch on the edge of the tub. Despondent. Fat tears brim and roll down my face. I don't have a place to put all my broken thoughts and emotions, they float around inside my head like shredded styrofoam on water.

Drake's hand lands on my shoulder. “I think the Lycan had better come clean with what's really happening here.”

My chin hikes, and I spare a glare for him too. “What's really happening? The part where you went down on me to save me from acid blood? Or the fact that Merck just loves ʼem and leaves ʼem?”

Drake's thumb traces a tear along my cheek, sucking the salt from his digit, he smooths the damp tendrils of hair from my temple behind my ear. “The reality of him claiming you.”

My face whips to Merck's. “What's he talking about?”

Merck gives the dirtiest look I've ever seen in Drake's direction. “Hate me if you will, Lycan, but she deserves to know.”

“Know what?” I stand again, my heart thumping. I think I'll keel over if I get one more dumb revelation.

“He's mated to you now.”

I face Merck. Actually, my eyes face his heavily muscled pecs. “What is he saying?”

Merck sighs, taking me by the shoulders. “What the dragon says is true. I have claimed you.”

This is an improvement. This sounds entirely better than him just screwing me into being a werewolf then handing me off to some Lycan I don't know.

And what the hell am I reduced to now? What happened to the intellectual Talyn? The one with a career and a beloved cat—a home without a man in it? I'll tell you what—this. But my mind is taking in all that he's said. “Wait a minute. You just failed in your job. You were supposed to transition me and hand me over to the Lycan den and be done with me. Move on to the next female. Now Drake is saying that I've been claimed.”

“Tell her.”

Merck glares at Drake.

“Don't get angry with him. If it weren't for him, I don't know when I'd ever hear the truth.”

Merck says from between his teeth, “I was planning to tell you after supper.”

As if on cue, my stomach growls.

Drake chuckles, squeezing my shoulder. I look between the two males. “Well?”

“Claiming you means I won't be a Changer anymore. I just forfeited by position.”

“It's more than that—he'll be excommunicated.”

I gasp, touching his hard chest. “You will?”

Merck gives a curt nod.

My head's spinning. “Then why did you do it?”

Merck just softly shakes his head. “It was right. You were right—with me,” he answers, pressing his thumb to his chest.

I slowly look at Drake as he quietly stands there. “What's your story? I mean—thanks for saving me but Merck's right—if you hadn't crashed in here....”

“I have partially claimed you.”

I step back, where I can keep Merck and Drake in sight. “When?” I whisper.

A vague smile touches his lips and is gone.

The smell... that wonderful, delicious male-odor. “Your scent—I remember.” It'd made me feel drunk. In a great way.

I frown. I'm not thinking straight.

“I did it to begin the process, and also scent-mark you in case we became separated.”

I try three times to ask then finally spit it out, “And now?”

“I finish what I began.”

“Over my dead body,” Merck growls.

Drake says in a menacing voice, “That works.”

I step between them, hitting them both in the chest.

“Nobody's killing anyone.”

They're not looking at my face at the moment.

My towel dropped, and I'm naked.

Again.

6

Jac

This fucking reeks.

I kick a crumbling bit of cinderblock out of the way and sink to my haunches. I pick it up, sniffing delicately.

Mammoths aren't known for their great nose but I still scent track about five times better than a dog. Just a benny of being a prehistoric.

Our boy's been here. Drake had a lot to do with the pile of scorched rubble that was a colony hideaway for Mutables.

The scent of a female still lingers. If she were human, or a modern shifter, I'd not scent a thing.

But she's not.

She's some kind of mix. Lycan for sure... but dragon? Not sure.

I briefly entertain the fantasy of a female mammoth. There hasn't been a known female in twenty years. They're delicious in human form. It's what the humans call plus-sized. Whatever that means. As far as I'm concerned, a female where the bones are countable, is not sexy in my book. I want hips, ass and thighs I have to plow between like the bow of a wayward ship finding the perfect wet slip within a port.

I stand, tossing my thoughts aside. This isn't getting Drake found—helping him with his female. Because nothing else explains this.

My eyes scan the other slipshod hasty construction of the surrounding houses, the yellow crime scene tape that identifies this as a place where something criminal took place.

It sure did. Now we have to send out another prehistoric to infiltrate a Mutable colony. And they're a cruel shifter group. Baiting and tackling females to force-breed. If the prehistorics could gain a foothold and get to a level of healthier numbers, we could begin to met out some deserving lessons to shifters who devolve to misogynistic behavior.

I sigh. Another unfulfilled fantasy.

Tipping my head back, I move my palm back and forth underneath my nose. I take breaths evenly spaced, closing my eyes and listening to nothing, thinking of nothing.

The scent finally comes.

I lower my chin, eyes open. I will not rush to Philips Street where the pulse disc that every prehistoric has embedded behind their left ear marks their location.

Because the mix of scents tells me Drake's not alone. There is another besides the female.

My gaze narrows, and I charge out of the lonely, dead-quiet street. Using the night as cover, I move toward the city, thankful I took the time to come by the last place Drake stayed.

If I hadn't, I wouldn't know what was waiting for me.

*

I arrive at the cross section of 14th  street and Minnesota hardly out of breath.

I long to be in mammoth form and lament when I can only partially shift. But I can't take the chance.

Even my half-form is huge, standing at almost eight feet tall and weighing in at over four hundred pounds. The partial tusks make talking impossible, but breathing is facilitated. Even if I could breed with a mixed female, none would think I was remotely good looking. Mammoths are an ugly beast.

And that female that I'll never meet is the beauty.

I stomp forward, the ground subtly shaking beneath my huge feet. My shoes are long gone, a joke in the half-form for all prehistorics. Our forms will always be too large to blend or wear traditional clothing.

But at three in the morning, all's well.

I move with unerring accuracy to the funeral home one block over. A huge cement building in an ironic shade of white that resembles bleached bones, hovering above gray concrete sidewalks and trimmed in blood red paint.

I always felt the imagery was gruesome.

I depress my thumb on the security pad for the building, and the tumblers clank into position. The pulse-activated door whispers apart, and I step inside, moving toward the crematorium portion of the building. The smell here is reminiscent of the torched Mutable colony. But death clings more tightly to this space.

I don't flinch, cover my nose or blink. I am a prehistoric. We kill and live day to day. Death is real and will not be feared. However, I'm here to deliver death to the Lycan whose scent is tied to that of Drake and the female.

The concrete foundation of the incinerator has a drawer with a copper handle. Installed a hundred years before, at the same time that the building was constructed.

An early ally to the prehistoric.

My fingers wrap the cool metal, and I pull it open. Weapons are  arranged neatly in a row. My hand hovers over the high content sterling.

I choose two daggers. One is stubbed and wide with one side curved, in true Arabic style. The other dagger fights with being a sword but falling short. I lift the straight blade.

Perfect for stabbing.

I roll the weapons up in a loose velvet cloth with ties. I move through the tomb-like structure and stand before the exit.

I have four blocks to traverse with the wind buffeting me straight on. Even a Lycan will have difficulty scenting my arrival. Maybe, just maybe, I can avoid warning the Lycan—Drake certainly won't give me away.

I grin, feeling more confident. I depress the security lock, my thumbprint lighting up the keypad.

The door slides closed behind me after I move through.

I make my way to Philips Avenue, armed and with a sharpened focus. Ready.

I can't contain my excitement. The thought of one of my brothers being able to have a prehistoric mate is phenomenal—a cause for celebration. I don't bother with thoughts about my own situation.

So many of us are in the same boat.

7

Alex

I can smell that bitch from a hundred miles away. My Lycan form is weak, which pisses me off because really—what the fuck makes a donkey worth anything?

Oh yeah, I'm more stubborn than any shifter around. And I can kick like a sonofabitch. But that doesn't help me. If I can get to Talyn Phisher before she fucks another shifter, she can be mine. I need a Lanarre. She'll be the key to make all my forms equal. All it takes is one encounter with a Lanarre—one good fucking, and donkey would be just another form. After having her, I could use any form as my default.

I can hardly wait.

My long ears twitch at an oncoming noise. It's not that the noise is loud. It's the quality of the noise.

Purposeful.

I stand, not bothering to hide myself as I watch the action going on behind the glass in the penthouse apartment inside the old Foundry building.

There was a helluva tussle just a half hour ago.

Surprised one of the dumb humans didn't call that shit in. I grunt. Too scared to get involved, probably.

I roll my shoulders, revolving my head in a slow circle, trying to loosen the kinks before my homeboys show. We're going to have ourselves some Lycan ass with a helping of dragon on the side. That prick Drake's gonna pay. We know what he is now.

Those of us that survived.

I got torched, courtesy of coals-for-breath, Drake. I smirk. We'll show that numbnuts what it feels like to get your junk cooked. I grab ahold of my own sack to make sure I still have it. Healing that sucked ass. It'd been a close call. That enforcer bitch throwing her blade.

About a millimeter from my dick.

She's next. I don't care if she is a proficient ten. Or she's on the good side of the law, a hybrid vamp—and definitely her female status doesn't mean dick.

I keep my eyes peeled, and when I see what comes around the corner I almost laugh.

Almost.

I thought I was the fugliest shifter around. Guess what? Nah. This guy makes me look like Miss America.

A shifter in half-form strides quietly along the sidewalk, heading directly for the foundry, a neatly tied bundle at his hip.

He's huge. Now I've seen some big shifters. I'm Mutable so there's a lot of biggies in our colony.

Grizzly.

Polar Bear.

Elephant.

But nothing compares to this dude's half-form. Big squarish feet clomp down with each step, sparse hairs softly float from a high forehead and steep, jutting ridge brow. Eyes that are strangely large and soft, almost feminine—pierce the artificial gloom created by the street lamps. My vision, even in my half-donkey form is excellent, and I notice the sweep of ridiculously long eyelashes as his eyes shift back and forth, occasionally sweeping downward.

It's the tusks though.

Those are the things that make my breath catch. Ugly fuckers. They curve out of his mouth, curling backward toward his face. How he can see, or breathe—talk. Is anyone's guess. Who cares?

Maybe he's here to take Drake's ass out.

That'd be perfect. Save me work. Get the girl, death to the Lycan.

All in a night's work.

I track the tusked shifter as he slips into a narrow doorway and ascends the flight of stairs.

Soon. I'll let him do what he wants. Not worried about getting a piece of the Talyn pie. After all, prehistorics are known for defending and protecting women. I don't roll my eyes at the sheer stupidity of that philosophy, but it does stick in my craw.

My thick lips flatten. I have plenty of craw for their beliefs to stick in. I never look at myself in donkey form. Too embarrassing. It'd taken a long time to rise in the Mutable ranks.

Pure cunning and zero integrity helped that along.

I smile, thankful there's no mirror to show my rounded jaw, my square yellowed teeth. A tongue that is disproportionately long and thick.

I think about using that tongue on Talyn while she screams at my ugliness. My small smile widens to a grin.

Soon.When the Mutables who survived the house fire meet me, we plan.

Then we move.

8

Talyn

“I'll help.” Even though I'd like to toss the plates at their heads.

This time, I figure I can avoid a sex and lickathon if I just throw some shorts on. Which I have.

I'm wearing another huge t-shirt and a pair of drawstring shorts. Everything's too big.

I want my house.

And Pooky.

I decide not to cry, but it's burningly awful to stop tears that want to fall as much as mine threaten.

Merck looks up from the broom and dustpan, Drake glances at me from the cooktop.

I expect an apron would fix the vision of the two shifters making me supper and cleaning up the war torn mess they created.

At least the salsa was saved.

The smell of tender and perfectly seasoned chicken permeates the kitchen. I'm beyond hunger now, having gone into a numb spot reserved for starvation. I'm not a nice girl when my stomach's empty.

“Do you want me to help?” I ask a second time, feeling useless.

“I don't need any help. We need to get you fed, Talyn.”

I sigh, not saying anything. Then I have a brilliant idea.

Wine. Everything will be better with wine. “How about some wine?” I ask hopefully.

Drake says as he stir fries the chicken, “I don't think that's a good idea.”

I stand, hands on hips. “And I don't think it's a good idea that you busted inside Merck's house after he claimed me, ruined our dinner, and made enough revelations to crumble the house of cards down. I had a great one built. I'd stacked that just the way I like it. And then poof!” I yell, stalking over toward him.

His lips tweak at the edges.

Asshole.

“Wine might be okay, dragon,” Merck says noncommittally. He is smiling.

Drake saves his hide by reaching into a cabinet and extracting a long-stemmed wine glass.

That's better.

He finds the red wine in the corner of the counter.

It has my name on it.

He pours half a glass and I raise my eyebrows. Drake sighs, the chicken sizzling and steaming between us. Kind of like his breath.

He begins pouring again, filling the wine to the brim.

“That's more like it,” I grumble, carefully taking the glass from his hand.

Our fingers slide against each other and a spark goes off.

Now, it's not like I didn't like what he did for me. It's just—I want a man. A regular, human guy. Who drinks beer, and farts and leaves the toilet seat up.

I take a sip of my wine, grimacing.

No, I take that back. I want a real man. A guy that watches football once a year and farts when I'm not around and brings home chocolate before my period starts.

And licks like Drake.

And makes love to me like Merck.

Not. Happening.

I'll drink wine instead.

I swirl the ruby liquid in the glass and notice it's nearly gone. I frown.

Standing, I walk with more sway than's legal to Drake, plunking the delicate crystal on the raised quartzite peninsula.

“I'll take another round.” I slap the cold stone and Drake shakes his head slightly. “I have fajitas ready and you'll be eating.”

I pucker my lips and his eyes move to my mouth. “No. I want more wine.”

His lips quirk. “Well once you've had a little food of the non-liquid variety, then we'll liquor you up.”

I jerk my face back as strong arms encircle my waist and soft lips press against the side of my throat. A little groan escapes, and I want to punch myself in the head.

Real man.

Mantra time. Need a real man. Then it occurs to me that I'm no longer a real woman. I'm this Lycan girl. It makes me want to cry.

I eye the empty wine glass instead.

Drake slides a steaming plate of chicken fajitas toward me. A rainbow of peppers are prettily arranged alongside the moist chicken  with sweet onion interspersed. My mouth waters. I'm suddenly starving.

Drake slides the covered tortillas my way. I open the lid and pluck a pure white flour disc out from the holder and load it full of the sloppy, delicious smelling Mexican concoction.

I eat as the men watch me. I gulp down water that Drake provides. My mouth's full and I say, “What?”

“Very satisfying,” Merck comments.

“Yes,” Drake agrees.

Finally, the neanderthals are getting along. I chew slowly, savoring the delicate flavorings and subtle seasoning of the juicy meal. When one tortilla is finished I load the second.

Only then do the men begin to dish themselves up.

They set their plates on the beaten up kitchen table and Drake pours a second glass of wine, setting it at what will be my place.

I pick up my plate and walk over to where they sit. I take my place between them.

It feels more right than it should.

9

Narah

I don't feel well.

Usually I can just blast through a workday living on coffee and a donut. Grab a supper through the fast food drive through. Done.

Order: I'd like a quarter-pounder with cheese meal.

Question: What kind of drink, miss?

Answer: Blood.

It gets Murphy every time.

I snicker.

Aeslin gives me a curious look while Murphy's is suspicious. Things that make me laugh are usually not kind or good.

That makes it funnier.

Of course, the iconic golden arches have been progressive enough to offer bagged blood.

It's gross—I'd rather take from the vein of one of my males. And that's just the way they like it too.

Aeslin and Matthews flank me. Murphy's nursing his head where Drake the dragon clocked him and being a general bitch, which I tell him.

“I am not a bitch. That description is for Lycans or some women of the unsavory order.”

Aeslin chuckles.

Murphy is his favorite vamp. Probably because he has to protect me, and he's British. His humor is largely lost on me but somehow, Aeslin finds him hilarious.

Matthews frowns at Murphy. Like I was thinking.

Matthews stops suddenly. We've made the short trek to Philips Street, scenting Drake easily. The sight that greets us is more funny than menacing.

“There!” Matthews says in a whisper only heard by the four of us.

My eyebrows scrunch. What the hell is that? It looks kind of like a—donkey?

“Oh love, this is more entertaining than I could have hoped for.”

“Shut up, Murph,” I say absently as I stare at the incredible sight. A man, maybe topping out at six and a half feet, is giving some kind of instructions to his little posse. Mutables, from the look of it.

I stifle an insane urge to laugh that is like a case of the clap. It itches. And I wanna scratch.

Long floppy ears swing as he speaks and gestures and I slap a palm over my mouth to buy my silence.

The men look at me.

I know. I can't seem to keep ahold of my shit. I blame it on the baby.

His teeth are pale yellow little Chiclets inside his mouth.

I expect braying to start.

Murphy pinches me and it wipes the urge to laugh.

Matthews punches him in the stomach for touching me.

The urge sweeps in again.

Murphy folds, knees hitting the cement.

“Thanks, Murphy,” I say, really appreciating him saving us being outed because I had a supremely untimely urge to have a giggle fest.

“Welcome,” he gasps from the sidewalk.

“He hurt you,” Matthews explains, and I fight smiling.

I wink at a gasping Murphy. “Yeah—needed it. I was sliding toward some kind of hysteric fit.”

Aeslin raises an eyebrow.

“Baby's fault,” I crow in soft indignation.

Both men appear puzzled and a small giggle does manage to escape.

Humor departs when the perp slides into the entrance of the old Foundry building. It's now commercial on the first floor with high-end apartments above. “He's on the move,” I say, going forward.

The men pace me.

I glance back at Murphy. He's hobbling to his feet.

He nods.

I beckon.

Murphy trots unevenly after us.

10

Merck

No one could have prepared me for this moment.

The moment where my life seems to settle into something resembling happy.

Drake is on one side of the couch, Talyn between us.

Music plays softly, the supper dishes soaking in soapy hot water to be done... whenever.

“I hate to say this,” Talyn begins, and I can't resist kissing her temple. “But I sort of like this.”

Drake tilts his head in her direction. “What is this?” he gestures loosely with his finger at the three of us.

“Being here, with you,” she smiles up at me, but her hand lands on the dragon's thigh.

I frown.

She presses her finger to my lips. “Don't be like that, Merck. I'm not anyone's. I'm Talyn. But I think I might consider being with a shifter.”

Drake bursts out laughing.

Talyn sits up straight, removing her hand from his leg.

Good.

He stops.

“What's so damn funny?” she asks, eyes narrowing on Drake.

I look at him with an amused lift of eyebrows.

He shoots me a go die look.

Not yet, pal, my answering look says.

“You aren't fully human anymore, Talyn. Being with a human male is a waste of time.”

Probably a waste of time before too. I don't comment. First smart move I've made.

“Well forgive me if I'm having a little trouble coming to terms with the shift of my life.”

Good Moon, she's getting riled up again. Bad puns and all.

“Talyn,” Drake tries for reason, “all I was trying to say was that this is a natural direction for your life.”

Not bad.

He takes her hand. Then Drake wrecks it by speaking more. “And you didn't seem to have too much trouble when I was tonguing you.”

Should have gone for simplicity.

I think I see steam pouring out of her head.

No. Just my imagination.

She slaps Drake and her new Lycan strength makes his head rock back.

When he looks back at her, his eyes have gone dragon.

I jerk her onto my lap just as the broken door swings open.

We turn to look as the ugliest shifter I've ever laid eyes on stomps inside like an elephant.

Scratch that.

Wooly Mammoth.

*

Jac

I immediately spot the Lycan and Drake. The female hits the radar as prehistoric but strongly Lycan over the top of that. She reeks of a dual claim. An unfinished one from Drake and a complete one from the werewolf.

Damn. What a mess.

I shift the velvet sack with the silver weapons to my other hip.

“Hey,” I say, as though my presence is an everyday occurrence.

The Lycan stands, a low growl loosening lips that are becoming jowly with his animal.

“Stay there, Jacob—freshly claimed female. Things are volatile.”

“Freshly claimed?” the female yells, pounding on Drake's back with small fists.

My eyebrows rise. I guess it's not going smoothly.

Do I kill the Lycan? That's the normal protocol. I open my mouth to ask Drake when I realize my damn tusks are in the way.

Shit. I begin to shift to human when four Mutables saunter in behind me.

I smell the female's fear and turn, facing... a donkey.

I laugh, but it comes out like a strangled cough. ʼBout normal, considering.

Apparently the donkey Mutable understands my laughter is for him and gestures toward me. “Kill him,” he says.

My eyes shift to the three who come for me.

Tiger.

Black bear.

Antelope.

Antelope?

I take out the bear first, clocking him so hard with my weapons he drops where he's hit.

Rushing the remaining two, I gore the tiger as his fur ripples over his body, flinging him off with my momentum. He makes a bloody stripe as he slides down the brick wall, the texture picking up a little spine in the process.

The antelope kicks backward and hits me smack between the eyes.

The strike staggers me and I land on my ass. Hard.

Taken out by a fucking deer. I shake my head, trying to clear the fireworks bursting in the field of my vision. Fucking hoofer got me just right.

When the four vamps charge in, I slump.

Could the night get any worse?

*

Narah

The donkey goes straight for Talyn but the dragon and Lycan have it.

I see that the—whatever he is—elephant guy, was put on his ass by a half-formed deer and resist the urge to laugh again.

I've had some pretty weird experiences but I'm thinking this is the number one evaaah.

“Narah!” Murph screams above the din.

I turn and Donkey's got something in his hand.

Something small. And illegal.

Grenade.

Matthews unfortunately takes my shoulder out of the joint when he throws me into the hall.

I land badly, hurting the other shoulder while clutching my dangling arm.

Agony surges through me and I grit my teeth, crawling back to what's left of the door, hanging by one hinge.

Thanks for the save, babe. God.

Murphy and Aeslin blur to my side. Murphy gives a slight shake of his head. Don't go back in there, the silent look tells me.

I glower.

The apartment blows up—with Matthews in it. One of the fathers of my unborn child.

I scream, leaping to my feet, my arm hanging like a crooked noodle.

Aeslin tackles me.

My arm feels like a live wire attached to my body and I cry out. Vampires can't survive fire, I think, before passing out from the pain.

*

Talyn

I shriek.

It's not neat or feminine. It's a loud, shrill bellow of complete terror. The donkey Mutable didn't perish in the house fire where I was held.

He's come back with reinforcements.

I'm claimed by Merck. I'm Lycan.

