Moonlight Desire: A Reverse Harem Shifter Romance (The Witch and the Wolf Pack Book 1)

by K. R. Alexander

  The Witch and the Wolf Pack

  Book One

  Moonlight Desire

  by

  K.R. Alexander

  Copyright © 2018 K.R. Alexander

  kralexander.com

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Dear Moonlight Pack

  Chapter 1

  I’ve been different all my life: always something to hide. Keeping magic secret is as easy and comfortable as wrestling bears. Still, it’s only magic. I’ve never had a secret this big before.

  It started with the kidnapping.

  No, it started with the flight to London, stepping off the plane at Heathrow for a last summer vacation before launching my career. A final trip to see my sister and the dreamy Englishman she’d run away from Kansas City to Brighton to marry.

  She was determined to set me up with a British guy as well. We’d tried before. Turned out, they weren’t all as swoon-worthy as her Henry—accents aside. Now I’d have a wide pool. Melanie had proudly informed me via Skype that she had four men lined up for me to meet. Plus, this trip was about beach- and pub-hopping and living the last summer between college kid and hardcore adulting to the fullest. There would be more than four meetings by the time we were done.

  But there was another reason for my trip. The one Melanie didn’t know. My secret.

  I’d already visited Melanie and Henry twice in the three years since she’d moved to England. That was how I’d met members of Broomantle, a society of local witches and magi in the South of England who based annual meetings out of Brighton in plain sight. Their weekend conference was my first priority.

  Attending lectures on animal familiars, maintaining mundane/magic relations—i.e. hiding—herb lore, spell lore, plus discussion panels and meals together, would take most of my weekend.

  They’d also asked me for a presentation. Saturday evening and Sunday morning I would do some of the teaching. Then dinner with members on Sunday night, hand-shaking, home to Melanie, bikini on Monday, and let the vacation—and matchmaking—begin.

  Of course, that’s not what happened.

  I collected my small suitcase at Heathrow and met Melanie at arrivals.

  After hugs, shouting, and, “Oh, my God, I love-love-love your new bag, Cassia! Purple! Love it!”—sisters, natural blondes, it happens—I got a hug from Henry as well and he led us to the airport’s “car park.”

  He opened the passenger door for me on his scarlet Lexus while I was already heading for the driver’s door. England. Wrong side of the road. All coming back.

  Hour and a half drive from the airport to their bright terrace house with beach view and seagulls screaming outside. I was so crashed after two flights and twenty-four hours of travel from Portland, Oregon, I did nothing but ask questions.

  What was Henry’s marketing firm working on? Did Melanie really have four guys for me to meet who she thought were so wonderful?

  So the two of them did all the talking. Perfect.

  I could have fallen asleep on the foyer rug but managed to remain upright for dinner prepared by both. Oh, yes, Henry also cooks. Chicken and vegetable curry followed by sweet Victoria sponge cake piled with strawberries and crème fraîche.

  By the time we’d finished, Melanie was trying to paint my nails. It would have to wait.

  I hardly remember dropping on the soft, white guest bed with windows open to sounds of the English Channel, sun just set, and I was gone.

  It wasn’t until morning that I was kicking myself for having flown in on Friday. That ticket had been so cheap—perfect idea. Get Broomantle and my teaching assignment out of the way as soon as I arrived, then nothing but fun and sun and sexy accents for the next two weeks with Mel.

  So jet-lagged my head spun, I dragged myself to the shower on Saturday morning—no time for fresh nails—dressed, hair, five-minute face, coffee, too tired for the breakfast Melanie offered, and out the door.

  “Who comes all the way to Brighton for history lectures in the middle of summer?” she shouted after me on my way down the front steps.

  “It’s only two days, Mel. Then I’m all yours. Can’t wait!”

  Everyone in my family who didn’t know about my magic—meaning everyone besides my late mother and grandmother—thought I was a history buff. Easy to pretend. I did know something about history after all the study I’d done for my own career path in teaching. Even as a teen all I’d had to say was something like, “Oh, that reminds me of the Russian Revolution—so tragic.” And everyone nodded like they understood and never asked questions.

  So it was another history conference for oddball Cassia and her scholarly brain below all that flaxen hair. If I’d really walked into a history conference, those balding old historians would probably have swallowed their fountain pens.

  These conferences, though, groups like Broomantle, were diverse. Magic can happen to anyone as long as you know how to spot it and have a little guidance. I’d had my mother and grandmother, Nana. These days I was on my own besides a few friends and contacts. Nor did I want more since I was committed to living a normal life. A mundane life. Trying.

  I