So why does he want me? What can he possibly gain?

Donkey reaches into his bag of tricks and flashes a toothy grin that's so creepy my skin wants to crawl off my body to escape his notice.

“Come here Talyn, or the boysʼ guts get splattered everywhere,” he says pleasantly.

My eyes widen. An antelope, some kind of half-bear and a tiger writhe around at his feet like released snakes. I don't know much, but what I do know is he's certifiably insane. A term I'm intimately familiar with.

He's going to take everyone out if I don't go with him.

Donkey might anyway.

I slip out from between Drake and Merck—I'm not having people's deaths on my conscious. Though my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth from my fear.

“No!” Drake yells, wrapping strong arms around me, easily lifting me.

Donkey pulls out a propane torch, lights it.

Pointing it—at me.

“I'll kill her, Drake. And I know your fire will only swamp backward to the source.”

I make a noise so primal it tightens Drake's arms around me like a vice and Merck moves forward.

Donkey turns to him. “Back off, mutt. Can't help Talyn if I set your fur on fire.” His ridiculous eyebrows waggle.

Really?

I see the shifter with tusks shake his head, struggling to his feet. Getting his bearings, he rushes Donkey.

It happens so fast, later I won't remember the exact order of events.

Drake turns me in his arms, and plunges toward the glass window pane. His skin turns like smooth sheeted glass beneath my body.

Merck moves toward Donkey as Tusks hits him from behind.

An explosion blasts us as we hurtle toward Philips Street. I don't go splat as Drake turns at the last moment, taking the impact for us both.

I do hit my head. On scales.

Fire fills my vision as I lay on Drake's body.

I blink.

Figures fight inside the inferno like blurred shadows. One gets tossed out.

I only close my eyes for only a moment.

Then nothing.

THE END

SHIFTER

An Alpha Claim Brief-Bites® Novelette

Episode 6

New York Times Bestselling Author(s)

MARATA EROS

TAMARA ROSE BLODGETT

All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 2015 Marata Eros

Copyright © 2015 Tamara Rose Blodgett

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

www.tamararoseblodgett.com

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Cover art by: Willsin Rowe

Proofed by: Corinna

Synopsis:

Talyn escapes the Mutables to an enforcer safe house, and must decide between Merck and Drake—or does she?

Half a claim will not be enough to protect her from the Mutable who want to use her to strengthen their shifts. Can she allow a full claim and what it will mean for her future?

Or will her bid for freedom cost her more than she realizes?

1

Narah

I scream and Murphy winces. “Steady, love—just one,” he twists my arm and I swear blood leaks from my ears, “more moment.” He shoves the joint back into the socket as ashy tears dry on my face.

I take great, whooping lungfuls of precious oxygen as Aeslin holds me.

“Where's,” gasp, weep, swipe, “Matthews?” I hate the weak lilt in my voice. Can't help it.

Aeslin drags a hand over his hair, ripping the strands from the hairband at his nape. “Narah...”

“Don't you Narah me!” I yell, staggering to my feet, my shoulder joint aching like a rotten tooth.

There's a big hole past the broken apartment door. A gaping mouth of glass, and shards of brick are crumbled around a half-missing floor.

Unbelievably, a pan of food sits in the center of the debris untouched.

I walk toward the door, and Aeslin jerks me up by my waist, before I even react we're down the steps and out on Philips. Talyn is on her back, apparently unconscious with a dragon shifter for a bed.

Matthews lays unmoving on the walk.

I jerk out of Aeslin's arms and run to him, falling to my knees.

“Don't you fucking die on me!” I scream, hitting him straight in the chest.

One eyelid pops open, squinting at me. “Stop hitting me.”

I rock back on my heels, sitting on my ass. “Don't scare me like that.”

Matthews sits up, brick, mortar and tempered glass crumbs fall off him as he stands. His meaty palm moves in front of my face and I release the shaky breath I've been holding, slapping my palm inside his.

He gently pulls me up, looking deeply into my eyes. “I don't matter, Narah.” His free hand flattens on my belly.

I burst into tears, of course he does.

Matthews draws me close, and I grip his broad shoulders, hanging on for dear life.

I'm safe.

He's safe.

My eyes move to Talyn's still form.

Maybe not all of us are.

*

Jamie Duncan

That retard, Alex. Donkeys might be stubborn, but they aren't renowned for brains.

Can't get it right.

I push back into the shadows before one of the shifters scents me. Of course, being a Mutable is fine and good, if you can be in a form that's hard to scent. Reptile is the only one I've found that's worth a damn.

And that fucker Arden? What a waste! Masker and Mutable both. And he gives it up for pussy?

I shake my head. Now that's true single digit IQ choices there. I've got three torched Mutables, blasted by Alex's great handling of the grenade. He was supposed to take out Drake and the Lycan—the vamps would have been a bonus.

I cup my chin. Maybe himself too. After all, Alex had outlived his usefulness. If a torturer is all I need, then he's a perfect fit. Unfortunately, the larger picture is generally missed with his straw-filled brain. He and I are set to meet, it's the contingency plan if he survives.

Again. I sigh.

Time to move. The carnage of the street will eventually be cleaned up before the enforcer and her vamps need to be in their coffins for the day. She'll be unprotected while they rest.

A smile curls my lips. That female is definitely in the way of my purposes.

Using Talyn for what she can gain me—and other Mutables. Since she is Lanarre, she can strengthen our forms. Make each form as formidable as our default beasts.

Of course, that's a lot of sharing of one female. Just a lot of screwing by whoever needs their form spruced up.

Perfection.

I gaze down at Narah hovering over Talyn. I can hear her heartbeat from here. She's fine.

For now.

I cannot sense the beast beneath her. That makes the smile of cruelty I normally wear bloom to a full-fledged grin.

I love being me.

I move with stealth, my snake's body easily maneuvering down the back steps and out the fire escape I'd propped open earlier.

I lift the end of my tail, in case the rattles alert anyone to my presence.

2

Merck

I try to move. Can't.

A broken back will do that every time.

Fucktastic.

Why did I let myself relax? Why didn't I smell those Mutables? Lots of whys there.

Talyn's a distraction, is the answer. I had her in sight, bred her—hell—I'd claimed her.

I'd even started to soften toward Drake—his role in this mess. Mainly because he was making sense. And, though I hated to admit it, she was safer with the two of us. I couldn't deny her blood origin. That she was both Lanarre and prehistoric.

But look where all my reasonableness had gotten me. Flat on my back in the middle of Philips Street. Waiting for the morning rush hour to squash my ass.

I scan the vicinity, just making out the shadowed hole of my apartment. A metal piece of window trim tips over the jagged edge of what used to be my floor before falling to the sidewalk below.

Moon. This is so bad.

I grit my teeth against the healing fire as my body feverishly knits itself together. Gradually, I begin to feel my legs again. First my toes, then shins, knees and lastly, my thighs wake up with what feels like a billion pins and needles telling me that by Moon, I'll walk again.

Sirens wail in the distance like mournful wolves.

People start to come out on the sidewalks from the high rise, luxury apartments above the first floor commercial spaces. It'll be my luck that Turners and other supes will take this opportunity to do a little housecleaning.

Like dragging off a half-healed Lycan, and finishing the job.

I roll over, slapping my palms onto the gritty asphalt, and wheezing through the pain of moving before I'm fully healed.

I manage to position myself on my hands and knees. I automatically search for Talyn, remembering Drake doing a superman move through the glass. Tough bastard, I'll give him that. There, about ten paces from my position, low voices drone.

A knot in my chest loosens as I catch sight of Talyn. She is just sitting up, hand to head, weaving a little.

The rubberneckers converge. Humans in various states of dress with bright curious eyes, and no sense of self-preservation, begin to mill around, gawking, pointing and—taking out their pulse devices.

Can't have that. This shit will be on PulseTube in about three minutes. The humans know about the vampires. An arm, full of scales that shine with dull rainbow fire, is trapped half-way underneath Talyn.

Humans aren't ready for the prehistoric. I need to get him changed back to full human, and in a hurry. Even my quarter change form, which is about all I can manage with the amount of healing I had to undertake, is still noteworthy.

I sit back on my haunches, take a deep breath, and using my hands on my knees, I launch myself to my feet. My back shrieks, and I gasp through the pain. The fire of my healing feels like a cracking whip inside my body. Healing hurts sometimes worse than the injury.

I command my limbs to walk to Talyn, and beneath her—to where Drake lies.

I watch the enforcer, her mates and her partner try to convince Talyn to get the hell out of here.

She needs to. Like yesterday.

Talyn's light gray eyes, silvered by her partial change find mine.

“Merck!” she cries and suddenly my pain melts before the tone in her voice. All my body hears is its mate calling for help.

I stumble through the last vestiges of real healing and kneel beside her. My hands cradle her face.

Enforcer Adrienne meets my eyes. “She's sort of disoriented.” The enforcer looks like shit. Narah Adrienne also looks like she's been through worse. Tough broad.

“I say we leave this wanker behind.”

I look at the vamp. Tall, dark hair—black eyes. British. New vamp for sure. And my nose tells me he's somehow tied to the enforcer.

Adrienne turns to him. “Don't get a fang out of place over this, Murph. He laid you out to get to Talyn. No male is in his right mind when a vagina's in the equation. Everything goes to shit.”

I snort, the vampire mates chuckle.

True.

Adrienne glares.

Their laughter sort of dies like a strangled duck.

I move between them, and Narah silently moves away, I grab Talyn, lifting her off Drake.

Scales aplenty. “Let's get Drake out of here. We've got eyes.”

“Ah, don't mind that,” Murphy says, facing the crowd.

Human eyes stare at him.

Murphy stares back.

“Don't scoop out their brains, Murph,” Enforcer Adrienne says dryly.

Murphy turns around, winking. “Wouldn't dream of it.”

Adrienne rolls her eyes. “I'm grabbing dragon stud and we'll regroup somewhere else.”

Nighttime blankets the city, but it's soft, dawn is only a promise.

The vampires nod and without another word, Narah grabs Drake's arm and hoists him up. Three hundred plus pounds of dead weight.

Each one of Adrienne's mates take an arm. Adrienne nods in my direction. I lift Talyn, following them.

I spare a glance at my apartment, satisfied that my belongings are like those of everyone else's. They'll appear human.

We walk away just as the ambulance and fire truck arrive.

Murphy feeds the crowd what the story will be. Instead of the story it was.

3

Talyn

“Where's Drake?” I ask.

Merck shakes his head, practically carrying me as I'm tucked underneath his arm. “Enforcers have him.”

Is that even good?

I crane my neck, trying to locate Narah. I witness Drake being hauled by two, bad-ass looking vampires.

I remember my prejudice against the fanged ones from just a couple of weeks ago. Like everyone else when they found out about vampires, I was leery—prejudiced.

That'd all bled out the instant I was thrown into their world. Or—the world I knew about.

Now I know that we've been carefully “fed” the illusion that vampires are the only species besides humans. If humanity only knew what lurks around? It'd be chaos.

We're not ready. I'm not ready. Not that my emotional well-being matters. I am one now. Acceptance and belief aren't relevant.

I try not to think about Pooky—my office. Patients that need me—now what—shuffled to a partner who doesn't understand their history?

While I screw a werewolf and let a dragon lick me.

I'm the one needing to be committed.

“I smell your frustration, Talyn.”

I can only nod. I'm frustrated alright. About many things. Things that make me gnash my teeth because I'm not in control of my own life's path.

And these Mutable guys can't take no for a damn answer.

*

“Looks like we missed them.”

I gaze around the ransacked Final Enforcement office and tip my head back, letting it fall where it may. A stiff metal cross bar supports me and I'm fine with it. Just don't move me.

“Talyn?”

“What?” I say to the ceiling.

“Drake's going to be fine.”

I still don't move my head, rolling my eyes to the sprawled dragon. Thankfully, that skilled tongue of his is currently inside his mouth. I don't really need to be thinking about where it's been at the moment.

I shut my eyes. All this is my fault.

Enforcer Adrienne walks over, her face looming into my line of sight. “This isn't your fault.”

My eyes snap open. Telepathy?

Her luminous silvery-grayish eyes hold mine. Tears run down my cheeks, and all I can do is shrug.

Nah, just empathy. Maybe one in the same.

“Listen,” she sinks to her haunches, giving a look to the other vampire enforcer who's still here that clearly says, don't say anything. She pats me on my arm.

“You're not the best at this comfort thing,” I comment in a dry voice.

She smiles. “Yeah, but I like to give it a shot.” Her eyes shift away then come back to mine. “Like I said before, penis plus penis plus vagina equals problems.”

My laugh chases away the tears.

Adrienne smiles. “See? You need to look at it with more simplicity instead of taking this entire hybrid thing on as something you could have avoided through decisions or choice. There just isn't any.”

“Speaking from personal experience?” I ask.

She gives a grave nod, her tattered braids swinging forward. “Absolutely. And it sucked. I wish I'd had someone who told me what was what.”

“Narah?” the vamp calls.

Adrienne narrows her eyes. “What? Can't you see I'm trying to—”

“Make things worse?” the vamp asks.

I come to her defense, “She's okay...”

“Murphy,” he supplies.

“I just need to know that Drake will be okay, Murphy. And I'd like to go home, and see my cat—figure out my job.” I twist my hands together, hanging on by a thread. Just mentioning all those things that were familiar and comfortable puts a golfball-sized lump in my throat.

Adrienne's hand squeezes my arm and I wince.

She gives me an apologetic expression. “Sorry, keep forgetting my own strength. There will be time for that. The cat's at my place.”

“I'm sure those mates of yours love the feline,” Murphy says.

Narah gives him another look of borderline dislike, and he tosses his palms up in mock surrender. “Jesus, girl—relax.”

“You have Pooky?” I ask, biting my lip.

She turns back to me and nods, snuffing out the ghost of a smile. “Yes—Pooky is fine.” She sends another dirty look to Murphy. “And for the record, your job will be there. But we need to agree that humans aren't ready for the rest of the supernatural world. I can barely keep up on the illegal humans. However much I'd like to personally toss the information out there anyway. I say let the humans figure it out. I'm fucking tired of keeping secrets regulated from the top from people who don't understand it.” She sighs. “Honestly,” she stands, pacing a few steps away, “I almost said no to your case. It was your hybrid status—which we won't be able to keep under wraps much longer—that made me say yes.”

“And now you wish you'd said no.”

The enforcer dips her head and gives a single nod. “Sort of, can't lie—it's been a bitch. But if we can pull the dragon through, and your Lycan here,” she jabs a thumb at the silent Merck, standing by the window in apparent guard-mode, “and can get you somewhere safe, my services won't be needed and I can close this case.”

“A relief for all,” Murphy mutters in the background.

My brows pull together, and I gather myself together, sitting up. “What's keeping it open?”

Narah gives a pointed look to my borrowed and ruined guy wardrobe. “You're not safe. You're being pursued. That Jamie Duncan moron is behind a lot of it. Now, if someone could give me answers about why a partially mated hybrid Lycan female is still being sought—I'd love that. Because it doesn't make sense.”

“Arden could have,” I reply softly, and I can't stop the quaking of my lip this time. His death is too new, too fresh. His absence is a void like a wound that won't close. Drake was the vehicle for his death but Arden was the driver. Wrong place and wrong time for him were inevitable.

Those facts don't make it any easier for me to cope with his loss.

Narah studies my expression. “I know he was—killed. We had the best cleaner on that thing. Can't have the human police catching wind of an entire hive of Mutables.”

Unmarked grave. I jerk my face up, fighting weeping. “They refer to themselves as a colony.”

Adrienne shrugs a shoulder, flipping her charred braids behind her shoulder. I notice the abrasions along her arm that make it look like chewed hamburger and swallow my gorge. “We use hive for those guys.”

“Drake isn't a Mutable,” I whisper.

“He was trying to pass—see if he could sniff out a prehistoric female before a Mutable could use her,” Merck adds, never taking his eyes off the glass and the window he looks through.

“I need to get out of here, Narah,” Murphy says anxiously.

Narah sighs, rubbing her eyes with the backs of her hands. “Yeah.”

“Where are the two other vampires?” I ask.

“They went home. Dawn is coming.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You don't have to?”

“I don't go to ground. I'm actually human enough to withstand sunlight.”

“I am not, however,” Murphy raises a brow.

Adrienne purses her lips. “Use the basement Murphy.”

He wrinkles his nose. “I loathe the smell.”

She stares, Murphy lowers his eyes. It is the strangest interaction I've ever witnessed. This tiny woman ordering around the huge male vampire.

“What's your relationship with Murphy?” I ask, and immediately understand censoring my curiosity would have been more polite.

Adrienne doesn't care about polite, apparently. She folds her arms, planting her boot clad feet wide apart. “I'm his sire. He was almost killed, I turned him by accident.”

That gets Merck swiveling to stare at them. “That's painful.”

“You have no idea,” Murphy comments with frozen neutrality.

Adrienne waves it away. “It is what it is.” Her voice is low, tender, and I give her a swift searching look, but her eyes are for him. “I didn't want to live without ya, Murph. So I guess that was in my mind when I sunk fangs. Can't take it back now,” she quietly recites.

She looks away as though uncomfortable with the confession, and Murphy comes to her, wrapping his arms around her. “You're a porcupine, love, but I do adore you.”

Adrienne wraps her hands around his huge biceps and they stand there for a few moments, hugging. His dark head bent over her platinum dread lock braids.

Merck and I look at each other across the room, over Drake's healing sleeping body.

He turns back to guard the window, and the street beyond without another word.

4

Duncan

I shake Alex by his long ears.

His braying howls are truly satisfying.

I speak through my teeth. “What part of blowing up the competition didn't you understand?”

He manages a gurgling cough and I drop him, dusting the small, nearly invisible stabbing hairs of his half-form's coat off my fingers. Where is the damn soap when you need it?

My exhale is pure disgust.

“We need Talyn Phisher. She is Lanarre, and even the Lycan doesn't appreciate what that can mean to certain species.” My eyebrows rise with the significance of that fact.

Alex gazes up at me out of those ridiculously soulful eyes, blinking rapidly. “I hate being a donkey!”

My fists clench. “If you bray one more time, I'll kick those yellow cubes you call teeth down your throat.” I rake my hair back into place, and wrap it in a hair tie. “As I've explained half a dozen times, Talyn is key.” I wrap my hand in a fist. “She is what will make every form you have as relevant as your primary.”

“I know!” Alex wails miserably. “I didn't know Drake wasn't a Mutable.”

Neither did any of us.

“Yes,” I seethe. I whirl and he cringes, expecting another shake and bake. “We move. Now. While the vampires are asnooze in their coffins,  the diminutive enforcer and Lycan are the only obstacles in our way. It's war.”

“What about the prehistoric?” Alex asks from the ground.

I finger my chin, deliberating the ancient shifter sect. “I can't account for his presence.”

“Those prehistoric bastards give a shit about preserving the fairer sex.” Alex spits. He certainly isn't a fan of females. Only of their unique equipment.

I nod in response, but dismiss them as a threat. “The prehistorics are too few in number. He must have stumbled along, happening upon the location. And Drake?” I smile, joy swelling my chest like a beautiful peacock. Fairly soon, I will be able to keep that form as well.

Any form.

Perhaps even prehistoric. The Lanarre werewolf is a chameleon. Not she herself, but a carrier of a very rare gene that can be passed on to those she is intimate with. We keep Talyn Phisher under lock and key, and Mutables take turns getting what they need.

It's really perfect.

And if a few prehistoric or vampires get in our way, then so be it. I turn my attention to Alex, still sprawled on the floor. “I have Mutables from the Pacific Northwest colony coming.”

“What about Drake?” Alex asks.

I shake my head. “He didn't look very lively from where I stood.” My eyes slim on Alex like razors. “However, he'd be much less so if the grenade had taken out the competition rather than our own kind.” Each word is enunciated to wound and maim.

The donkey flinches with each word.

Satisfying again. Yet, I can't waste any more time on theatrics. I have Mutables to meet.

I have a dragon, Lycan and vampire to kill.

*

Noah

“If our healer puts a stitch in, your coat-of-steel will cover it within hours.” I slap Jacob's back and shrug.

He sighs, his tusks melting back into his face. When they're nubs of pale ivory they suddenly vanish. I've seen a lot of prehistorics shift but some of the rarer of us always startles.

“Weird, huh?” Jac muses.

I nod.

I lean my ass against the narrow desk that serves as work station, eatery, sleeping platform—and sometimes—though hardly enough, sex surface. I cock my head, looking at Jac. “What happened—besides the obvious?”

Jac will heal, though much of his body was burned by the blast and his tusks were charred, losing the tips. One of his eyes was half-detached.

Prehistorics are the fastest healers of all shifter species. Still, Jac sustained enough damage to give me pause.

“The fucking Mutable—”

“—the donkey?” I ask.

Jac chuckles. “Yeah. He pulled the pin.” He mimes a bomb exploding, his hands flying apart.

My eyebrows pop. “A grenade?” I whistle.

“Hard to acquire, right?” Jac shakes his head, pacing the room.

I spin, facing him. “Yes. Very.”

I can't believe a Mutable and a few of his buddies would be willing to bring that kind of fire power and exposure. Though the human news had covered it, saying the explosion was a gas leak.

Right. And I have a tail and horns growing. No—there's something more. Something behind the scenes in play here. “Drake?” I ask.

Jac shakes his head. “Not sure. Too much going on for me to get a clear look.”

“What kind of look did you get?”

He doesn't speak for a few seconds but his face tells me. “Doesn't look good, Noah.”

“Alright.” I straighten from my perch against the desk. “The Mutables will try again, and Drake needs us.”

“Forget Drake. If he's bred the female that's great. But if he's gone—we need to protect her.”

“For ourselves,” I ask Jac, testing him.

He meets my eyes. “Hell yes for us. I don't know which one of us, but if Drake isn't her mate, and she's prehistoric—and I got that she was,” he pauses, letting his words sink in, “then we're honor-bound to assist.”

I nod and he continues, “She's already partially claimed,” Jac says.

“That's not good—it's the loosest of strings.”

“Agreed,” Jac acknowledges gravely. “So, the sooner the better.”

I nod. “Let's do it during the day when the vamps are nighty-night. I don't want to have to consider them.”

“What about that enforcer?” I ask.

“The female hybrid I keep hearing about on pulsevision?”

“Yeah.”

“Is she a hindrance or help?”

Jacob appears to consider. “She was acting like a protector from the little I saw.” His face gains a crooked smile. “That is, before her mate tossed her into the hall, and out of harm's way.”

“Ouch,” I say, scrubbing my face.

“Yeah, enforcer with a level ten proficient.”

I whistle for the second time.

“And pregnant too.”

My gaze snaps to his. “Really?”

He nods. “And the mates are in agreement with her working?” I scoff.

He shakes his head. “They may not know of the youngling.”

What a mess.

I walk to Jac, squeeze his shoulder. “The enforcer is ally or not. What is really important is she remains with Talyn, and surrounded by enforcers of near caliber so we must use—”

“Caution.”

I clap Jac on the back. “Exactly. Let's get our soldiers. Not too many.”

A slow smile curves Jac's lips. “I thought you'd never ask. That donkey pissed me off, he and his friends. I told you about the deer, right?”

My lips twitch. “I wouldn't tell anyone else if you don't want to spend the rest of your natural life living it down.”

Jac scowls, and I grin.

I contact the others to save Talyn Phisher—and Drake.

If it's not already too late.

5

Talyn

Beautiful peridot gemstones blink up at me as I take his hand. “Hey,” I say through my tears.

Drake's finally awake. This dragon that saved me from Duncan—from Donkey. I give a shaky laugh at the imagery, and realize my nervousness has no place to go but out.

“Let's get him in the van,” Adrienne says.

I remember she asked me to call her Narah, instead of Enforcer Adrienne. I blink, feeling like my thoughts are being sucked into the quicksand of my brain. “Okay.”

“Wait,” Drake says from his makeshift bed on the floor of the office of Final Enforcement. “Come here.”

I bend over him, and he pulls me against his body. It's no longer hard with scales, but merely firm with flesh covered steel.

That tongue—it splits the seam of my mouth and only an agitated exhale from Merck keeps me grounded in the present.

Even for all my uncertainty, I feel the pull to finish what's between me and the dragon in my arms.

It's not rational. It's not the choice that the old Talyn Phisher would have made, but the impulse beats between us anyway.

“Okay lovebirds, let's shift the dragon inside here.”

I stand, moving away from Drake. My face burns with embarrassment as Narah and Merck count to three, hands fisting the blanket underneath Drake as they heave him on the final count inside a nondescript utility van.

Drake groans at the movement and my frightened eyes meet Narah's. She just shakes her head. “Let's get you guys to my favorite hidey-hole, and then we'll talk about the next move.”

Merck waits for me to get in and be seated. Narah hops in last, slapping the top of the van as our driver takes off.

Somewhere safe, she insists.

Hope flees, and in its place realism slides in.

*

It seems safe.

“Where are we?” I'd been blindfolded—Merck too, while Drake slept off his healing injuries. It felt like days to arrive. Narah says it's only been hours.

“The Hills.”

I hadn't been born and raised in Sioux Falls. I'd thought to pass through, appease my internship requirements when I first arrived. But then the place had bitten me and not let go. “Black Hills?”

Narah cocks an eyebrow. She's a hard case. Moving her jaw toward a small cabin nestled in a stand of fragrant pine trees she says, “Bunk down here. We'll figure out the rest.”

“Where will you be?” I ask.

Merck slides his arm around my shoulder and I melt a little against him. He and I haven't even had time to deal with having sex—the claim issue. It's all been surviving until the next catastrophe.

“I'll be around,” she says, twirling her finger.

“What about the vampires?” I ask, my eyes searching the day that dims toward night.

“They know where to find me. It's safer that you don't know where this place is. Safer for you—and anybody that might come after you.”

Our gazes lock, and I nod.

Drake steps out of the back of the van and stretches. Rippling scales swarm his form, his ears elongate, making the tri-pointed sweep he had when we first met.

“Go ahead,” Merck says in a rough voice. I give him a hesitant look and move to the other male I'm drawn to.

Drake's eyes never leave me. He opens his arms and I fall into him. “I thought you were dead.” His large hand cups my skull, stroking my hair. “I am not, as you can see.” His steady heartbeat thumps beneath my cheek as Narah slips into the woods and out of sight.

The driver hops out, giving us an indifferent glance and strolls to a nearby tree, lighting up an illegal cigarette.

The pungent odor of tobacco assaults my nose and I turn away.

Drake tugs me away from him. His eyes drill me, beautiful and spinning slightly inside a solemn, masculine face. “Let's finish this.”

Merck is suddenly there. “Finish what?”

Drake turns to Merck and the testosterone spike alone should light the forest on fire. His pupils widen to oblong discs inside his face as he glares at Merck. “You know what. My claim is half-done. If I don't finish it, any prehistoric or Mutable can walk in and have her.”

“Hey,” I interrupt and their angry faces turn to me. “Let's go inside the cabin and get a shower—some food.”

I don't need world war three breaking out.

Merck's expression looks as though he sucked on a lemon, and Drake's is hard, but they follow me wordlessly into the cabin.

*

I'm not much of a cook. My index finger has a callous from pulsing my takeout orders. But here in the cabin, I rustle up enough food so we won't starve—if canned fruit and stew can be called sustenance. It'll have to do.

It's what we have.

I scrounged around and found some clean sweatpants in a small guy's size and a t-shirt. My bra is being held together by a single surviving hook. I only wear it for modesty's sake. The girls do not play well with others without the prison of my bra.

I sigh, gathering my things as Merck gives me a speculative look over the top of his coffee cup, his hair still wet from a lukewarm shower.

I move down the long corridor, and literally bump into Drake.

He's naked from the waist up, my mouth lands literally between the discs of his nipples.

Oh god.

I stumble backwards.

He grips my upper arms and a little needy whimper escapes. I guess that whole heat thing hasn't totally been dealt with yet.

He leans forward, his nose burrowing into my neck, inhaling my scent and my knees about give out where I stand.

So good.

Drake releases me abruptly, looking at something over my shoulder.

Merck.

“Let her shower, dragon.”

Drake's lips curl. “Of course.”

I scowl at the two of them—so much for staving off a battle. “We're going to get this all worked out when I get out, boys.”

They turn to me and Drake says, “Yes, we are.”

I move into the bathroom and kick the door shut.

That's what I'm afraid of.

6

Talyn

The cabin is eerily silent when I exit the shower.

Oh my God, they've killed each other.

I slowly towel off, delaying the sight of inevitable bloodshed. Seeing my reflection in the mirror, a raw exhale escapes. My longish hair responds pretty well to the finger-comb I give it.

A soft knock sounds on the door and I clutch the towel tighter, opening the flimsy door a crack.

One of Drake's gorgeous eyeballs stares back. He's alive anyway.

“Talyn,” he pauses, the look of uncertainty on his face would be funny if the situation wasn't so dire.

Donkey. Mutables.

Duncan.

All those shifters are circling in my brain, and still at large. Hell, I have an enforcer guarding me in a remote cabin I don't even have the location for. ʻThe Hillsʼ is pretty broad.

“Let's talk.”

It's not talking I want to do. I already love them both. And I don't know when my lust and need changed to more.

But it has.

I don't yearn so sharply for my old life, but the need for closure is still there.

I step out of the bathroom, and Merck is waiting, a stubborn look on his face, arms crossed over his muscular chest.

“Merck and I have come to an agreement.”

I'd put my hands on my hips if it wouldn't guarantee an accidental striptease. “You have, have you?” I hear the bite in my voice. I can't help it. I'm emotionally fragile right now. My entire life's been turned upside down and I'm not me anymore. I'm partly Lycan now. I feel the beast inside me. She's given me senses that are sharper today than they were yesterday. Speed, agility, scent, strength—it's all so much more.

So is the passion and anger. It's a mixed bag. I can't fight the new, animalistic side of me.

I'm sinking.

Drake takes hold of my shoulders, his thumbs caressing the curves of my arms. “Merck has agreed to let me breed you.”

“As long as you don't get pregnant with a lizard,” he says dryly from behind us.

The comment makes me lightheaded. “I can't have kids.”

Drake dips his head, his forehead barely touching my own. “You are Lanarre, Talyn. Shifters of royal blood will never be able to bear offspring with humans. It's not a defect, it's a biological safety measure.”

My inhale draws in his unique, spicy scent. Cloves, cinnamon and rich male swarm my senses, making me dizzy.

Suddenly Merck is there.

“I thought you wouldn't share.”

Drake allows Merck to pull me into his arms, so strong and safe around me.

“And that got Arden killed. If I'd been more reasonable, you'd be transitioned. If I'd bowed to your heritage, and known the only way to see you safe, and fully transitioned would be with two males of compatible genetics, even now it would be a moot point.”

“So pride?” I ask quietly, giddy with his scent, sad over the mention of Arden.

“Pride has to take second place to the female I've claimed as mate.”

My head jerks up and I look at Drake. “What about you?”

“There are not enough women of prehistoric blood. Maybe a handful are found every few decades. Merck has agreed—and already transgressed against all the rules of Changers—to allow a dual claiming. It's only your consent that we're waiting for.”

Merck slowly turns me. “I have to be truthful here, Talyn. I had no intention of mating or claiming you. Changing you was all I was tasked with.

I roll my lip into my mouth, lightly gnawing the flesh.

“Hey,” he says softly, lowering his face so we're eye level. “That's all different now. I stopped fighting what my beast has been trying to tell me since the first time I laid eyes on you. You were meant to be my claim—not just a change. There is precedence for it, but as a Changer, I'm beholden to transition and turn over.”

“And you didn't,” I say.

He shakes his head, his eyes sliding behind me to study Drake. “And,” he gathers himself together, “Drake—he has the same duty.”

I pull away from him. “I don't want to be a duty.”

Merck sighs. “You are no longer a change, Talyn. I've already transitioned you. Drake claimed you by default when he healed you of the dragon's blood. Without his claim, you are not whole. He's right—if he doesn't complete the claim, you are vulnerable. Can you imagine an enemy getting his paws on you and claiming you—with or without your consent? You'd be bound to me—and—someone you hated, who took you in violence. I believe,” his eyes tighten, “that it's better to allow his claim. Prehistorics never harm women, they revere them. Mutables are the opposite of that. I can't take that chance, with the female I love.”

My mouth drops open and he captures my lips in his own.

Our kiss deepens and Drake is suddenly behind me, his erection seated between my butt cheeks.

I should feel intimidated—scared.

I don't, for the first time, I feel right within my own skin. Nestled between two shifters.

I've come home.

7

Merck

Say yes, Talyn.

Drake has her from the back and I don't gnash my teeth at his presence. I'm done with that. Finding Talyn in the Mutable's colony killed a lot of my possessive jealousy. Her tears clinched the rest.

Drake will protect her. And with the discovery of her prehistoric blood—I need him. Keeping Talyn safe is more important than my pride.

Most shifter royalty is tied with other shifter groups. Talyn is multi-compatible because of her unique, ancient blood. If the dragon and I can complete her claim, she'll be safe from the others.

Talyn nods against me, and my eyes meet Drake's. I can't be all smiles about his part in breeding her, but I'm committed for the right reasons now.

Drake scoops her up and I follow him into the bedroom.

The towel she was wearing flutters to the floor.

*

Talyn

Naked, again.

I want to feel shame, regret—anything. But all I feel right now is the overpowering need to complete a loop I didn't even know needed closure.

Drake has me in his solid arms and walks me to the bed, gently laying me down.

Merck slides in beside me, and Drake bends his massive body over the top of mine, looming without suffocating.

Somewhere from the hallway to the bed he lost his pants. I glance over at Merck and he's as naked as the day he was born.

Or littered.

I smile and seeing my expression, he gives a soft upward tilt of lips. I know this is hard for Merck, who railed against sharing me. But his love shines in his eyes. If you truly love someone, you want what's best for them—not what's best for you.

Love is selfless.

My safety and happiness—my life, is now in the hands of the males.

“Talyn,” Drake whispers, and I move my legs apart as he smoothly moves between them.

My heart thumps like a wild animal in my chest, my beast pushing painfully underneath my skin. “I can't—” I gulp back my anxiety, “change right now?”

Drake smooths my hair back. “I need to calm her, your animal.”

Scent swirls, lifting my unease like an unwanted garment. A relieved breath eases out, and I go boneless beneath him.

Merck kisses my forehead. “This is about keeping you safe, making you ours to protect and cherish, Talyn.”

“You guys have gone all sappy on me,” I murmur then give a nervous laugh.

Drake says nothing, but his mouth speaks for him, softly kissing my lips over and over until I yield to the softness of his mouth on mine, his rich spicy maleness clings to my pores, seeping into everything that makes me human—Lycan—and now something more than even that.

Theirs.

Merck's large hands cover my breasts, kneading them into piles of pliable flesh, his thumbs stroking my nipples until they form ready peaks for Drake to kiss and suck.

I moan, moving into the hard sure pressure of my breasts being grabbed, nipples sucked.

A thread of pure, electric desire begins to tingle from my chest to my core, igniting a razor wire of lust that has me opening my eyes, staring deeply into Drake's.

I turn to look at Merck and he kisses me at the exact moment Drake inserts a finger into my wetness. “Ah!” I groan in a muffled shout.

Merck eats my arousal with his tongue as Drake gently pumps inside me. Moisture floods my walls, coursing from the center of me to my ready sex.

Drake takes his time. I pant and writhe, and Merck takes ahold of my wrists, stowing them over my head with one of his hands.

I gasp at the feeling of being pinned, loving the safety and closeness of the Lycan and dragon. My wolf fights, feeling the need to escape.

Merck kisses my throat, licking along the shrieking pulse point in my neck and my wolf calms at the tactile assurance.

I open my eyes, and Drake says softly, “Yield, Talyn—let me in.”

I hold my breath, my wolf pacing inside my body. I know what's right, somewhere deep inside me, in the very fabric of my body, a burn has begun. My blood feels as though it is rising to the surface like a dam ready to burst.

I nod. I'm brave.

Merck holds my wrists in a gentle but firm grip while Drake hangs over the top of me, his huge length dangling from narrow hips as a muscular torso holds his weight.

Still, he waits.

I know what Drake needs to hear.

“Yes.”

9

Drake's shoulders soften for a moment.

He centers his erection at my entrance and I relax, releasing my fear, my distrust, my anxiety of the unknown.

He rocks his hardness halfway inside, and I cry out at the delicious girth of him, the unexpected filling of what can only be the rightest thing I've ever felt.

I turn my head, looking into Merck's eyes and his are half-closed, lust and love dividing his expression into equal parts.

He leans in close and I kiss him as Drake pulls back, then rocks inside wholly, filling me with himself.

We throb together, locked as tightly as a man and woman can be. I groan, fighting against Merck's hand and he releases my wrists, his mouth trailing tender kisses over my face, dusting it with feathery passion.

I grip Drake's shoulders, and our tongues begin to twine as he thrusts inside me, gently at first, then with more power.

Merck kisses me one more time and moves to his knees, his penis stiff and rock hard with need, hanging above my face.

I look to Drake whose face is tight with his desire, his jaw slack with arousal.

“At the same time, Talyn—let us share you,” Drake says in a pained voice, gone low with his want.

I turn my face back to Merck and he nudges himself inside my mouth. I open, his penis stabbing the back of my throat with a rhythm that mimics Drake's.

Soon the males are taking me together, one in my pussy and one in my mouth. A delicious fullness builds. I gurgle beneath them, spreading myself wider to take everything Drake has, my juices gushing in response to their simultaneous motion.

“I can't last,” Drake manages and my eyes find his. Glittering jewels of banked gold-green fire lay claim to me beneath him.

Merck grips my hair and pushes me back and forth on him. When my lips touch the base of him I thrash, not breathing. Hot liquid jets of seed fill my mouth and I instinctively swallow.

Drake stiffens at the same moment, unloading himself into my depths.

The orgasm I felt as a gentle growing pressure pops like a balloon stretched to its limits as I take the cum from both males as my body starts to grow hot from within.

Pulses of the orgasm wash over the three of us, sending waves of pleasure from deep inside to my toes, my fingertips—making my scalp tingle as my body grows like a roaring inferno.

Merck releases the hold on my hair just enough to allow me to turn my head as Drake lays down on top of me, still deeply embedded.

His elbows prop him over me as he plants a tender kiss on the tip of my nose.

“Perfect.”

“More than perfect, dragon,” Merck says, pushing my hair off my face and smoothing it behind my ears.

I can't catch my breath. I don't even want to.

I throw one arm around Drake and use the other to pull Merck close. Our faces all touch, joy surges through me, and the tiniest bit of insecurity. “You boys better not be the love ʼem and leave ʼem type.”

Drake nuzzles my neck. “Never. Especially not now.”

Merck knowingly smirks.

I gaze between the two of them. “What do you mean—ʻespecially not nowʼ?”

“My seed has now joined with Merck's. You are pregnant.” Drake's hand slides to my stomach, usually a move that would be a turn off.

Not right now.

“The heat,” Drake begins.

“Conception,” Merck finishes.

The males give serious eye contact to each other.

Then Merck says, “It only takes one time.” He winks.

I lie there like a war survivor. After a few minutes of their intense scrutiny I reply, “Twice, technically.”

They laugh.

Finally, I join them.

There are worse things than getting pregnant by a dragon and a Lycan.

Like never having a baby.

I sit up suddenly. “Wait a second,” I say as a thought occurs to me.

Their eyebrows rise simultaneously and I give a shaky laugh. “Does this mean I'm going to have twins? You know, fraternal—one is a lizard and one is a puppy?”

Drake appears insulted.

Oops. “Sorry baby, got a little carried away there.”

His face smooths. “You are Lanarre, many things are possible.”

“So we don't know what I'll have?”

Merck runs a hand down the side of my face, temple to jaw, lightly cupping my jawline. “You will have young. And he or she will be ours, together.”

Ours.

I burst into tears. The malesʼ nostrils flare, their faces breaking into grins. They know what my tears are. They can scent them—tears of relief.

Tears of happiness.

I love that they can tell the difference.

10

Duncan

“It wasn't easy. We used a Lycan to do the job.” Alex's long donkey ears lift as he speaks, and once again, I wish he'd take another form in my presence.

He's so difficult to take seriously.

Alex's thick lips purse for a moment, relieving me of the sight of his chunky yellow teeth. “This Lycan has an ax to grind. He was sent by the Alpha in charge of the Changers. Orders are to kill this Merck—the Lycan—the one who took Talyn Phisher? It was a big no-no, and his Changer buddies are pissed. She was earmarked to be a Lycan slut.” He brays.

I clench my teeth. Fool. “Fine. Where is the location?”

Alex extracts a pulsemap and depresses his thumb. Lights sweeps into the dark screen. He points to some back roads branching off Interstate 29, and I nod my head. Safehouse.

Then I smile.

Not safe for much longer.

*

Jac

I slip my pulse communicator into my back pocket.

Noah is for the move.

Though prehistorics are a stronger group of shifters than any other, there are fewer of us. I'm here for backup only.

We don't need any more shifter groups turning their focus on us. It was bad enough, what happened in the apartment with the fucking Mutables. All three had to be put down.

I smile. The antelope was the most satisfying.

Staying in human form, for now, will keep me inconspicuous. Talking's a plus too.

When I'm in my half-form, I need little to eat, and am the strongest of all shifters, but speed is not my strongest trait.

I've reached the safehouse the enforcer took Drake and the prehistoric female to and shadow the ridiculous donkey, along with a Mutable who's in wolfen form.

They don't smell what I really am. If I was scented, it'll be as a human. If I'm extra lucky, they'll think I'm a random hunter or touristy camper in the Black Hills. Not an uncommon occurrence.

It'll get tricky when we get off the interstate, and suddenly there aren't any people. There my scent might stand out.

Drake needs me, and I intend to help him and the female.

Whatever that takes.

Noah's directive is firmly in my mind. But if more shifters have to die to save Drake's female, in this situation—it's the many for the one. Because this one is more important than most.

*

Narah

My thumb hurts.

I've been holding it solidly to my pulse devise while my dedicated thoughts sync with Matthews and Aeslin.

They're pissed.

I broke my promise. I swore I would stop after the client case was closed. So what am I waiting for?

Good question.

I pulse Aeslin a last thought.

ME: I have a gut feeling. That the danger is still there. I want to stay until that's past. Then I come home.

A second passes as he collects his dedicated thought for pulse transfer.

Aeslin: And I have a feeling that mirrors yours: danger for you.

Matthews: He's right, get your hot ass back home.

I depress my thumb on the security dock and power my pulse down without a goodbye. I'll deal with the boys later. Right now, they're making my focus drift. And I need that focus. Being pregnant has dropped my IQ into a valley. I can't think.

I glance at the driver and sigh. He's a decent dude, but needs to lay off the smokes. I smell like cigarettes, my vampire nose says his blood isn't the highest quality. Somehow, that nicotine is a turnoff in the blood stream.

That and garlic. I pucker my lips in distaste.

My gorge stirs.

Oh shit, not now.

Sure enough, I race to the nearest bushes and puke up the blood tinged with my last meal—whenever that was. It burns and sours my throat and mouth.

Fuck that sucked.

How does a baby the size of my fist make me this sick? I shake my head at the sheer biological power of a kid before they're even born. At least I don't have to hide it from the guys anymore.

I give a crooked smile. They're so gonna kick my ass. Hot or not.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, noting the shakiness. I  could use some blood right about now. I need rest.

I walk back to the tree I'd been standing against, looking for Jose and lean a forehead against the trunk. Wait a sec.

I jerk upright. He's gone.

What the hell...?

A strange smell alerts me. But I'm foggy with hormones.

My nose says shifter a moment before he whacks me on the head.

I go down like a sack of potatoes. No level ten proficient today, folks—just sleeping on the job as the pregnant hybrid vampire I am.

I look up, my vision quaking at the edges.

A donkey is smiling. What horrible teeth, I have time to think, before he's raising his bludgeoning instrument of choice and bringing it down.

My baby. The wood grows before my eyes as it gets closer.

A hand smacks the solid hickory as another hand yanks one of the donkey's long ears.

He brays loud enough to wake the universe courses through the still air.

Murphy smiles down at me. “Lying down on the job, love?”

I have just enough strength to flip him the bird.

“So ungrateful. As usual.” He smirks in his delightful way. Casually turning, he breaks the donkey's neck. Dusting off his hands, he steps over the body to where I lie.

“Shut up and help me,” I say from the ground.

Murphy heaves a dramatic sigh, yanking me up.

“Where's Talyn?” I ask, swaying, he tries to put an arm around me and I shrug it off.

“Don't know, darling—only care about you.” His eyes narrow significantly. “The client might have to fend for her own skin.”

“Argh!” I shout like a pirate and stomp off.

When I see what's happening at the cabin, I sprint.

11

Talyn

The smile won't leave my face. I probably look foolish, but can't find it in me to care. I just had mind-blowing sex with two hot men. Well—shifters. And, I might already have a baby brewing.

Baby. I cover my stomach, trying not to overthink that.

My mind funnels images of Animal Kingdom through my head, and a wayward breath escapes. Maybe I'll have a normal baby, since I'm half human.

Probably not.

But it won't be Rosemary's Baby, so I'm safe.

I shiver at the visual.

Another shower, and I'm back in my unflattering sweatpants and t-shirt. Not that Merck and Drake appear to care.

They hover around me, touching me like they can't believe I'm real as I heat up more stew.

“You two,” I look at Drake from underneath my eyelashes. “What if Narah comes in?”

Merck grunts, his blue eyes so intent on my expression I feel myself blush. “She's a hybrid, she knows what is happening here.” His voice is certain, his eyes hooded with his transparent desire as he stares at me.

“At the very least, she suspects,” Drake remarks casually, popping a stale cracker in his mouth and making a face. “I suppose this is what we have for now.”

I think of Merck's devastated apartment, and it reminds me of something. “I've been meaning to ask—but haven't had even two seconds to do so.” They look expectantly at me. “I want to go home, get my affairs in order. I can't just dump everything and ride off into the sunset with you guys.”

Merck gives a rough exhale. “I won't be too popular with Charles—Lycans. Anyone. In fact, I bet my ass is cooked.”

Because he was supposed to change me then hand me over. “I know,” I reply softly.

He hikes my chin with a fingertip, his icy blue eyes hold my gaze prisoner. “Doesn't matter, Talyn.”

“Okay,” I turn to face Drake, his mouth full of food. I giggle. “What about you?”

He chews mechanically, swallowing hard. “Other prehistorics work for the greater good. We don't fight each other for females. If one is found—she's a treasure, not a commodity.”

I snort. “Well that's refreshing.”

Drake smiles, inclining his head.

There's a crash by the door and the males move in front of me.

“What's going on!?” I scream.

The retort of a gun cracks in the room like a thunder clap and I yelp, automatically dropping to the floor.

“Silver, Lycan.”

I move between Drake's legs, trying to see what new mess just arrived.

Jamie Duncan.

Merck falls, hitting the side of the kitchen countertop with one broad shoulder and sliding to the floor.

There's blood everywhere, it slicks my hands as I grip my Lycan lover. Hysteria edges my voice. I can't lose this—whatever we have. Not now. “Don't you dare die, Merck.” I shake him but he's such a huge guy, he doesn't move.

Hissing fills the room like angry cobras, and I jerk my head to where Narah and Murphy slide into the room.

“Back off, vampires,” Duncan says.

Is it me or is it getting warm in here?

“Don't, dragon—you'll harm Talyn.”

My eyes rise. Drake's gone dragon, scales scattering across his body like oil-slicked water, shimmering with translucent, gemlike beauty.

Merck coughs and blood splatters.

Oh my God.

“I hate you,” I say to Duncan from the floor.

He shrugs. “It's not about love or hate, female—it's about maintaining form—any form, and breeding a female who will facilitate that end.”

He grins, while Merck lays suffering and possibly dying at my feet.

“You're too late you—you jerk!” I scream, my hands gripping Merck.

Merck's lips twitch.

“Take your best shot, Mutable,” Narah says.

Duncan pulls out a second gun. “Garlic stuffed silver bullets—high content, bitch.”

Narah rolls her eyes. “Bring it.”

He fires.

She catches the bullet, but it tears through her hand, a smoking hole left behind. “That stung,” she says through her teeth then launches at him. Foot first, Narah swings a high kicking arc at his head that Duncan avoids.

She drops on the opposite leg in a low crouch, slamming her fist into his crotch.

Bulls-eye. I feel the males cringe.

“That'll slow you down, loverboy.” Narah rises. The kick was a distraction, clearly the fist to the nuts had been the plan all along.

“Ahhhh,” Duncan gurgles in a lowly groan from the floor.

“Huh,” Merck says, trying to sit up.

“Don't move,” I say in a shaky voice as my tears fall on his chest.

Merck makes a low noise of disgust.

Narah strides over, looking down at Merck, she grunts. “Murph, come over here and suck this poison out of our good Lycan.”

A man appears at the door and Narah whirls, Drake at her back but still between me and whoever entered. His posture relaxes, though his voice is surprised. “Jacob.”

“Sorry, I got here a little late to help out with him,” he indicates a glowering Duncan on the floor. “And the male vampire took care of the,” he tries to keep a straight face and finally succumbs, laughing, “the donkey.”

I sit down hard. The donkey? What do they say about them? Oh yes, stubborn, and an ass. That about covers it.

Murphy bends over the top of Merck.

Merck's eyes are slim with pain. “Do your worst, vampire.”

Murphy gives a great sigh, behaving as though he is girding up his loins. He hovers for a moment, then sinks fangs. Grimacing, he continues to suck blood from Merck's big throat.

“Is this,” I squeeze Merck's thigh, “going to help him?” Fresh tears well, but I keep them at bay by the skin of my teeth.

Narah nods, looking between the new man, Merck, and Drake. “I either take this guy in, or—” Narah gives them a significant look.

“Kill me, it doesn't change anything,” Duncan says in a smug voice.

A crooked grin spreads on Narah's face. “No, but it'd feel really satisfying.”

His look shoots daggers at Narah. She smiles and flips him off.

I look at Merck, so still in Murphy's blood thirsty embrace. “I'm pregnant. They claimed me—or whatever, Duncan. You're too late.”

Silence sweeps in, only breathing can be heard.

Duncan's face darkens like a coming storm. “You won't be pregnant forever, there will be others.”

Drake's eyebrows drop, hooding his liquid gaze. “Talyn will be protected among prehistorics. Do you think—that there's a Mutable who stands a chance against one of the ancient ones?”

Narah gives a decisive nod. “I'm taking him in. Hate his attitude,” “Lay off the bloodletting, Murphy.”

Murphy stops drinking from Merck and sways as he stands. Merck is pale but Murphy looks like polished stone, more gray than white. He appears unwell.

“Go puke,” Narah says, casually pointing at the door. But she looks green around the gills also. Sweat beads on her upper lip.

“Not feeling too good?” Duncan asks in a sly voice.

“Like I was saying,” Narah says, moving toward him. She goes to yank him to his feet and he leaps to a standing position on his own, brandishing a blade.

It's brownish-yellow. I don't know what it is but Drake, who'd reached him first, hesitates.

“That's right, Drake, Lonsdaleite is the only substance that can penetrate your scales. Go ahead, can you take me?”

“I don't know, maybe I can.” Narah moves low, kicking the back of Duncan's knee with her instep and swinging down with her right hand, chopping his wrist.

The knife clatters to the ground like an poop smear.

Drake's on him.

“No fire!” Merck says as he stands, drawing me closer, healed of the silver poison.

“No fire,” Drakes whispers.

Vapor like a mirage pours from his open mouth, and promptly begins to melt Jamie Duncan into a gory puddle at his feet.

The screams echo in my mind long after his death.

Epilogue

Talyn

Eight months later

Pooky purrs as I stroke her head.

Maybe she's forgiven me?

She adores Drake, but Merck—we're still working on that.

I feel a smirk flash across my face. Dogs and cats, you know.

My house is gone, restored to a semblance of its former glory, but not habitable for two shifters and a former therapist.

My job too has forever been altered, but I have a new one.

A smile steals over my lips as I stroke my large belly.

There are enough hybrid females who need my assistance figuring out the new lifestyle of becoming their animal, and learning how to be essentially married to a shifter—that my therapist's skills are needed—desperately.

The emergent threat of the Mutables is past for the moment, but remains an issue for the future.

How many women are hybrids and don't know it until it's too late? Or worse—they're scooped up by the wrong group. Merck's shifter den was actually attempting to be somewhat humane—by shifter standards. Their ways still seemed pretty chauvinistic and cruel to me. My own standard has not moved to acceptance with the way females are treated.

I wish to effect change. Only the prehistorics have our treatment right.

I gaze around my new home, happiness swelling inside me. The clan of prehistorics is buried deep within the Black Hills. My home is pine trees and prairies, snow and sun, freshness and wild promise.

Love.

Drake finds me with a book on my lap, and a daydream in my eyes.

He lowers himself, kneeling between my legs and setting my book on the end table. Laying his face against my swollen belly he murmurs, “Soon.”

“I've been pregnant forever.”

His smile is slight, but his heart is big. These past almost nine months, I've gotten to know Merck and Drake, and though they're opposites, their treatment of me is the same.

Merck has the equivalent of an APB out on his head. Bounty hunters in the four state area are pining for a piece of the Lycan reward cake.

The threat of his capture terrifies me. That one of my baby's fathers would be in danger. But as long as we stay in the prehistoric clans borders, we're safe.

I've gone to the leader, Doric.

He's a mastodon. I've pleaded with him to be the one who introduces the most ancient shifter community to humanity. If the humans are blindsided with another reveal of supernatural proportions, they won't react well.

But Doric says it's not his secret to reveal.

I asked whose responsibility it was.

The First Species, he replied.

Who are they?

Doric had looked at me, so human for the moment. The first of us, was his only cryptic reply.

Merck approaches from the small kitchen, a towel draped over a broad shoulder, his blue eyes still intense, still chilling.

But they warm as they hold my gaze.

Thawed.

THE END

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THE TOKEN

A Token Series Novella

Volume 1

New York Times Bestselling author

MARATA EROS

All Rights are Reserved.

Copyright © 2013 Marata Eros

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“Love sears the heart immortal

The embers burnt down to the token which remains ....”

~ Prologue ~

“You're dying,” Dr. Matthews says.

Two words.

Final.

Complete.

Desolate.

I feel my fingers clench the armrests of the chair underneath me, but the rest of my body remains numb.

If his words aren't enough to convince me, I see my silence is a prevailing annoyance in his day.

Dr. Matthews walks stiffly, making his way to the softly glowing X-ray reader.

I flinch when he slaps the photo of the soft tissue of my brain against the magnetic tabs of the lit surface.

The light glows around the tumor, immortalizing the end of my life like an emblazoned tool of disregard.

Just the facts, ma’am.

I sway as I stand, gripping the solid oak of his desk. It's very large, an anchor in the middle of his prestigious office full of the affectations of his career.

I walk toward Matthews. His hard face is edged by what might be sympathy. After all, it's not every day he tells a twenty-two-year-old woman she's got moments to live.

Actually, I do have time—months.

It's just not enough.

I look at the mess that's my brain, at the damning half a golf ball buried in a spot that will make me a vegetable if they operate. My eyes slide to the name at the bottom. For a split second, I hope to see another name there. But my own greets me.

Mitchell, Faren.

I back up and Matthews reaches to steady me.

But it's too late.

I spin and run out of his office as his voice calls after me. The corners of my coat sail behind me as I slap the metal hospital door open and take the cement steps two at a time.

I see my car parked across the street and race to it. My escape, my despair, is a thundering initiative I can't deny.

I miss the hit as if it happens to someone else. Only the noise permeates my senses as light flashes in my peripheral vision, mirrors against sunlight. I tumble in a slow spin of limbs. My body heaves and rolls, hitting the asphalt with a breath-stealing slap.

I lie against the rough black road. My lungs beg for air, burning for oxygen, and finally I take a sucking inhale that tears through my lungs.

The wet road feels cool against my face as I watch someone come into my line of sight. My body burns and my head aches. My arm is a slim exclamation point from my body, my fingers twitching. I can't make them stop. I can't make anything stop.

Powerless.

The doctor is too late with his condemning words. I've already died. I know this because the man who approaches is an angel. A helmet comes off hair so deep auburn it's a low-burning lick of flame. He swims toward me like a mirage, walking in a surreal slow motion. I blink, and my vision blurs. I try to raise my arm to wipe my eyes and whimper when it disobeys my command.

My angel crouches down, his eyes a deep brown, belying the dark bronze of his hair. “Shhh... I got you.” His voice is a deep melody.

I sigh. Safe.

I try to focus on him but the helmet he parks next to his boots becomes three as my vision triples.

There's a scuffle and I try to move to see what all the commotion's about. The angel wraps his warm large hand around my smaller one and  smiles. “It's going to be okay.”

That's when I know I'm not in heaven.

That's what people say when nothing is okay.

~ 1 ~

One month prior

I flex my hand, grab my isometric handgrip, and do my hundred reps. So fun—a little like flossing my teeth. I put on the kettle with my good hand and turn the burner on high.

Flex, squeeze, release, flex again.

I get to a hundred and switch hands. As I go through my daily ritual, I flip open my Mac and browse my emails.

Faren, can you cover my shift? Faren, can you come in a half hour early? Faren, can you bring the main dish for the office pot luck?

Delete, delete, delete.

I'll say yes because it's hard for me to say no. Tough lessons in life have taught me that.

I put my handgrip on the corner of the end table, glancing at my left pinky and frowning. It's almost straight. Almost. No one can tell unless they're looking for it. No one ever looks that hard. Humanity glosses over shit.

I leave my laptop open and walk back to the stove. Depression-era jadeite salt and pepper shakers stand dead in the middle of a 1950s pink stove. The combo reminds me of an Easter egg. The kettle insists it's ready, bleating like a sheep. I lift it carefully, deliberately, using all the muscles of my hands as I've been taught.

As I teach others to do.

I pour the hot water over the tea bag and sigh, forcing my bad hand to thread through the loop of the tea cup handle. My dexterity is returning. I've pushed myself so hard that my hand rebels, willfully abandoning its hold on the cup.

The porcelain shatters, and shards fly on the wood floor of my tiny apartment above the main street where I live in deep anonymity. The pieces splinter in all directions, and I sigh. I want to chop off my hand.

I want to cradle it against my chest because it still works. Just not perfectly.

Like my life.

*

“Another headache?” Sue asks.

I nod, my hands falling away from my temples as I reach for my patient folder. I grip it with both hands and scan who's up first.

Bryce Collins. Pain. In. My. Ass.

I grin. I love the tough nuts to crack. They make it all worth it. I stride to my torture chamber, pushing the door open with my hip and search through the sea of work out equipment and hand held physical therapy implements to meet the sullen gaze of a seventeen-year old athletic prodigy.

A prodigy with a chip on his shoulder so wide I could drive a truck through it. Well I have my own dings and dents. We can compare later.

Right now, it's all about the work.

“Hi, Bryce.”

He mumbles a reply as I hand him the first merciless task. The huge rubber band fits around the pole in the center of the room. Mirrors line the wall and toss back our struggles.

And our triumphs.

I watch as he half-heartedly goes through the motions of his straight leg kicks. When he reaches twenty I scoop my hand down and latch onto his hamstring and he groans at my touch. “Bend your knee a little,” he does while giving me a look that could kill. I stare neutrally back until his gaze drops and he finally digs in.

An hour later, shaking and sweating, Bryce's huge and muscled body lumbers outside my door. He pauses as he opens it, looking at me with pissed off brown eyes.

“I hate you, Miss Mitchell,” he says and means it.

I smile back. I totally get it. Bryce needs to hate me to get better. It beats hating himself. I nod. “I know.”

He walks out, and I run my finger down the patient appointments for the day. Kiki makes her loud entrance, and my lips twist. She balances chai tea in both hands, staggering in too-tall heels that sink into the nearly bald carpet.

“Gawd!” she huffs as she winds her way through the ellipticals, weight machines, and treadmills. She leans against the walking bars that run like railroad tracks for those with dual injuries. Like both legs not working.

I swallow and force my smile back in place.

“Take your tea, you ungrateful bitch,” she squeals, handing me my tea.

I blow on it. A touch of honey and ginger rise through the vapor, and I grin over the rim of the cup as I sip through the little slot.

“So?” I ask in a purr.

Kiki is pure drama. It's only Monday, so we have the entire week to build up to a crescendo. Mondays are usually sedate, so I brace myself. I have thirty minutes until my next client arrives to be tortured into wellness. Kiki smirks, sets down her tea, and moves to the pole. I give a furtive glance around the gym, hoping no one comes in.

“Got a…” She wraps around the pole and slides down it seductively, letting her butt cheeks split as she wiggles and bounces at the bottom. She springs up, the front of her hoohah a hairsbreadth from the cool metal. “Ginormous tip this weekend from a richie!”

She thrusts forward, wrapping one slender leg around the pole, and I groan. She does a little mock-hump against it and grins at me.

Kiki is so inappropriate I could die. But she's my drug and I'm hers. We fit together because we're so different. She's an exotic dancer who's also a senior at Northwestern State.

She makes great money, and she also does serious gym time, packing in an hour six days a week. It's important to not look too striated, Kiki claims. No “guy-look.” Just tits, ass, and curves with definition. I designed the workout for her because I’m intimately familiar with the human body. I didn't set out to be, but life had other plans.

The sins of the past become the direction of our future.

Kiki pouts, leaves the pole, and saunters toward me. “You're no fun.”

I roll my eyes. “Okay... I know I've got to ask the burning question or we'll get nowhere.”

She perks up. “You got it, sister.”

“Who was it?”

Kiki always takes stock of clients. Men think they know so much, but women could rule the world if we came together. I sigh. Kiki notices regulars, high tippers, newcomers and flags the creeps. She's scary uncanny. I came to watch a set at the prestigious strip club, Black Rose, and went away shocked.

Shocked by the clientele, shocked that Kiki could dance that well for such a short time, and shocked by the moolah.

“The owner,” Kiki whispers as if we have a secret.

I shrug. “So?”

“It's Jared-effing-McKenna, baby!” Kiki is offended by my deliberate ignorance. Her brows rise to her hairline, and her dark eyes are wide with clear disdain.

Mine are steady with indifference.

The wheels of my memory spin. Oh yes. Jared McKenna. The Jared McKenna. Greek god. Adonis incarnate. Hercules. Playboy, womanizer, money mogul.

I slowly nod. Let's add “strip club owner” to the repertoire. I remember the detail of why he has so much money and want to forget as soon as I do.

Kiki pouts and tears off the lid of her tea. “Anywho... he was with someone, and his pal tipped me big time.” She sips her cooling tea, gazing at me with “cat that ate the canary” eyes.

“Okay, the foreplay is killing me. How much?” I take a small slurp of tea, and she tells me. The tea sprays out of my mouth, and Kiki grins at my klutzy-ass move.

“Five hundred dollars!?” I choke some more, and tea dribbles down my chin.

“It's okay, baby... it is a mind-blower. I mean,” her hands go to her ample chest in patent disbelief, “my nipples got hard and he didn't even touch me,” she says sincerely and I burst out laughing. My headache is gone for the moment, my Monday morning lethargy lifting.

Five hundred bucks is an assload of cash, especially for one night of dancing half naked. It's more than I take home every week. Just one tip. My schooling is done, my career path set partly because of circumstance. Kiki is high on drama, but doesn't always say things without a purpose and I narrow my eyes at her.

“Spill it,” I demand.

Kiki's lips twitch and she chucks her empty cup in the trash. “This type of gig could be the thing to get you out of that dump in downtown.”

I scowl. I like my downtown dump.

“Faren!” she wails.

I shush her before Sue comes in thinking someone died. Of course, with all the sounds of torment she's heard since I began working here last year, nothing should faze her.

Kiki relents and switches to a softer tone. “You could own something. Something nice.”

I know this. I've been to her condo overlooking Pike Place and Puget Sound. Her view of downtown is magnificent. And expensive. It had to set her back five hundred K. I rent my death trap for nine hundred per month, and it's a studio in one of the tortuously small cobblestone-lined alleys of Seattle. At least it's on the fifth floor. The stairs are murder, but if I want two windows that actually face outside, that's what I can afford. Sometimes the freight elevator works; otherwise, it's exercise. The location allows me to walk to my upper-scale rehabilitation clinic. No need to use my beater car. That much.

“You don't have to give this up,” Kiki says quietly. She knows I won't budge on that, and she of all people knows why.

Rehab’s not a well-paying profession. But there's more than money, sometimes the soul needs edification.

I look at what Kiki has and what I don't. I shove those thoughts away. She's my best friend. She's seen me through everything. Dark shadows press in, and my headache returns with a throbbing vengeance.

Kiki frowns. “Another headache?”

“Yeah.”

“I don't want to argue, Faren. You've got to know that.” Her root beer eyes peg me to the spot. The sweep of her dark hair lays like chocolate silk past her full breasts. “But with your looks”—she throws her manicured hands in the air—“you could shake your booty a little and work a side job. Get a place in your same area... you could own something.”

It's an old argument. Her penthouse is nearly paid for while mine's a rental with a landlord that cares more about the rent than maintenance.

Her eyes swim with knowledge, and I set down my tea. It's too cold to drink anyway. Her words put the last nail in the coffin of my resistance. “Something secure,” she adds in a whisper and I let her hug me. I cling to her and try to believe my financial troubles and dark secret can be erased by taking off my clothes for strangers

Kiki loves me more than I love myself.

She loves me enough for us both.

*

Sue glances up when I click off the light off. The sky is darkening as I slide my last patient folder through the glass partition. She has that look in her eyes and pushes a business card through the slot.

It bears a doctor's name: Dr. Clive Matthews.

I give Sue a sharp look, and she shrugs, giving my hand a maternal pat. My eyes burn with tears from the spontaneous gesture.

Sue notices my emotional struggle and ignores it. “He got rid of my migraines. Miracle worker, I say.” She nods and glances at the card significantly.

I notice the appointment time and sigh.

Sue doesn’t drop her gaze. “How much longer are you going to struggle through those bone crushers?”

I don't answer, and she nods in her knowing way. “That's what I thought, Miss Mitchell. You'd have just come in suffering worse than your own patients.”

Sue’s right. She knows it, and I do too.

I take the card and stuff it in the pocket of my smock, Dr. Seuss cats cover it in a smear of red and blue.

“Thanks,” I say grudgingly while I grab my coat.

“Welcome,” she shoots back in triumph as I hear the door whisper closed behind me.

I look at the card again as the cars, people, and city noise encapsulate me in the comforting rhythm of downtown. The smell of fish, food, and sea mingle, and I begin the short trek to the dank alley with the entrance to my apartment.

I have two weeks to prepare myself to go back into a hospital. I hate hospitals. They're all about death.

The thought of returning is almost enough to get a proper panic attack going.

Almost.

~2~

I tenderly brush the hair off her forehead, though she doesn't feel it. She never knows when I'm with her. The rain coats the window, distorting the outside world and making this room a bubble of reality. The space is dim. That's a must, since too much light causes her to thrash. On some level, she rebels. It's my deepest regret that her rebellion couldn't have been sooner, when it could have saved her.

It's a good day when I don't cry when I visit.

Today my eyes are dry but the next time they might not be. I squeeze her hand, speaking softly. I lean forward to press a kiss on the tissue-thin skin of her forehead. It's translucent, the body inside, still and soft from lack of movement.

Life.

My mother lives but not as she should.

I rise like I have hundreds of times and move to the door of the clinic that takes care of catatonic, high-needs patients.

I have a new job.

I do cry then.

No one notices my tears anymore. They're used to them, and I don't bother to see their sympathy.

I have a date with Kiki.

*

Kiki swivels in front of her makeup table and smirks at me. My trench coat drips water onto the floor.

“Gawd!” Her full lips pout as she swipes another layer of sparkly crap on her lips. “You look like a drowned rat.”

Her face softens. “See your mom?”

I nod. Kiki knows it always sucker punches me to visit. It kills me not to. I face the evil I can bear.

“Well, let's get you in the slut suit, baby.” Kiki moves through the hanging costumes until she gets to my size, and she frowns slightly. “I don't know how I'm going to stuff that gazelle body in the average getup.” She taps her nail against her glossy lip and scowls when some of her handiwork comes off.

“Damn,” she swears softly, making the hangers move with an angry swish of her hand.

“No.” A blue outfit sails to the end of the size eight rack.

“No.” A glossy green spandex number with a painful looking strip of butt floss floats past.

Her eyes narrow to slits as a beige '20s flapper-style dress with cut outs at the nipples appears. “Fuck no!”

I laugh, and Kiki glares at me. “It's not funny, bunny. You need to look spanktastic this first time out of the gate.”

She's so serious I giggle again. “I'm not a damn horse!” I hold my sides as laughter peels out of me, and I feel closer to normal. I'm so grateful for the levity she brings that I don't know what to say. Even if I'm about to strip down to nothing in a roomful of strangers, Kiki makes it better.

She finally grins as her eyes light on something red.

I mouth no, and she says, “Hell yes!” She tears it off the rod.

I don't think it's a real outfit. Actually, it’s more air than cloth.

“I can't wear that!” I stutter, backing away as if it's the plague instead of a skimpy costume.

Kiki's brows come together in an adorable frown. “Ah... we had this discussion dollface. You won't be wearing this for long.” Those perfect brows rise and I blow out a frustrated huff.

Right. No clothes. Well, this is a “classy” club, so only titties. No frontal nudity down there. They can't touch, and I have to wear stockings for some reason. City ordinance. So basically my butt and boobs will be bare to the world, but somehow that's okay because a small triangle of cloth will cover my front and some super-sheer stockings will encase my legs. Yeah.

Kiki pats the stool in front of a huge mirror, lit all around its square perimeter with Hollywood bulbs. Big ones. They glare at my pinched and pale face. Her mocha arm comes around my front and she begins to scoop and fix my hair. It is neither blonde or brown, but a rich honey color. It's never been dyed or bleached. I just didn't want any more attention when I was at home.

My idea of girly-ness is wearing a pair of high heels, tight jeans, and a top with sleeve cut-outs. I watch, mesmerized, as Kiki hikes my thick hair into a loose topknot, anchoring it with about a hundred bobby pins. She pulls a few tendrils loose to cascade halfway down my back. No matter what anyone says, long hair is easier than short. However, Kiki convinced me to take off five inches before I met with the manager a few days ago.

So far, meeting Ty has been the creepiest part. I remember exactly how he'd looked at me. It was eyeball rape.

“Hi, Faren,” Ty said, shaking my hand.

His large dark hand engulfed my smaller one. I’m surprised. I have long fingers that match my height. My hand never feels swallowed by a man's.

“Hi,” I said.

His eyebrows rose, and he spread his arms as he stepped back. “Kiki told me you know what to expect.”

I did. I felt like crying, but I took off my clothes. The heat of my embarrassment crawled across my skin.

My skirt pooled at my feet. My high heels and thigh highs don’t impede its crumpled slither down my legs.

Next, I unbutton the scarlet blouse Kiki had picked out, revealing an inky bra and panty set. The bra is demi-cupped and holds my full Cs high and tight, my pink nipples hidden by a strategic strip of ebony satin.

I made the mistake of looking at Ty. He licked his lips, his hooded eyes roving my body like a starving man. My palms begin to sweat.

“Turn,” he said quietly, and I do. He'd been looking at my bare ass, only a strip of lace bisecting my butt cheeks.

I felt the heat climb higher, infusing my neck to the roots of my hair. I count inside my head, praying for it to end.

“Walk,” he said.

I do, knowing I'm naturally graceful and balanced. The deep lace of my stockings whispers as I move away from him. Grace is the one thing that has never been taken from me, and I'm grateful for it now.

“Turn,” he said. I don't miss that his voice is somewhat hoarse.

I pivoted in a smooth motion, and I can't help but notice I've affected him. Shame flares anew, riding high to mortified.

“Walk.”

I inhaled deeply and draw nearer. I stop about three feet from him, and we stare at each other. I'm so tense I could've screamed.

“You'll do,” Ty said in a sarcastic drawl.

I looked into his dark eyes and see desire there. I swallowed so hard my throat clicks. Silence fills the space uncomfortably. “So when can I start?” I hate how timid my voice sounds.

Ty smirked as though he understands how desperate I am. I know Kiki didn't tell him my reasons. He assumed a lot. It must come with the job. “Tomorrow.”

“Okay.” With shaky fingers, I'd put on my clothes, fighting tears so hard that my eyelids burned with the need to cry. My mind filled with all my defenses. I'm a respectable girl. I pay my bills. I don't party, have boyfriends, goof off... I'm a physical therapist, for God's sake! But when I get the last button done, the words die. Ty sees me as commerce, and I sighed, feeling defeated. I can't even make the proper ending salutation.

I made my silent way to the door and almost escape before he'd asked “Have you ever had sex?”

I turned slowly, my heart hammering. What kind of effed up question is that? I gathered my courage, knowing I could lose this chance to clean up my fiscal problems with the wrong words.

“That's none of your business.” I'd hated myself, but I had to ask anyway, “Why? Why does that matter?”

Ty walked around his desk and shifted papers, his interest in me clearly waning. He'd been silent so long I opened the door and began to walk through it.

His words caught me before I closed it, “Because you walk like a whore.”

I stiffened. The tears that threatened earlier? Yeah... those fall.

I had softly closed the door and moved through the crowded, dark hallways of the strip club. My coat is secured around the outfit that'd cost me almost a week's pay.

I hated what Ty said.

I hated it because it felt true.

Kiki shatters the foul memory of meeting Ty when she asks, “You ready?”

I look back at the girl in the mirror that's me. Her eyes are so pale a gray they would look almost white if it weren't for the lightning strikes of bronze that streak the irises, a warm brown ringing the outside. Right now, they're wide and ghostly in my even paler face and Kiki stares back at me in the mirror. Her darker skin and complexion contrasts with mine in the reflection. She draws me in as I lean back against her.

“You don't have to, Faren.” She gives me an out as I stare at her dark arms wound around my neck in an embrace of solace.

But we both know why I have to.

I nod. “Yeah I do.”

She kisses my coiffed hair and backs up. I slip into the ruby red heels and try not to take that final glance in the mirror.

A tall slim girl stares back at me. Her hair looks like caramel, eyes like ice. Her creamy skin looks like milk against the deep red of the outfit. A glittering mask that is part of the act. It surrounds my silver eyes in secrecy. I'm glad for the anonymity. The glittering v between my full breasts needs only an inch to reveal my nipples. The waistband is Velcro.

Meant to be torn.

Kiki does a little spin, hump-hips, and throws her head back, keeping a death grip on the doorjamb. “Every time you come down the pole, 'kay?”

I nod as the music begins for my set.

“Use your good hand, hon,” she reminds me.

There's no way I could use the bad one. It'll be the wrist for balance and faking using both.

I don't fall apart until it's over. Then I'm at the commode throwing up my meager lunch.

I don't notice anyone watch as I race out of the club.

~ 3 ~

The hundreds fan out like a deck of perfect cards, and I move as though I'm in a dream. I scoop them up from Ty’s desk, and he stays my hand by wrapping my wrist with his large hand. My eyes skitter up to his, and I blink.

“What?” I feel filthy every time I'm near him. He seems to know it by some pervert instinct and capitalizes on it by treating me like dirt whenever our paths cross.

I’d tried to tell Kiki, and she flung her hands up dismissively. “No touchie!” she said and sashayed off. It's easy for her to say because he doesn’t watch her.

But he touches me now.

It's easy for her to say because I don't see him watch her.

He tightens his hold to just shy of bruising, and I fight my natural urge to pull away.

Ty has a hold of my bad hand, and anything can happen. As it is, my heart tries to escape my chest. I can't stand for a man to touch me. Every time it has happened in the past, it ended one way.

His eyes linger on mine then scan to where my coat is cinched at my waist. “There's more where that came from.” His eyes hold some kind of question I don't understand. I don't want to.

I ignore the overt innuendo. “Let me go.” All I want to do is whimper like a scared little girl. Because I am. I’m so scared. I've been doing this job for a week. The money I hold is enough to pay for half of my mom's care for the month. The entire month. It sits in my bad hand. My pinky finger pokes straight out, unable to bend correctly, and sweat dampens the dirty money.

“No,” he says

He squeezes imperceptibly harder, and a low sound of pain escapes my throat.

He smiles, and I realize he's a predator. Like my stepfather. The saliva in my mouth disappears as my breathing picks up.

The door opens, and he drops my hand as if it burns. The money floats to the floor because my hand can't hold it.

Ty says loud enough for whoever walks in to hear, “You're such a graceful dancer, but you can't hang onto your money.” He chuckles at his joke.

I don't think it's funny. I scoop up the money with my good hand, and the bad one throbs where it's been held too hard. Too long. I know from experience it won't work well for a solid hour.

“Hey, boss.” Ty sounds nervous, and that makes my heart lighter.

“What's happening here?” a man asks, his voice a deep rumble. Melodic. It vibrates through my body though my bare knees are planted on the plush carpet. My bones thrum with it as though it’s a tune that sings without permission inside the recesses of my soul.

I don't lift my face. I don't want anyone to witness my misery as I stuff the bills in my purse. I begin to rise as a large hand cups my elbow. Warmth leeches through my thin coat and flows through my body from his touch. I gaze at the beautiful leather shoes that shine in the soft light. My eyes rise to his wrist. Vintage cuff links wink back, a sapphire the only witness to my insecurity.  My desperate need for indifference.

However fleeting, however untouchable.

I turn without offering thanks or a reply. His hand releases me, and I grow cold from its absence. I nearly run from the office, but I hear Ty comment about how strange I am, how all dancers are.

The only reply I hear before that burning gaze leaves my back is, “Shut up, Ty.”

The door clicks and I leave as quickly as I came.

The heat from that stare follows me.

*

Kiki's curls dance as she moves her head to the music in her ear buds. She looks like a duck, her head jutting and retracting to some awesomeness only she can hear. Her long nail scrolls down the screen of her cell.

I plop down across from her and heave a sigh of relief. I heft my bag across my legs and against the corner of the seat of my favorite diner. I don't branch out much. So sue me, I love the view. That's a bit of the reason why I live where I do, why I shell out nine hundred bucks a month on a studio dive. Well, that and Mom's terribly expensive care center is blocks away, like my job.

Both jobs, actually.

Kiki catches my eye and smiles big, her grin infectious. I smile back. She pops an earbud out, and I hear the singer, Sully Erna. Hottie. I feel heat fill out the cool paleness of my skin.

Kiki lights up at my expression, never one to lose out on an easy excuse to tease me. “Sully Erna's coming to town. Saw him when he was touring with Godsmack. He's dee-lish, baby!”

Kiki gives a little hip gyration on the seat as the waitress comes up, pen poised. She looks at Kiki with clear amusement and gives me a knowing smile. The that girl can't be contained look passes between us before we look back at Kiki.

“What?” she asks, laughing. Her hand sails out dramatically, her tips bright red this month because Christmas is coming. God knows, she can't not celebrate something.

I look at my own bitten fingernails and put my elegant hands with their stubby tips on my lap.

Arlene takes our order and saunters away, no doubt chalking up our goofiness to our age. I'm not goofy, but it's part of her charm I siphon.

“So tell me what's going down, girl,” she says without preamble. Now that she's here I don't know if I can say it all.

My hands sweat, and I fight to keep them on my lap. Arlene comes over and slaps two waters on the table. Her eyes flick to mine briefly, see something that makes her pause, but she must think better about getting involved because she leaves us to our conversation.

Kiki knows I owe money for my mom's care. I take a deep breath then another. I meet her eyes. “It's fifty K, Kiki.”

Her eyes bug comically, and her hand flies to her chest. “Jeee-sus! Faren...” she exhales in a contrite burst.

We stare at each other while Arlene delivers our coffees. She looks from Kiki to me, probably wondering what stole my friend's good cheer. One guess.

She leaves and Kiki leans forward, her hair sweeping in a black veil that brushes dangerously close to the steaming coffee. I calmly add cream and sugar, making it something that's not coffee anymore. She searches my face for the Swiss cheese of emotions leaking out and I nod. “Yeah, it's that bad,” I say.

She gives a low moan of outrage. “That bad? So fucking bad!” Kiki hisses. “No wonder you finally caved about shaking your tail.”

My shoulders slump a little at her words. An image of Ty's hand on my wrist like a vise bubbles up. I let it pop inside my mind, hoping it'll evaporate and knowing it won't.

“How long will it take me to work off that debt?”

Kiki's face smoothed out, her thinking face set into motion and I can tell she's adding stuff up. “Well... to be honest, most good nights you can make up to five hundred...”

We're doing the math, and I'm hearing years. My soul can't take it. The pole and the men... it's already eating at me. Then there's Ty. I want months. Hell, weeks.

A moment around him is a lifetime.

Kiki reads my face and sighs. She lowers her eyes and stirs her coffee. “I wasn't going to tell you, but there’s another option. It's kinda risky. It's not like the Black Rose.”

“What could be worse than dancing at the Black Rose?”

Kiki sighs. “Listen, BR is the classiest of these types of establishments. The men have to behave themselves, not touch the girls and you don't have to show your kitty.”

I'm so grateful. I give her an exaggerated eye roll. “What about Ty? He's like some kind of pimp!”

Kiki rolls her big eyes, her false eyelashes nearly reaching her brows. “Ty is Ty. He's great at sniffing out innocent girls, and he thinks you're skittish. He wants to scare you a little. No big thing.” Her eyes meet mine. “Listen, he's all bark. Don't let him spook you.”

Right. I feel I'm a good judge of bark versus bite, but I say nothing.

The food comes, and I look at the chef's salad with fresh salmon and wonder if I can eat it. My stomach's in knots. I feel the beginning of a fresh headache come on. I rub my temple before taking a small bite.

Kiki grabs a greasy fry and swirls it in some ketchup while taking a sip of Coke. No burger. She lives on about a thousand calories per day. I don't know how she stays alive, but she explains that she's not doing drugs to stay thin like the other girls. The whole scene makes me want to cry.

Then I go visit Mom and go right back to the pole anyway.

Kiki dips another fry and meets my eyes. It hangs there like a limp noodle, dripping ketchup that reminds me of blood.

I swallow. “How long?”

She stares at me for a heartbeat then beheads the fry. She talks through the food, “What are you willing to do?”

Oh gawd... Nothing more. Instead, I say, “A lot.”

She nods, gives a sad little shake of her head, and tells me. There's a cavernous silence as the last word drops out of her mouth. I know she hates herself for telling me.

I know she loves me more.

~ 4 ~

Decision made, we move on to different topics. I feel a weightlessness. It might not be a perfect path but at least I picked one. I'm back to telling Kiki about Ty.

“You met Him?” Kiki says in awe, utterly dismissing the true problem.

“Huh?” I ask, clearly hearing the capital letter in the pronoun.

“The owner! The hunky, delicious, panty-evaporating, very, very rich owner...”

I shrug. “He walked in, helped pick me up off the floor, while I was stuffing my dirty money in my handbag...”

“Did I mention rich?” Her perfectly plucked brows rise. “Did you see him?” Kiki's eyes are wide for a different reason now.

I shake my head, trying not to let on how much he unnerved me. And I never even saw his face.

Kiki flings herself back in an indignant huff. Her angry eyes meet mine. “I've been dying to meet him! Meet him meet him, not just him seeing a set while his dude slips me a ginormous tip. I'd sample his wares any day!” She exhales and crosses her legs, looking out at the water. Steelhead Diner sits at the top of Pike Street. The wall of glass frames Puget Sound and the Olympic Mountains like a surreal painting of white ice and swirling deep cerulean waters.

“Why didn't you check him out? I gotta admit, I'm fanning my vagina right now.” Kiki says it with such sincere enthusiasm that I laugh.

I look down at my hands and give the first response that springs to mind. “I don't like rich guys.”

“Oh bullshittery! Yeah, I hate rich guys too! Hate.” She’s clearly mocking me, putting her index finger to her chin as her eyes rise skyward and her foot kicks endlessly. “Let's reason this shit out, Faren.” Kiki drills me with her gaze.

I squirm, knowing her brand of wisdom is coming. I take a bite of my salad and mechanically chew.

“Nice house, nice car, nice clothes, hot cologne”—she lifts her brows—“lots o’ gym time for the guns. Hell!” She smacks the table, and a couple of other patrons gaze our way. “Hell,” she repeats more softly, “I bet that he goes to those Kama Sutra classes so he can fine-tune the Moves.”

Oh my God.

“Yeah... that's what I'm talking about, baby. Give me some of that all-day love sauce. I'll come running back to double dip.”

I can't help it; I start laughing and can't stop. Sometimes a little comic relief goes a long way.

“You gonna live?” Kiki asks, confused by my hysteria.

I nod.

“For now.” My ribs are killing me.

“Anyway, listen up.”

I do, the remnants of my laughter ghosting my lips.

“Next time he plays hero, try saying thank you.”

“I don't think he knew he was saving me, Kiki.”

“Huh,” she grunts, slurping her Coke down to melting ice and pushing it away. “All I'm saying is, can you work it for once, Faren?”

Work it. I don't know… that seems like it's all I've ever done.

Kiki slides a card my way. It reads simply: Thorn. My thumb moves over the black glossy letters embedded deeply in the cream cardstock. Small numbers float beneath the name.

I look up and she says, “Take it.”

“Do you do it?”

Kiki smiles then admits, “Not anymore.”

I know her secret, and now she knows mine. All of it in its miserable glory. “That's how you got the penthouse?”

“Yeah.” As she remembers something from a while ago, her gaze drifts far away. “The Black Rose is great money, but this money”—her eyes peg mine—“is outstanding money.” I pause when I see the shadow in her eyes.

Neither one of us say what we're thinking. If I can keep this gig for maybe a year? Maybe less time if I can stomach four days per week instead of three? I could have my debt paid off and only have the monthly to consider. It's too lofty a possibility to hang my hope on.

Yet... it shimmers there, just out of reach.

I grab for it.

*

Thorn

Thorn is Ty.

I’m so forlorn about that fact I can barely force myself into his tight office located inside a tall skyscraper blocks from the Black Rose. Kiki didn't tell me. Of course, I didn’t ask. All I heard was “a grand a night,” and I climbed on board the easy money train. I should rename it complicated with a capital C.

He behaves differently. I guess the stakes are higher. Intimidating me while I work at the BR seems to be just fine. Now?

He lays out the ground rules.

“You will get an email each Monday that outlines the new meeting place...”

“What? It's not at a club?”

“Will you let me finish?” Thorn smolders at me and not in a sexy way. I've seen that look of heat before and it parallels intimidation.

He glares at me until my eyes drop. I breathe in and out deeply. I loathe him and how he makes me feel. How he makes me feel about my decisions.

“When the email comes in, you respond if you'll be there.”

I meet his eyes again, and he smirks. Ty knows he has me. “Why are you Thorn?” I ask, taking him off-kilter with my question.

He answers with deliberate slowness, “Every rose has its thorns.”

Our eyes lock and he asks, “Ready?”

I nod.

“You get a hundred dollars a lap dance.” His eyes sweep past mine, and he recites the speech as if it’s a recipe for cookie dough. “The quicker you give the dance, the better you do it, the more money there is. The clients are not allowed to touch you, and you never have to do anything you're uncomfortable with.” He says the last part with the sincerity of a felon.

Our eyes meet again and I get the message.

Thorn's into clarity.

He lists off the things you can make extra for. “Let them grope your titties- fifty dollars. Hand jobs, one hundred.”

I swallow. I think there's a little throw up in my mouth. I don't say I've never done a hand job. Thorn already called me whore, and there's no convincing the decided. And really? It's better that Thorn thinks I'm what he presumes I am. Thorn doesn't know why I'm doing this. He doesn't know my past, my present job. He's guessing, and I'm all for keeping it that way. The less he knows is definitely more.

Those thoughts take seconds.

Thorn moves on, “There will be security. Not that it's needed.” He flicks his eyes to mine and smirks. “We have trained gorillas outside all the stations. So the girls don't have to worry.”

I squirm a little, thinking about how they'll fire me on the first night. My temples pound with the familiar start of a migraine, and my hand closes around the crumbled card of Doctor Matthews inside my purse. My appointment next week looms in front of me and I don't look at Thorn's dark face, eyes that hate me, a body that wants me. I know someone's got a tight leash on Thorn or he would have done more than proposition me and threat.

Who?

Jared McKenna? The elusive, semi-hero billionaire who happens to own the nicest strip club in Seattle?

I look at Ty, a.k.a. Thorn again, and wonder who could leash that pit bull.

“I'm not sure what to do...” If I don't say something, he'll hear about it from a pissed client. This isn't working my sore muscles against a pole in front of men from a safe distance. It's different.

Intimate.

Thorn grins, his white teeth an eery slash against his dark complexion. He strides over to where I stand, and I barely hold my ground, gritting my teeth.

He towers over me even though I'm 5'9” in my stocking feet.

I pull away and he frowns, gripping me tighter. “Chill out, it's a tutorial. I'm not going to rape you.”

Right. My body remembers and locks up, fights for air, for reason.

He looks at my face and gives a dark chuckle.

Thorn moves the swivel chair and sits down on it, slapping his lap once.

I die inside. If someone had told me I would be this close to Ty the creep manager, I would have laughed.

Not laughing now.

I gingerly lift one knee and place it on the outside of his thigh, his dark eyes watching as I do. The other knee follows, and I force myself to grip his shoulders for balance or I'll fall against him.

I shiver, and he takes it for arousal instead of loathing.

Thorn grips my hips, and I hiss and try to pull away.

“That's not going to work on the dudes we have coming to enjoy this body of yours.” He jerks my hips forward, and I feel his erection against my upper thigh.

“Move.”

I bite my lip to keep from screaming. I rub against him over and over. His hands move to cup my ass, and suddenly I'm not moving on my own. He's shifting my body against his stiff penis. My breasts are safely encased inside a nude bra that brushes his face as the friction of our clothed coupling intensifies. Thorn pants and gives a whispered shout that's somewhere between a hiss and a yell.

I feel sick as I climb off him, a wet patch at his crotch spreading to his muscular thighs.

I back away, shaking. The fine beginnings of a bruise blossom high on my thigh, and I shudder in revulsion.

I wrap my black trench coat around the underwear he insisted was all I wear underneath it.

Thorn asks softly, “Got it?”

I nod. I so have it.

And I never want it again.

I flee as though the devil's at my back.

~ 5 ~

Monday

I watch the blinking cursor as it flashes above send. My finger hovers, my will along with it. I clench my eyes and tap the mouse with a decisive click. My RSVP floats into the ether to be received by Thorn or one of his lackeys.

Tonight's my first night on the job. My new job.

One grand per night whispers through my head.

I'm exhausted. I worked a full day mending the wounds of others, forcing them toward wholeness. I paid for Mom's care for the first time in cash. I pretended not to notice as the receptionist paused when she took the rolled up money.

Her eyes met mine. “Cash?”

I still have the receipt in my purse. I think I'll frame it when this whole thing ends.

If it ever does.

I slowly walk to the “party room.” I know I've done all that I can to make myself desirable. Ty impresses on me the importance of the “mingle” period. These are men with tastes, he'd emphasized.

I walk in, my ice-blue dress barely covering my rear. Little strings that end in silver beads sway and tickle the tops of my thighs. They cup my ass as I move in four-inch stilettos. The neckline is so low the top of my belly button peeks in and out like a teasing divot.

The men turn as a new girl enters. I imagine their response is as instinctive as flowers turning their collective heads toward the sun. I know I've hit the mark when their conversation stops. Eyes greedily move over my form, missing nothing. Some eyes linger at my breasts, some my long legs, some caress the burnished gold of my hair under lights turned down so low they barely illuminate.

One man never looks at my body but my eyes. They're worth a stare, hidden by a mask of small Swarovski crystals. Only the light gray of my irises show through the slits. My dark blonde lashes are hidden under deep chocolate mascara.

“Two hundred for twenty minutes,” he says. He has deep black hair, a strong jaw, and eyes that might be a greenish-hazel if there was more light.

Voices erupt, drowning his and I fluster, backing away.

My masked eyes meet security.

Just like Thorn promised, he interrupts the bidding frenzy with quietly spoken words. “Five hundred, and she's yours for the virgin session.”

My eyes snap to his, thinking I've been discovered. But no, he simply means this is my first lap dance. Ever.

My shoulders drop, and I relax a little.

The man who said two hundred dollars nods at the security guard. Another man, complete in a tux and tails, brings a ticket on a silver tray, his eyes moving over me once.

It's enough.

I feel dirtier than when I arrived.

The man with coal black hair holds out his hand, and I slip mine inside his. It's warm and dry.

Other girls’ faces meet mine as I slide behind a door bearing the number one. I don't know who they are because they wear small masks as well.

It's okay because I don't know who I am anymore.

“I'm Jay,” he says as he loosens his tie.

I stand there stupidly.

He laughs and sits on a large chair. The plush burgundy faux suede hides a myriad of crimes.

Like the one I'll commit.

“Come here,” he commands in a low voice, his eyes burning into mine.

I walk to him. The beads that made me feel sexy a half hour ago sting like many bugs biting my flesh as I move.

I stand in front of him, and he doesn't touch me. He slowly unbuttons his shirt. Jay takes the loop of the tie over his head and tosses it aside. My eyes roam his muscular torso as he slowly unbuttons his shirt, his eyes never leaving mine. He does serious gym time.

I recognize the look of hard work instantly, my hand was not the only thing I rehabilitated.

I'm sore from my own workouts. A permabruise etched on the inside of the wrist of my bad hand testifies to my two weeks of pole dancing. But pain won't end me. After what I've been through, physical pain is just another obstacle.

It's the mental that's killing me.

“Straddle me,” he says.

I mount him like I did Thorn, my upper thighs quaking. Is it horrible that because it's not Thorn, that somehow it's better?

Music creeps into the room from strategically placed speakers. My eyes flick to the side and note scattered tissue paper, lube, condoms, and a neat pile of sex toys in an antique porcelain box.

Glass.

Rubber.

I turn my face away, tears making me hold my eyes wide so they don't fall.

Jay sets a fifty dollar bill on the end table next to the chair. A cut glass dish holds the bill perfectly. It twinkles in the low light while it holds filthy money.

I move, and he says, “I want to touch your breasts.”

My eyes shift to the money. I swallow and, after a brief hesitation, nod.

He bends forward and whispers, “Keep moving... yeah...,”

He groans as I grind against him, my face averted. I stare at the gilded wallpaper, trying for an out-of-body experience. I memorize the geometric shapes. I feel his fingers push aside the glittering v of my top. A finger brushes my nipple, and I nervously increase my pace. My nipple hardens like a traitor, and my heartbeat speeds up in unrequited fear.

I won't embrace it or I'll scream. This stranger latches onto my nipple and sucks as I increase the friction against him. I gasp a little at the contact. I guess touching my breast can mean his mouth, though I'm not expecting it.

I disassociate myself further, my eyes tracing the fleur de lis wallpaper. My grinding stresses my muscles, my fight against adrenaline exhausts me, and the need for money spurs me forward anyway.

His breathing tells me when it'll be over, and then it is. He presses my naked breasts against his face and shouts into the center of my warm flesh, releasing against a hand towel over his front.

Jay holds me against him as if I'm precious. That's worse than if he’d just let me go. I disengage, scuttling off his lap in an awkward lurch and averting my eyes from his crotch.

He stands up, limp and spent, and uses the little toiletries provided to clean up his inconvenient mess.

I'm numb as I adjust my top and scoop up the fifty, adding it to the five hundred. As I walk out of the room, his eyes commit me to memory.

I realize I never said a word. He doesn't even know my name. Jay didn't ask.

At least there's that.

In the restroom, I gaze into the wall of gilded mirrors. Toiletries, makeup, and wipes of every variety litter the vanity. I put my head in my hands and sit there for moments that become minutes. When I lift my head, I turn on the tap, wait for it to steam, and yelp as I wash my hands raw. Then I unwrap a toothbrush and wash my mouth, brushing viciously. Twice.

I thank whatever's holy that I never kissed him. I couldn't stand that. It's the final insult. No kissing.

Because this is closer to prostitution than dancing. I get that now. I take deep breaths, concentrating on inhaling, then exhaling.

I stand, straightening my beaded dress borrowed from Kiki, and head back out into the room.

They bid again, and I head back into the room of the damned. This one wants to touch my breasts.

I let him.

And leave with twelve hundred dollars.

Only forty-eight thousand and change to go.

~ 6 ~

Present day

“Sir,” someone says to my right, but my eyes are shut.

“Please step away.” The timbre of that voice is commanding, authoritative.

My eyes open slowly as I take in the tactile wave around me.

I hear a low curse, and that warm presence moves. I feel cold, bereft as a beefy man in a navy uniform crouches next to me and smiles. His clear blue eyes scan the street. I hear car doors open and close, sirens cut off. The silence is deafening, a deep well to get lost in. All around me, people's legs appear, like clothed tree trunks.

I'm in the middle of a people forest and it makes a slightly hysterical giggle erupt from my mouth.

That's when I realize I'm higher than a kite.

All the while, the man in blue has been talking to me quietly in soothing tones. My eyes sort of spin before focusing on his. I lift my hand to try and touch him, and I hiss in pain.

A moment of panic tries to rise up in my throat because it's my good hand. Please God, don't let that be wrecked too.

“Shh,” he says.

He calmly takes my struggling hand, and his finger moves to the underside of my wrist. I feel the subtle pressure of him taking my vitals. A loop of transparent tubing swings in my vision. “I've got ya,” he says and I notice his name tag: Johnny.

My body becomes weightless. I feel them place me on a stretcher. My thigh shrieks in pain, and I whimper. The paramedic's eyes move to the needle in my arm, and he adjusts something. I float deeper in the haze of the drugged.

“It's going to be okay,” he says, which fills me with instant dread.

I hear that melodic voice in the background. It grows loud in argument, and I know it's my angel trying to shelter me with his wings.

Johnny the paramedic loads me into the back of an ambulance. I try to move. I have work.

I have to die. I remembered Matthews's words perfectly. The drugs can't soften that.

“Let me through!” the angel says. His face appears above mine, seeking me through the safety of blue men, through the onlookers in the multi-colored forest of people.

They can't save me.

No one can.

But the one who held my hand when I was laid out in the middle of the street takes it again. The sedative works in collusion with the hit to my head as I begin to fade.

His deep brown eyes in a strong face are the last thing I see as the sedative takes me from consciousness like a thief.

That undeniable face is the last thing I see.

Then it hits me: I don't have to deny myself anything. When one knows the hour of their death, it all becomes clear.

It's a kind of relief.

*

Kiki's wide eyes greet mine when I wake up.

“Thank God!” she says in a loud voice, and I cringe a little. She covers her mouth. “Sorry,” she tries to whisper and misses it by a mile.

“Oh my gawd, girl, you had me peeing my pants!” Her anxious eyes scan my face then move down my body. They sweep back up to my eyes again.

I smile a little, and my mouth feels like torn sandpaper, complete with cracked lips and breath like ass. “Water,” I croak.

Kiki slaps her forehead and brings a cup to me smoothly, tipping the bendy straw down to my lips. The water tastes like cold heaven. My eyes meet hers.

“Okay, tell me what the hell happened,” Kiki says, plopping down in the hospital chair next to my bedside.

I want to know where that guy is. The one I saw in my drug-induced stupor... where did he go? But I don't ask.

“I don't really know. I was coming out of the clinic...”

“Seeing the doctor about your migraines?” she prompts.

I just nod. Talking about about my death sentence is a little too much.

Matthews's words come back to me, welling up in the center of my brain: loss of sensation and appetite, issues of vertigo—loss of balance.

I can't have that. I need to keep dancing so there will be something left for Mom when I'm no longer here.

Kiki snaps her fingers. “Y'know, they can't release you like this. You're not all here, Faren.”

Not all here. My memory blinks, and I'm on the lap of one man. Like a camera shutter, it clicks. Then I'm suffering through Thorn and his brand of control. The shutter stalls on my stepdad beating my mom nearly to death.

All because she defended me.

And I think I can go and die?

I close my eyes.

Kiki pushes my hair back. “What is it, doll? I mean, besides the obvious… You look like someone just stepped on your puppy.”

I bark out a laugh. You know the type, full of beaten and contained emotions bubbling to the surface. “I don't have a dog.” Perish the thought; I can hardly handle my own life.

Kiki lifts a shoulder, “Yeah, whatever, but if you did...” She smiles, and I smile back.

After a few moments, she says, “This is what I know. You came screaming—”

“Screaming?” My brows pop.

Kiki rolls her eyes. “Not yelling but bookin'.”

“Oh.”

“Anywho, you come screaming out of the doctor's office and run right into the street.”

I nod. That sounds right. After the wonderful bomb dropped, I just wasn't myself.

I'm not sure when I will be again.

“Then!” Kiki throws up a finger. “A super-hot guy plowed into you with his Harley! Love by bike!” she says with a squeal.

“Kiki...” No matter what I say, it won't work. I'm okay, and she's smitten with the strange circumstances.

“You're okay, Faren.” She looks at my blanket-covered body and snatches the blanket down to my thigh. “Battle scars. You can cover that with foundation.”

We look at the bruise made from the bike, and I realize I'm lucky my leg's not broken.

I watch her dark eyes move to my right thigh and land on my bump and grind bruise. She lays a finger on it.

Kiki doesn't meet my eyes when she asks, “How's the work?”

I don't look up. “It's going.”

“What do you have to do?” Kiki asks.

I give her an accusatory look.

She backs away, her hand coming off my leg. I cover my lower body with the sheet again.

“You were desperate,” she says. “You need the money, and this is the only way, short of dealing drugs, that it's going to happen for you.”

“I don't want a penthouse.”

“I know.” Kiki’s eyes bore into the top of my bent head. “Now tell me why the fuck you ran out of the doctor's office.”

I open my mouth then close it again. I don't know if I'm ready to tell her. I don't even know if I'm ready to accept what Matthews said. I'm going through the stages of grief just fine, thank you very much.

I think I'm hung up on anger.

I hear a noise, and we turn like guilty co-conspirators when the door opens. Someone passes through with a cheesy balloon with 1980s lettering that screams Get Well and a bouquet of carnations. The balloon bobs and wags, revealing a sliver of his face.

Ty, a.k.a. Thorn.

My guts seize, and Kiki gives the man who's effectively pimped me out a dazzling smile.

“Ty!” she says happily and throws herself in his arms.

His dark eyes meet mine over her shoulder, and he flashes a tight smile my way. I press my damp palms into the bed sheets.

“Thanks for covering for Faren last night, Kiki,” Thorn says in an ominous message directed straight at me.

His eyes slide over my form, safely ensconced underneath the hospital covers. “Let me talk to our girl here.”

Kiki nods and turns to me.

I ask, “You did a...” I don't even know what to call it. I settle on the most innocuous word I can muster. “Dances for me?” I squeak, hating owing anybody, even Kiki.

“She sure did,” Thorn's eyes meet mine. “What are friends for?” The question is posed innocently, but I know what he's really asking.

Kiki gives me a light kiss on the cheek and ignores my eyes begging her to stay. She buzzes out with a I'll be back soon flutter of her fingers, leaving me with Thorn.

All pretense of a smile leaves Thorn's expression as his eyes go flat black in an millisecond. “Let's talk, Faren.”

I say nothing, and he begins. When Thorn finishes, I stare at my clenched hands, wanting out so bad I can barely stand it.

Thorn wants me as a regular. He wants me to cover my fresh bruises with makeup, like Kiki suggested. He asked if I can still dance, to which I only nod.

Hell yes, I'll dance. I have a sudden desire for my mom that's so strong it's like pain that I can't fix, a part of me broken beyond repair. We'd been so close and now I had no one to take her place as confidante. There's no glue for my broken problems.

Thorn's last words flit through my mind. “There's more money if you keep giving me dances. Private ones.”

My eyes travel to his. I'm so engaged with him I don't hear the whisper of the door when it opens and my angel walks in.

Seeing my face changes his expression of contrition to one of darkness. Those large chocolate eyes move impassively to Thorn and noticeably harden.

Thorn jumps to his feet, gathers up the balloon and flowers, and turns to the man who held my hand. Thorn explains nervously, “Wrong room, pal.”

My brows come together in a puzzled frown as they stare each other down.

I swear they know each other. I'm glad that Thorn leaves. I wonder what chased him out.

Who.

He's even more beautiful than I remember him. My eyes take him in with hunger, every moment of my life is hyper-bright, acutely surreal and microscopic. His hair glints, like the deepest copper penny, from the pale light bleeding through the window. His skin is like creamy mocha, and his eyes are so dark they look black.

Except when they look at me, they're molten amber.

“Hi.” He steps forward and stretches out his hand.

I move to put my palm in his, and I notice manicured nails that don't match the callouses on his palm. A signet ring flashes a college I can only dream of attending as his large hand covers mine.

Cuff links peek from his expensive suit sleeve.

Then I see the shoes. A different leather than before but just as supple. Just as distinctive.

My eyes drive up his body and meet his gaze, and a dimple flashes into existence as a smile full of white teeth dazzle me. Those eyes capture me in an embrace of satin chocolate.

“Jared McKenna,” he says, and I know I'm in for it.

I might be dying. I might have a dirty job that pays for the sins of my past. But right then, I know heaven, if just for a little bit, right here on earth.

~ 7 ~

Pretending is the hardest.

That I don't think about what Doctor Matthews told me. That Jared McKenna, billionaire entrepreneur, didn't run me down with his Harley because I barreled into his path. That I'm one of the exotic dancers at his exclusive club, Black Rose.

Thorn left because he doesn't want to clue his boss in on the relationship to me. Why?

Our handshake breaks. His finger trails along the inside of my wrist, and as it leaves my flushed skin, my heartbeat accelerates. I watch his pupils eat his brown irises. I can't tell if the dimming of his gaze is from the gloom of the room or that I have a clue to how I affect him. Our meeting is a testimony to the power of carnal attraction. Chemistry doesn't discriminate as to timing, looks, or circumstance. It's there to be recognized and play out, regardless of environment.

What's happening is exactly what I don't need. I look terrible, I have a visit to my mom's bedside tonight, and a set tomorrow night on the lap of another stranger. I'm facing the man who is my boss, my assailant, and savior all in one chaotic package. And he's enough of a man to make a legion of panties disintegrate.

Incinerate.

Jared McKenna leans back, drawing his pant leg down as he crosses his knees at the ankle. His eyes are shadowed as he stares at me.

I break the silence. “I'm Faren Mitchell.”

I pray he has too many dancers to know who I am. I can't help my embarrassment.

His manicured nail, blunt and perfect, flicks the clipboard with my medical chart. One corner of his lush mouth picks up in a dimpled half-smile, and I blush, glancing at my hands. Of course he knows who I am. He takes my cool fingers and frowns a little at them. My eyes are hidden, staring at my lap as my heart beats a staccato rhythm.

He turns my palm over and talks to my hand. “I'm so sorry, Faren.”

He says my name like a talisman, and I look up, startled by the soft way his voice caresses the syllables. I gaze at him numbly, his fingers playing over my knuckles. It's more intimacy than I've received from a human being since Mom was taken from me four years ago. It's a terrible beauty that the genuine touch of another human being moves me.

I've lap danced with dozens of men in the last ten days, but Jared makes me feel as though I'm part of him. The light play of his fingers over my flesh creates a symphony of sensation.

I want to snatch my hand away.

I want him to move on to other body parts. I'm so out of my emotional comfort zone that I can't breathe.

I say the first thing that comes to mind. “It's not your fault. I was-I was upset.” I glance at Jared again then bite my lip, casting my eyes downward.

He squeezes my hand lightly. The callouses on his palm scrape an erotic path as they slide away from my skin.

I miss his touch and feel relief at the same time.

He rakes the hand that was just touching mine through his hair and exhales. “It's not your fault. I should have seen you before you were in the street.”

I look at him without wanting to, and his deep brown eyes pull me in. They look so sincere. He doesn’t look like a rich guy who’s had it easy. There's a hardness to him, an edge. Jared McKenna isn’t accustomed to being scrutinized, and he smoothly redirects my thoughts.

“I’ve already paid the bill for your care,” he says. A sheepish smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

Thank God! I think then on the heels of that, How dare he?

My eyes narrow and he looks surprised.

“What?” he asks as if he doesn't know.

Like he doesn't realize how manipulative the whole paying it is. I don’t want to be an ungrateful wench, but I cross my arms underneath my breasts. The unattractive baby blue hospital tent covering me from knee to neck hitches up, and I watch his eyes shift to my breasts then away.

Still a guy. An unapologetic, manipulative, gorgeous guy.

“I have health insurance.”

He nods, his strong chin holding a kiss from God in the center. My mind swirls with drug-induced thoughts of him as my angel, and a little smile touches my lips.

His stare moves to my mouth. “I understand. However, I feel responsible, so I'll take care of it.”

His words are final, said with an expression that is equal parts hard and unyielding. Jared is used to people saying yes. I wonder if anyone ever says no.

He stands to walk away as if he expects me to roll over. Even I know I'm not being reasonable. The fault lies with him. Jared McKenna has made me forget everything but his presence, and that's not fair. I have terrible debts to pay, a short life to live, and instead of focusing what needs doing, I let a man unnerve me to the point that I forgot what's important. Not to mention he's my boss... and he did hit me with his motorcycle.

His hand circles the doorknob, but as if he forgot something, he returns to my bedside, and slides an elegant business card into my handbag. “I don't think I'm finished with my penance just yet, Miss Mitchell.” Then he does it, a second intimacy I don't know what to do with, I can't know how to quantify.

He leans forward and wraps his hand around the back of my head where it's snarled with asphalt and dirt from the accident. As he breathes a kiss of fragrant heat above my forehead, he whispers, “I really am sorry.”

I gulp down the luscious scent of him: male, cinnamon, and spice. Jared McKenna pulls away, pulverizing me with a stare for my ten heartbeats to his two and walks away.

I watch his tailored navy back and deep bronze hair leave as silently as he entered.

*

I hold my mom's hand, as I have a thousand times before and I cry. I'll miss her. And so much else. Her prognosis is grim—maybe a handful of years or less. I can't let them move her.

I won't.

I swipe at the wetness on my face, listening to the clock as sunlight slants inside her room. Someone forgot to close the blinds.

I sigh, stand, and make my way to the window. My right hand grasps the twisty plastic rod, and I turn it to shut the slats. My eyes catch sight of a familiar motorcycle. As if on some bizarre cue, my thigh throbs where McKenna hit it. His body's unmistakable. He’s large and broad in the shoulders, and the unique hair color brands him.

Unobtainable.

I shut the blinds with a sharp click. He ran into me. Jared McKenna paid my bill. He needs a piece of my mind.

He held me and made me grieve for something I can't have. For that, I hate him. I stare at the louvers. I glance behind me at my mother sleeping in false peace. I turn back to the blinds and the man I know is behind them.

I lift one of the louvers and peer out at him as he sits astride his idling bike, surfing his cell with a tapered finger. I allow my eyes to take in his all-black ensemble. Gone are the tailor-made suit, Italian shoes, and subtly jeweled cuff links. In their place is the kind of leather a girl dreams about.

Dark.

Black.

Dangerous.

I let the louver slip back into place and turn back to my mom. I gnaw at my bottom lip. Decision made, I march out of Mom's room, mad at Jared for following me as if I'm some baby. His new charity. Rich guys like him have to feel good about something they do, right?

I don't need sympathy.

I take the steps like a battle sergeant and swing the wide glass doors open, nearly braining an orderly.

“Whoa! Faren, what the hell?” Barney says with a laugh as I breeze past him.

My cup of care has runneth over, and it's spilling on everyone. Later I'll apologize.

Right now, I'm on a mission.

My eyes land on Jared, and I stomp over to him. The low drone of his bike makes my next words harsher. “You don't need to follow me, Mr. McKenna.”

That small amused smile he's sported from the minute I met him widens into a grin. His teeth are so very white in his smug face.

Gawd, he's so insufferable. His eyes move to my lips, and I realize I'm still mauling them. I let my bottom lip pop out of my mouth.

“Just making sure my investment pays off,” he says smoothly. I am feeling the distraction of him as I see his large strong hands hold the throttle and subtly twist it as the motor give an deep appreciative throb.

“What?” I can't believe him. I put my hands on my hips and his gaze travels in a random three point pattern. Yeah, that one. I scowl at him, my breasts and hoo-ha tingling from where his gaze just traveled.

“Looking for bruises?”

His smile fades.

“No,” he says in curt answer. “Did you look at the card I gave you?”

I shake my head. I went straight from the hospital to my place, took a hot and painful shower, and headed directly to my mom's care facility.

“You might want to.” The kickstand taps the concrete, and then he's moving toward me in a steady stride of fluid muscle in motion.

God, he's big. My heart is in my throat as his shoulders blot out the street behind us, the sun... everything. I look up as he draws nearer. His subtle smell is a memory trigger for the asphalt at my cheek, the swirling haze in my mind, the feel of a warm hand over mine.

Safe, my memory whispers.

I blink, and he's there, tipping my chin up and searching my face. Heat blazes in his eyes though his expression is cool. His gaze moves to my mouth, and I feel my lips part in invitation. An invitation I've expressly forbidden myself. My life is in shambles, and he's a last-minute storm driven into my path.

McKenna bends his frame over mine. He cups my chin as his mouth hovers over the corner of mine. “Do what it says, Miss Mitchell.”

He drops his hand from my face and I stand there, stunned. He walks away, drops one long leather-clad leg over the seat and lifts the kickstand with a practiced swivel of his black boot. He turns to me. “Call me Mick. I think we're on a first name basis now, don't you?” he asks rhetorically.

He doesn't wait for an answer I won't give. Jared pulls away from the curb, and I walk forward like a zombie. I sway as I watch him, and something startling occurs to me.

The past day has been the first twenty-four headache-less hours I've had in months.

Maybe Jared “Mick” McKenna is my medicine?

Or my drug of choice. Either way, I'm an addict.

~ 8 ~

I walk through the narrow front door of my apartment building. My eyes travel the stairs, and I sigh with irritation. My gaze shifts to the rickety old freight elevator, a soothing form of transport—if it works.

I'll take my chances. I press the old push button that slides the elevator doors apart. I shove the metal gate away, step through, close the woven metal behind me, and latch it with my right hand. I press the lit number 5. With a lurch, the cart lumbers up, grinding and clattering the entire way. It stops just short of the fifth floor. I open the heavy metal, and it slides away with a rattle. Gripping one side, I hike myself up to floor level and grimace. My body doesn't like being tossed on a street, I guess.

I close the door and walk the short distance to my apartment. I slide the key into the bolt and turn it, opening the door with my hip, and drop my keys in the bowl on top of a small table from my mom's house.

I spread my fingers, feeling their stiffness.

I put on the kettle and watch the burner turn red as I grab the edges of the stove. I lean against it, chin brushing my chest, and cry.

I don't want to die. I want to see Jared McKenna again. I want to know the secrets of my body before I no longer exist to experience them. I lift my head and walk to the sink, turning on the tap, wallowing in the comfort of my familiar routine. The water steams as it hits the white porcelain basin and I splash hot water on my face and it feels good – normal. Breathing deeply, I try to bring myself back to whatever center I can find.

I stare off instead, thinking about nothing. The card. I remember and lurch to the couch. My normal grace is gone in my rush to retrieve the card he slid inside my purse. My body squawks, aches and pains springing up like unwanted weeds. I reach in my pink purse, the fake diamonds winking at me.

The card will say something like: I know your secret.

Though he can't know.

Or: You work for me, pay up—on my lap.

That elicits a shiver. Not one of revulsion either. I'm pretty sure Jared hasn't put it together that I was the girl picking up money at his feet.

Or my personal favorite: You're fired.

He won't give a shit that my mom is two weeks from being put into one of those places.

I shudder thinking about the care Tannin Mitchell would receive in a state facility.

I push it out of my mind as my hand closes around the heavy paper. The square fits into my palm perfectly, luxuriously. Nothing but the best for Jared.

I move my hand away from the front. In black foil lettering, it reads: Jared McKenna. Tiny upper case letters spell out a web site address.

Well, that was lame. I suppose he wants me to become a follower? My thumb glides across the deeply embossed letters, shining like ink on the deep cream card. With a sigh, I place it on the end table and turn to move back into the kitchen.

My eyes hit on the slanted script on the back. I read it twice.

Streetside; 1920 1st Ave. Seven o'clock. Black tie.

I stare at the deliberate handwriting, and a nervous laugh shoots out of my mouth. What is this?

Then it comes to me. Jared McKenna, a.k.a. Mick, feels guilty. He wants to make sure that he ties the bow just right on the package of his conscience. Once that's done, he can move on and be free of me.

I feel a smile bleed across my face, and I don't need a mirror to know it's not pleasant.

I have nothing to lose. Kiki is doing my laps tomorrow night too. I have a full twenty-four hours without worry.

You're dying, Faren, my mind reminds me in an evil whisper. I decide to seize the moment.

Nothing to lose.

Except my virginity.

*

I walk outside my apartment building, and the cool air nips at my exposed legs. The nude stockings are so sheer they let the wind have its way with me. My platform pumps match my hose, and the chill works upward underneath my silver dress. It's short and elegant, unlike the costumes I wear for the laps of strangers. The clothes hide both the bruise from Mick's Harley and the fading cylinder from riding erections. Gaining experience while losing my innocence, one lap at a time.

I force my thoughts back to the outfit I've chosen for McKenna, the salve to his guilt. The silver of my dress makes my eyes look like shiny coins. I've tacked my hair up in an elegant loose coil at my nape, abandoning informal bands, barrettes and hair jewelry in favor of honey-colored bobby pins I use to artfully arrange my hair into a knot at the base of my head.

But my mind revolves around Doctor Matthews's words and the card he gave me with my appointment about management. I find myself dismissing his cautions as a limousine pulls up at the curb. I clutch my small silver purse and bite my lip not to laugh.

This can't be happening to me. I'm a physical therapist and part time exotic lap dancer. Girls like me don't go out with billionaires. Especially terminally ill girls, even if it's only to dispel his feelings of responsibility.

Of course, nobody would know I'm living on borrowed time from looking at me. The girl in the mirror stared steadily back as I had glammed up for tonight, healthy as a horse.

But that's not what the damning photo of my brain has proven to me.

Was that just a day ago? I wonder. A day ago when I was breezing through patients, grinding through lap dances. Before my life dumps upside down forever. But I've made a promise to Mom. A promise I can't give up because my circumstances have turned dire, permanent.

I will keep it. She gave her life for mine. I’ll do anything it takes to give her dignity. Because that's all I can do.

The driver comes around to the curb and discreetly glances at my outfit. A slim smile courses across lips accustomed to just that expression. He probably smiles like that when he's sleeping.

“Ms. Mitchell?” he inquires in smooth American English. He's a stooped, older gentleman, maybe close to mid-seventies.

I think of him driving with old man reflexes in the heart of Seattle. I hesitate. Actually, the whole situation makes me hesitate, and I have a crazy urge to run off in the opposite direction.

I don't.

“Please.” He sweeps an arm forward and guides me by my elbow to the back of the limo.

I'm so glad for my ten years of ballet before height stole my dreams. I glide down off the curb into the street and fold into the limo easily.

It's empty. I turn to the limo driver. “Where is...” I don't know how to refer to him.

The little old man inserts my missing moniker smoothly, “Mr. McKenna?”

I nod.

“He awaits you at our destination,” he replies and softly shuts the door.

I survey him as he leisurely strolls around the front of the limo and opens the door to slide in.

I realize I don't know his name.

I lean forward and tap the glass partition, my rear in the air and my knee planted on the seat across from me.

The glass opens, and his watery blue eyes meet mine. “Yes, Ms. Mitchell?”

“What is your name?”

A genuine smile spreads the deep folds of his cheeks to smoothness.

“I am Henry.”

He extends a palm through the open glass, and I take it. He gives my hand a brief squeeze before he lets go to turn back to the wheel.

I settle again in my seat and smooth my dress down to mid-thigh. “Thank you, Henry.”

His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. “You are most welcome.”

The glass closes with a silent hiss, and our eyes meet for a moment more. I think I see something in them that gives me pause.

A sort of wise sadness remains as his eyes shift to the road. We’re on the same page but put in the book for different reasons.

Henry pulls away from the curb. I watch him expertly navigate the busy lower streets of First Street. He avoids the storefront of Pike Place Market, still jammed with tourists. It's been dark for an hour as we close in on the restaurant. My face breaks into a grin. Thoughts of bucket lists crowd my head, and I remember I can take whatever is I wish for. My life is mine in a way I've never thought of before. There is no precedence for this night.

For what might come next.

We park at the base of the Space Needle, where Mick waits five hundred feet above the ground. Henry slips out of the limousine and walks to my door. I bend my legs in unison, tap my heels on the street, and take the hand he offers me.

Henry lifts his chin infinitesimally, and I look where he indicates. People are walking toward the doors of the Skycity Restaurant and their dress code is not formal as Mick has told me. He requested I dress black tie formal, even though it's not required, and I frown as the mystery of Mick deepens.

I move through the lobby, decked out in vintage 1960s space age décor, and look around with wide eyes. I've lived in Seattle nearly all my life, and I’ve never been here. I walk to the elevator, and a man in a suit presses a button and the elevator doors whisk open. A few people in various states of formal attire move inside and he closes the door with a press of a white-gloved hand.

I ride the glass elevator up. The view is spectacular. City lights greet me in a twinkling crescendo of chaotic pinpoints of color. Puget Sound glitters back at me, the moon riding high and bright against the small whitecaps, as the press of winter lies ready to take hold with icy fingers. I fold my light shawl around my shoulders, feeling the fringe feather and tickle my bare skin. I'm wearing another borrowed outfit from Kiki. She's told me she's too hot to wear something this cool. I smile, remembering her comment when I tried it on in front of her.

“I'm too hot for this sweet dress,” she'd said when I tried on the dress. She spun around me as she plucked and adjusted. Her eyes met mine in the full-length mirror. “But you, you're so cool in it you'll melt whoever sees you.”

She stood and clapped when I spun, relishing who I have a date with. Unbelievable as it is.

I don't know if I’m cool in this dress, but it makes me feel sexy. Free. A precious commodity at the moment.

My eyes search the restaurant, scanning the other diners, and I feel overdressed.

The maître d’ approaches. “Miss Mitchell?”

I nod. How does he know who I am?

“Please, follow me.”

We weave between tables until we reach a wood door with divided and beveled glass panes that distort all the corners as I look through. I don't have any trouble making out Jared.

Mick.

He stands when he sees me through the glass, and I have the sudden and overwhelming urge to cry. It's such an unexpected, old-fashioned gesture that I halt, momentarily stunned. He smiles, and it lights up my core like a match. I feel my insides sear with fire.

With want. It's like spontaneous combustion.

The maître d’ pushes through the door and leads me to a sequestered table. After a moment, I trail after him.

“Watch your step, Miss Mitchell,” he cautions.

I look down. The floor moves ever so slowly. The seam at the rim of where the table sits moves, but the center remains stationary. Vertigo slides over me, and I want to sit down. I think of the doctor's words—vertigo, loss of balance—and I reach out blindly. My hand is taken by McKenna, and my face swivels to his.

The maître d’ melts away, and McKenna draws me closer, his eyes running over me ravenously.

I've seen that expression in hundreds of eyes.

But never one I care about.

One who matters.

~ 9 ~

I think his eyes will go to my breasts or the unseen v between my legs, but they don't. That deep gaze travels to the edge of a bruise that my makeup can't completely hide.

He'd have to be looking for it to notice.

Mick does.

He holds my hand, his eyes pegging the proof of what happened. I try to take my hand out of his and he grips it, those dark eyes moving to mine.

“Don't, Miss Mitchell.”

“You don't have to do this, Mr. McKenna.”

A dark auburn brow rises. “Do what?” He corrects me, “Mick.”

I watch his eyes narrow with an intensity that changes how I breathe, and my palm grow warm in his. He waits for my answer while our flesh melds.

“Feel guilty,” I answer. “I mean...” I indicate our surroundings by sweeping my free hand around the view. The floor moves underneath our feet as the cityscape minutely changes while we stare at each other.

His eyes move to the chair behind me, and he releases my hand as he pulls out my chair. I'll look like an ass if I bolt. I don't think I've ever felt as contrary as I do in that moment.

Mick looks at me as if he's sure I'll sit. What makes him that sure? Is it the money? Does everyone say yes to Jared McKenna? Did he just get flung into money right out of the cradle or is he self-made.

Why does he own strip clubs? It doesn't seem to fit him somehow.

He slides the chair in as I sit as if he's done it a thousand times before. I barely keep from sulking, thinking about the hundreds of women who have stared at those eyes, dreamed about what it could be like with him. That's the difference between them and me—I don't dream. I live it. Right now. Right here.

Mick sits across from me and puts his elbows on the table. He knots his fingers and rests that full mouth against them. We say nothing as we look at each other.

He startles me with, “I don't feel guilty. Just so you know.”

My face must show my surprise because he grins. I realize I kind of want him to feel guilty.

I want someone to feel guilty.

He says, “I know you weren't paying attention before you walked into the street. I couldn't have stopped. There was nothing I could have done differently.”

I feel my brows furrow. “Then... why?” I stare at him, thinking he'll rush in with a good explanation, throw me a life raft. Instead, he lets me fumble around. “Then why take me out like this?”

“I want to,” he says simply.

Those brown eyes stare into mine, and I shift in my seat. What does he want from me? I don't reply but allow myself to stare back. I stare because I want to. My life sentence has given me a bravado that doesn't feel false. I take in everything without shame. Though we're formal, he hasn’t shaved. His hair is short on the sides and longish on the top. A natural wave sweeps it off a low forehead. The flame of his hair burns a deep bronze above eyes that are almost too large for a man's face.

No female alive would mistake Jared McKenna for anything but male. His broad shoulders anchor our table, his biceps stretching the dark navy suit. His crisp white shirt is a blazing star beneath his dusky complexion. I think of how calloused those strong hands are.

“You're blushing,” he comments softly, and I nod. Mick studies me and I don't look away. Still brave. Finally he lets his hands drop to the table draped in fine linen. “You don't seem embarrassed.”

I shake my head. I’m not blushing from shame; it's the effect he has on me. I've never felt arousal, and now it's here to stay because of Mick.

It's in the beating of my heart, the ache between my legs. My nipples are sharp pebbles beneath the lightweight material of my shimmery dress.

It's all... and nothing.

“Then what are you, Miss Mitchell?” Mick asks in soft inquiry.

“I'm not a game to be conquered,” I say. Though I’m not being honest.

Jared makes a purr of contentment deep in his throat and leans back. The waiter comes in and asks what I'd like to drink.

“Whatever he’s having,” I reply. I know that McKenna has some agenda and is accustomed to seeing his pushed through.

He orders a bottle of wine I've never heard of and smiles at me, the dimple in his chin flattening.

But he knows nothing. What Mick senses as contrary simply is what it is. I'm not playing hard to get, I'm simply calling out the shots of whatever this is. I don't have time to play metaphorical chess with him. I have patients to help and dances to grind through to get my mom in a place where I won't have to worry.

In all that, I can't lie to myself and say I don't want what he offers. McKenna doesn't have to know about me. He won't care anyway. A man like him can have anyone he wants.

The wine comes, and he swirls his sample around, stealing a breath from the top. After McKenna’s imperceptible nod, the waiter fills the glass the rest of the way and leaves to give us time to drink without ordering right away.

I look away from Jared for the first time that evening and gaze into the black velvet view. The sky is sprinkled with stars, some of their glory stolen by the lights of the city. The slowly spinning top of the Space Needle gives us bites of the beautiful city in appetizer-sized chunks.

“I'm not playing a game,” Mick says.

I turn back to him, shaking my head. “I don't think so... Mick.” I gather up my courage. “You're not guilty. You're a rich guy. Really rich.” His smile fades, and I almost feel bad about what I'm going to say. “You can have any woman, and a lot of them will say yes because of what you are rather than who.”

He nods, but his face takes on a grim edge.

“I don't care about your money.” I've never meant anything more.

He sees it and can't hide his surprise. “I believe you. I don't know why... but you're different than the others.” He takes an unhurried sip of wine, his eyes gleaming at me over the crystal rim.

“Than the others?”

He spreads his large hands away from his body. “I didn't mean there's been a bevy of women.”

My eyes lift to his.

He has the grace to look embarrassed. “There have been other women, of course.”

“Yes, I'm aware.” I mean, look at him!

“There's nothing I can do to not be what I am. I'll never meet anyone on equal footing.”

“Well tonight's your lucky night.”

His brows shoot to his hairline. When the waiter returns, Mick’s hard glance makes him meld into the background again. I don't try to hide my smile. Mick’s is sure of people's acquiescence. It's kind of disturbing. But I'm so off-kilter I can roll with whatever this strange night throws my way.

“Oh really?” he asks. His face shows he hasn’t been surprised in a long time. About anything.

“Yes.” My hands are beyond damp. I'm so sure, yet so nervous. “We can date.”

“Who says I want to date you?”

I'm not going to outline the method to the madness. Maybe it's just a fancy way of substituting dating for screwing to him because there's an historical precedent; where there is none for me.

“Please.” I lean forward, my forearms pressing against the tablecloth. “You say you're not guilty, you're so rich you probably poop one hundred dollar bills in your 24K toilet, and you’ve been with so many women they're quantified as 'others'.”

Mick cocks his chin back and laughs, full throated from his chiseled belly. “Tell me how you really feel.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle, and I smile at him.

It's so liberating to say what I think. I wish I'd tried it before.

“I want to know why you want a girl like me. When you can have anyone.”

Mick searches my face again before his eyes dip to the cleavage I offer him with my posture. I don't move; I let him take it in. His eyes rove up my arms, delicately constructed with fine muscles from ballet and athletics. Finally that gaze continues to my hair that looks like melting caramel in candlelight.

Mick's eyes lock with mine. “I don't want anyone.”

He wants me. It's in his face, the determined set of his jaw. Those eyes that never waver, soften, or fall from mine with the rawness of my words.

In fact, if I were to guess, I'd say the enigma I represent is part of it. Though he might not acknowledge it.

“I don't want a relationship.” I say it because even if the great Jared McKenna wants a relationship, he can’t have one with me. I can at least be honest with that much.

He exhales sharply, his eyes piercing me. “That's fine.”

I lean back, feeling a vague sense of disappointment. Ignoring it, I ask, “So what now?”

“We enjoy each other's company. You are agreeable to that?”

I grin. Oh... this can work. As long as he doesn't figure out that I'm dancing at his revolving lap club. Thorn didn't seem interested in revealing our arrangement for reasons unknown. If he can keep his perverted trap shut, this might work. I certainly don't think Mick will be interested if he finds out that I'm one of his dancers. My mom can be secure for the short future she has left. I can throw caution to the wind because the rules of life no longer apply to me. I have free license to experience whatever I want.

I nod. “Yes.”

A smile plays over his lips as Mick orders for me. He's good at taking care of everything.

There are some things that a person can't manipulate.

~ 10 ~

I forget I'm with a billionaire. I forget what Doctor Matthews told me.

I even forget my mom.

For one night.

Mick makes me laugh. I just hope he doesn't make me cry.

I won't fool myself though.

We move through the tables of the other diners, their eyes on Mick then me. He drapes my shawl around my shoulders as we step into the elevator, and I shiver as his rough palms slide against my skin.

I enjoy the view as the elevator eases its way to the ground. Not the view of the city but the view of Mick as he leans against those fragile looking walls that cage us with an apparent indifference for his own safety. I stand in the middle of the elevator and watch him watching me. Mick's arms are crossed, a new set of cuff links blink back at me in a glittering wink in the cool blue lighting. The elevator kisses the ground with a soft nudge, and the doors slide open into the 60s retro décor.

Mick takes my elbow and I stop walking. I look around for Henry, scanning the parking for a glimpse of an actual car, wondering where he's parked.

He turns back, his large hand cupping the boniest part of me. “Henry can take you home.”

“Oh... you're... are you coming with?”

He nods, and I notice his lips twitch as he tows me along. “He drove me here first then went back for you.”

I'm so glad I seem to amuse the hell out of him.

I frown but allow him to lead me to the limo. Henry stands sentinel beside it, resplendent in a tux. It seems too elegant a wardrobe for his position, but he seems comfortable—as if Henry just grew out of the ground beside the sleek length of the limo, two halves of a whole.

“Sir,” Henry says with a slight nod.

Mick gives him an affectionate slap on the back before he hops into the limo. The sight of it twists Henry's lips into an almost-grin. I see the affection Henry has for Mick, and it makes me wonder.

Actually, everything about Jared McKenna makes me wonder.

Mick takes my hands as I slide in opposite him; he holds my hands and lets me drop when my butt hovers an inch above the plush leather upholstery. I laugh as I sink down and catch his eyes gleaming like obsidian marbles. I can't make out what he's feeling. I want to.

Anyone who can make me forget the things Mick has is a tonic I need.

And there I am, back to the addiction that is him.

The limousine pulls away from the curb, and we cruise through the noise and lights. Walls of people line the sidewalks, crawling to the various destinations in their lives as lights blur in a rainbow of neon and diamonds.

My eyes roam his form. Mick's hands rest with languid casualness on his knees. His socks disappear into soft black leather shoes. I can't tell if they're the same ones I picked money off. I swallow hard, looking at his trim waist, the tie tack securing a red silk so deep it's sunset burnt down to smeared tangerine. It perfectly complements his understated rich copper hair. Finally, my eyes lock with his, and he laughs.

“Did I pass muster?” Mick asks lightly, and a blush flames to life on my cheeks for the second time.

The unwanted heat leaks over into places I don't realize it will. I cross my legs, suffocating my sex as if it'll tell my secrets.

His eyes dip to the movement, and his small smile widens.

I frown, and Mick laughs again.

“Yes,” I say with a perfectly sullen bite.

“What have I done that offends you, Miss Mitchell?”

Everything... nothing.

I can't believe he's still calling me that.

Mick leans forward until our knees are a breath away from touching.

I feel the limousine slowing and blurt, “You're so rich!” I must be insane to say what I'm thinking. A recent trend.

Mick cocks a brow and puts his hand on my knee, barely beneath the lightweight material of my dress. A soft gasp breaks the seal of my lips as his eyes shift to my mouth, his favorite part of my body. For now.

“You are prejudiced because of my wealth?” Mick asks, and his breath is now on my face, minty and fresh.

I'm in too deep. “Yes. No. I don't know.” I'm so confused. Why do I have to find something so intoxicating when I don't have time to partake?

He cups my chin with his free hand while the other lightly dances over my knee, causing a rush of moisture to my panties. My thighs clench tighter, but nothing numbs the subtle throb.

Mick turns his head, his stubble whispering against my jaw. “Let me kiss you, Miss—”

I interrupt, “Faren.”

His eyes press into mine, stealing my thoughts like water finding a crack in a stone. “Faren.” He says my name like a melody, the heat from his lips a fraction above mine.

I gulp my reluctance like medicine I don't want to take but must. I whisper my response against his skin. “Yes.”

I think he'll crush my mouth, ravage me like I've heard about. Worse—I think he'll be lustful.

I want whatever he'll give me. I admit it.

Mick’s lips move over mine, rolling the softness of his mouth over my lips and attaching to the arch of my cupid's bow. He moves to the corners of my mouth and pecks back and forth as I remain placid. My hands clench to keep from launching at him like a ravaging animal.

The limo parks.

Mick moves his hand farther up my dress, his fingertips grazing where my garter attaches to the stocking. He slides a finger under the circular attachment as his other hand circles the nape of my neck. He licks beneath my jaw before he dots my mouth with another bead of heat and flesh. My hands break away from my lap and slap the leather as I lean back, eyes shut as I pant. Mick's mastery turns to the deep hollow of my neck, my heart rate no longer a secret to his mouth.

His tongue.

“Touch me,” he commands.

There's no way I can say no. Any argument was lost long ago.

I move my hands to his shoulders, expecting him to move or come forward, but he doesn't. Mick doesn't pause in his rhythm, but continues as his face dips to my breasts and nuzzles them. His hand is at my upper thigh, only a wish away from where no one's been.

I bury my hand in his hair and hang on for dear life.

“That's it,” he encourages as his hand dives beneath me to cup my ass. The lace shifts when he jerks me forward.

I gasp in surprise, and the heat of his tongue takes me while I moan into his open mouth.

Mick's legs are between mine as his hand moves to my lower back. He kisses me everywhere skin is showing. My shawl slips to the floor unnoticed, and he kneads the globe of my butt.

Then we hear a sharp tap on the glass. Mick moves back, carefully disengaging himself from the tangle of our limbs.

I sway a little and feel a flush so far from my earlier embarrassment it seems like a shadow. Mick holds my hands, his perfect hair standing in haphazard spikes from my hands diving through it.

He looks so beautiful I want to cry.

Mick gives a satisfied chuckle. “God, you're good.” His eyes rove me head to toe, satisfied with my boneless dishevelment.

I don't reply for a moment, my intellect swimming somewhere far away from my body. “What?” My eyes go to the window where Henry waits. I look back at Mick, confusion and arousal making me fuzzy.

“Good?”

I’m still reeling from the most intimate make out session of my life. I don't regret using Jared McKenna. He’s both a distraction and an experience sent from heaven. Sexual amnesia—Mick makes me forget everything but him. I don't know if it's a talent, skill, or destiny, but whatever he's selling, I want it. Of course, nothing's free.

“Yes.”

“The blushing virgin act is such a turn on... But you don't have to act.” Mick chuckles. “I know you're twenty-two. We can be adults about this. You say you don't want a relationship and I'm all for it. You don't have to pretend with me.”

My stomach drops like a stone as he studies me, reading my expression.

“Faren, what is it?” His eyes grow sharp in the shadows of the limo. Mick really doesn't know what he said, the rug he tore out from underneath me.

I'm falling, and I'll never catch myself.

I think I want to puke. “I'm going to go now,” I say like a robot as Henry opens the door.

I guess my clawing for the handle gave it away.

“Faren, wait.” Mick gets out right after me.

“No,” I say, backing away.

“I thought we were being honest?” His voice has more than impatience threaded through it. There’s some other emotion I don't recognize, and I don't want to look too closely at it.

I nod a little too quickly as I catch Henry dive back into the driver's seat in clear escape. “Oh yes.” I stalk back to him and poke him in the chest. It bounces off the wall of muscles.

“Maybe you're not so smart, Jared McKenna.” Stab, poke.

His eyes narrow as I drop his nickname.

“Did you ever think you don't have it all figured out?” I ask with soft menace. I'm so angry I feel sick.

Or I just feel sick. Heartsick.

I stare at him. When his expression darkens, I walk off. I don't wait to see if he gets his elephant of a conversational faux pas. I jerk the apartment door open and shut it with a kick that echos in the hollow corridor.

The heel of my stiletto embeds in the grated iron. I jerk out my foot, leaving the shoe there like the physical manifestation of fury it is.

I feel Mick watching me, and I ignore him as I limp to the freight elevator. I move through the doors with one shoe on, ready to turn and send him off with a world-class death glare. I want Mick to disappear.

I turn, and he's gone.

So is my stiletto.

~ 11 ~

Kiki rifles through my outfits as I lay on my bed, hands crossed over my stomach as I stare at my ceiling. The old beadboard ceiling has the original creamy paint, which has alligator crazing throughout. Kinda like my heart now.

The days of what's left stretch before me like a black ribbon of road sinking into an uncaring horizon.

“Gawd, you're a wet blanket, doll. Just sayin'.” Her full lips purse, and she gives me what I like to think of as the mom look.

I don't put much stock in it. I have a mom. She's not really alive, but her presence is more powerful than it's ever been. It motivates and orders my steps each day.

She tosses a deep bronze dress on the bed, eyes it critically, and says, “Come on, get up. Get out of this depressing funk or whatever the hell you're jonesing at.” Her dark eyes search mine. “No pity parties on my watch. Let's do this.”

She's right. I can't tell Kiki everything. She knows enough already.

I roll off my jammie bottoms and cami to slide on the second skin outfit she chose, my hair still damp from my shower. I move to the full-length mirror. I admit her choice is a good one. The deep bronze material shimmers as I turn, and it accentuates the slight caramel color my hair possesses.

The color of the dress makes me think of Mick's hair.

Mick the prick. I watch a sad little smile pop on my face like a weed that needs plucking.

Kiki scrunches her nose. “Why do you look like you're gonna throw up in your fuck-me shoes?”

Good question. I jump when the buzzer sounds.

“I'll get it,” Kiki says.

I nod. My eyes move back to my reflection. I know the outfit will be a real hit for the laps that await me tonight, like I care. I've already tabulated my earnings. My mind dismisses the emotional tally that keeps building.

I don't know how much longer I can stomach the breast fondles, hand jobs, and other “extras” they want from me. Hanging onto my virginity isn't such an accomplishment when innocence is taken in increments.

Chunks of who I am are stolen right from underneath my nose. My mind focuses on two nights ago.

That night.

That kiss.

Mick.

That wasn't thievery; it was consensual. It touched something in me that had never been caressed, awoken. I could dance on a thousand laps and never experience the tender assault of every sense I had from Mick.

My head snaps to the front of my apartment, and I walk in there.

I forget I'm wearing the costume for my set.

Jared McKenna is standing in my living room.

I suspect he's tired of me ignoring his texts and calls for the past forty-eight hours. Yeah... that's probably it.

We regard each other for maybe three heartbeats while the late afternoon sun streams into the apartment, half of it cut by the tall building north of my own. It illuminates Mick, setting his hair on fire and shading his jaw, making the cleft at its center a deep pocket of shadow.

His eyes don't meet my face.

He's too busy looking at my outfit. What little there is.

A hot flush rises to the surface of my skin. Mick's gaze lingers at the knot of material at my neck then sails to the deep v of the bodice and the almost-sheer straps that hardly cover my breasts. The thinness of the fabric doesn't hide the betrayal of my nipples. They harden at the sight of Mick, the memory of what he's awoken in my body an involuntary reaction I'm helpless to stop.

His eyes take in my breasts. They move to where the skirt skims and cups my butt, the satin material clinging to my every curve.

I know it will hitch up to reveal my panties when I straddle laps tonight.

I swallow my nausea at the thought of being that close to anyone.

But him.

Then I remember what he thinks: I whore myself out. Mick presumes I act like a virgin in affectation.

He can't know that's the only real part of me. To assume it's not possible is a blow I'm not sure I can overcome.

But Mick is also right; I am some kind of whore.

If he only knew.

These thoughts race through my mind in those brief transparent moments of introspection as his gaze finally lifts to meet mine. I see many things contained in his tight expression.

I latch on to the one I want to see, dismissing all others.

Disappointment.

Kiki looks between us as if we’re a ping pong match, having not gotten a word out of me post-Mick date. “Well”—she looks at me with wide eyes that say, you're so talking about this later—“I can see the two of you have to discuss… stuff.”

I want to hurt her.

Kiki looks into my face and gives a subtle shake of her head, her eyes brimming with thoughts of matchmaking, cupid's bow strung taut.

“Stay,” I beseech. I keep the pleading out of my voice by the slimmest of margins.

“No, you're right, Miss...”

“King,” Kiki says with a purr and eyelash flutter.

Forget hurting. How about murder?

“You're an insightful friend to understand that Miss Mitchell and I need to straighten out some misconceptions.” His dark eyes tell me how he likes straightening those out.

That gaze holds a hunger only a banquet of food would satisfy.

I'm the first course.

Kiki swipes her keys out of the bowl and grabs her jacket. I follow her to the door as a swarm of butterflies inside me vies for escape. Their fragile wings glide and sing beneath my skin. My nervousness is a living thing.

She hugs me. “Whatever the hell your problem is, solve it,” she whispers. “Don't play this stupid!”

What she doesn't realize is I'm not playing. I'm slowly losing.

Everything.

Kiki releases me and tosses herself out the door. I close it behind her, touching my forehead to the solid wood. I wish that when I turn around, Mick won't be there. I can't bear any more of his assumptions.

I can't stand to be near him and not touch him.

“Are you ever going to turn around?” His voice, a gravel-threaded melody, commands that I answer, and I turn slowly. He rakes a hand through his neat hair, sending it into disarray. “Jesus, Faren, don't tell me you're going out in that?” His voice sounds as if he's in physical pain. That is so not the real issue.

“Why do you care, Jared?” I walk into the kitchen, slam the tea kettle on the burner, and light it carefully. Let him get an eyeful. I don't give two shits. My hand trembles around the kettle, and I switch to my good one. Great, my hand was good through work with six patients, and it decides to stop working in front of him.

I have lap dancing in four hours, I remind myself. I hunch in on myself.

Don't let him see how much he hurt me. How much I'm hurting myself.

Don't.

I'm so deep in my thoughts I yelp when I feel him slam into me. He triggers every bad memory of what I've gone through, and I get so scared I stop breathing. Gooseflesh springs up everywhere.

“What are you doing?” I yell.

Mick doesn't answer. He tears me away from the stove with a smooth spin and slams me against the wall. Only his palm holding my back keeps me from ricocheting off the surface like a broken doll.

I look up into rage-filled eyes, and he scares me.

My emotions betray me.

I feel him through the thin material of my dress, ready for me. For all of it.

“I'm sorry, Faren... I shouldn't have assumed,” he says, his knee pushing my legs apart, pinning me.

My wrists are buried against the wall above my head, and my bad hand starts to twitch. I can't take anymore: the sexual tension, my mom's situation, the impending job I hate.

The prognosis I can't escape.

The tears scald and burn their pathway down my cheeks and I turn my face as my hand continues its spasmodic jerk and dance inside his hold.

His eyes flick to my captive hands, and then our gazes lock. “What? Why are you crying?”

My eyes squeeze shut, but the tears don't care. They slip out, impervious to my unwillingness for them to escape. I sob and break apart as the one man who's made me feel alive holds me captive against my wall.

My emotions crumble as the tea kettle shrieks.

My eyes spring open, and Mick is a wavering image seen through desperate tears.

His face never comes into focus as he takes my mouth.

And I let him as the tea kettle sings its symphony behind us.

~ 12 ~

He punishes me tenderly. Each kiss erases the hurt of his words. A man could never speak an apology as perfect as the one he makes with his mouth.

Mick drops my hands, and they grip his tailor-made suit, crumpling the shoulders without mercy as the kettle sings. With a casual slap, Mick hits the kettle off the burner. It skitters across the surface, screaming its anger at the rough treatment, as he plunders my mouth.

His body begs to take mine, his every hard line against my soft ones. I forget again, my body melding to his as though it's always been meant to.

Then my cell alarm chimes.

Once, twice.

Three times. I lift my head. My early alert before work.

“Let it go,” he says, kissing me into oblivion. Our tongues twine in an intimate dance.

I almost do. Then I think of Mom. The sinful selling of my morals needs to continue for her to live.

She has less than a handful of years to exist, but they have to be on my terms. A state home is not part of the plan.

I gently push Mick away. His lips are slightly swollen, and I can't imagine what mine must look like. No collagen needed for these babies. My sarcasm doesn’t make a dent in my grief.

“What?” Mick asks.

“I have a second job... That's my alarm...”

Don't ask.

Mick smiles, his sexiness lighting him from the inside. “I know what you do, Faren. It's fine.” His fingers bite into my hips, a fraction away from a location too intimate for anything but consummating what we've begun.

My stomach drops. “You do?”

He nods. “I know you're a physical therapist. I know about your mom.”

The air in my lungs freezes into shards of glass that cut me from the inside. Only Kiki knows about my mom. Now Mr. Perfect Billionaire knows.

“I think you should leave.” It creeps me out that he's stalking me, checking my background. It’s a small relief he doesn't know about that job.

Guilt.

I assume he knows I was attacked by my psychotic stepfather and saved by my mom. Who was beaten into a coma by fists that know no mercy.

Double guilt.

I’m not interested in being somebody's pity case. I have enough pity.

I want to forget.

Can Mick distract me? I roll my lip into my teeth.

His eyes track the movement. He leans down and touches my mangled lip with his own. “I want you.”

“It's not enough,” I say.

Mick puts his hands on either side of my head, caging me, and cocks his head to study me with hard-edged eyes. “I thought you didn't want a relationship? Think of what I can give you. Think of what we can have.”

I think those thoughts until it repeats in an endless loop. It's all I think of lately. It's all I can. “You know more about me than anyone else, Mick. You've seen to that.” I can't keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

“I don't know everything.” He's so close I taste his breath, yearn for it. “I want to know more. All.”

He moves aside the strip of dress across my breast and presses his mouth to my nipple in a possessive suckle. A thread of connection I didn't realize existed that tethers my breast to my core begins, and a slow ache steals my will. I arch into his lips and moan.

How can I stand anyone else doing this to me?

He lifts his head, wraps my full breast in his palm, and squeezes just shy of true pain. I begin to pant.

“Do you like this, Faren?”

I can only nod as I step away to deny myself. By the look on his face, I deny Mick as well.

“I can't talk you into staying?” he asks, his voice so low I strain to catch it.

“No, you won't be deflowering me tonight, Mr. McKenna.” That came out harsher than I meant it to.

Mick's expression darkens. “I apologized for my presumptions about you. That wasn't fair.”

His eyes follow me as I walk to the door, hyper-aware of his gaze on my body.

I whirl around to face him, so close to the knob I can touch it.

“I know. And I already told you I'm not into rich men.”

His lips twitch as though he's amused, and I want to impale him with my stiletto. Speaking of which… “Do you have my shoe?” I ask.

A shit-eating grin lights up his entire face. “I do indeed. Why do you think I came by?”

Another chink in my armor forms. Because you want to see me. I hoped. Of course, Mick dashes that all to hell.

He strides to the front of my apartment, and there by the door, a fancy silver high heel mocks me. I don't wait for any more indecision. I yank the door open and sweep my palm out.

“Why are you being so difficult? We both know what we want—what we need.” Mick asks against my cheek as his hands grip my shoulders.

“Why do you assume we'll end up together?” I counter.

“I assume nothing,” he says.

My brows arch as his hands heat my bare shoulders. He pulls me to him, and I'm so sure he'll kiss me that I close my eyes, holding in my sigh. But it moves out of me unbidden, like an invitation.

Mick doesn't kiss me. “I know it.”

He walks out, leaving me standing there holding the door.

My lips are swollen from his kisses. Every patch of my skin burns from the memory of his touch and my desperate want of it again.

I slam the door and stalk to my vanity table.

Time to put on my face for strangers.

*

I arrive promptly, the bronze dress a perfect complement to my coloring. I know how it looks in all lighting. Kiki encouraged me to pay attention to detail, and I stay the course.

Hardest path of my life.

I strut inside, not feeling like myself after Mick's frontal assault. I haven't felt alive in so long that I feel as if I'm dying piece by piece as I move deeper into the underbelly of the newest venue.

I walk with a false seduction toward the knot of men like I always do, but a man I've never seen intercepts me.

“Miss Faren?” He cocks a brow in question.

I nod, glancing nervously about me.

“You’re the auction tonight,” he says.

I blink stupidly, and he smiles, all teeth and condescension. A rolling hot lump moves through me.

“Here's how it works,” he begins, taking my elbow as he scans my outfit. He gives a slight nod of approval, and I adjust my mask. “You go behind those curtains there”—he indicates ceiling-to-floor velvet drapes in a deep scarlet. “and come out when the bell chimes. Walk the entire length of the floor, come to that center, spin.” He does a little pirouette, and I fight a surge of nausea through sheer grit. “Then continue back from where you entered.”

I’m a piece of flesh to be chosen by one of the men tonight. A random dancer selected like a prize, my humanity forgotten in the discarded pile of hundreds before me.

“Faren,” he gives me a significant look, “the winner might pay quite a bit to have you crawl onto his lap.”

I cast my eyes at my feet so he doesn't see the sick anger swimming in them. “How much?” I ask to the ground.

“I have seen some prices go as high as ten.”

I meet his eyes, so filled with greed I can't make out the color. He takes my silence for acceptance.

“Good.” He smiles at me, and I just stare. He moves nearer and I fight not to move away.

“Now move that hot ass to the stage.”

I feel him leer at said ass as I move away. I don't blink so the tears won't fall.

~ 13 ~

The lights are too bright for me to see the shadowed faces of the men.

I make out the white bidding paddles easily. I step onto the stage, and the curtains whisper open. The velvet makes a sinister slithering sound as it drags across the floor, widening the crack I look through.

I stroll across the mock stage, and the whispers stop.

I turn, and I feel the eye-molestation of the all-male crowd.

I walk back and try not to cave to my desire to run and never stop.

The curtains close, and the shouts and bidding begin.

The horrible auctioneer goes on and on as I wait for the winner in the cramped space between the hall and the stage.

Finally the gavel sounds, the stern echo final and unforgiving.

A security guard comes for me as if I would run off and leave the money.

I think about it.

In the end, I hear the amount the winner promised. I walk down the hall to the room I always dance in. Different building, same rooms. All with peeling, elegant wallpaper like memories of a time when there was hope. The rooms weep their sins all around me.

I move through the door and walk to the damning chair.

I don't turn when the door opens and shuts behind me. I wait until the unknown man makes the first comment. That’s what I always do.

Then his voice paralyzes me, my every nerve ending singing with adrenaline.

I can't turn. I'm rooted to the spot. My heart beats a jagged rhythm of fear.

“Well hello, Faren,” he says, and I turn.

It's better to face the nightmare than hide from the monster underneath my bed.

My hands grip the back of the chair, the only safeguard between us.

“I've been waiting for this for a long time,” my stepfather says like the predator he is.

My mother’s murderer.

“I know.”

I see the tunnel of my escape narrow to a pinpoint of light.

Then disappear.

Instead of thoughts of escape, I have only one thought. It fills my mind, pressing every empty space in my skull until I think it'll explode.

As despair chokes me, I think only of him.

Mick.

THE END

Read More

The Token, 1-3

Acknowledgments

I published The Druid Series in 2011 and Death Whispers in the same year with the encouragement of my husband, and continued because of you, my Reader. Your faithfulness through comments, suggestions, spreading the word and ultimately purchasing my work with your hard-earned money gave me the incentive, means and inspiration to continue.

There are no words that are sufficiently adequate to express my thankfulness for your support. But know this: TDS novellas continued past HARVEST only because of you.

I truly feel connected to my readers. It is obvious to me, but I'll say the words anyway for clarity: a written work is just words on pages if they are not read by my readers. As I write this I get a lump in my throat; your enjoyment of my work affects me that deeply.

You guys are the greatest, each and every one of ya~

Marata (Tamara) xo

Special Thanks:

You, my reader.

My husband, who is my biggest fan.

Cameren, without whom, there would be no books.

About the Author

Marata Eros (the pen name for Tamara Rose Blodgett) is the author of over seventy titles, including her New York Times bestselling novel, A Terrible Love, and the #1 international bestselling erotic Interracial, and African-American TOKEN serial. Marata writes a variety of dark fiction in the genres of erotica, fantasy, horror, romance, sci-fi and suspense. She lives in South Dakota with her family, and enjoys interacting with her readers.

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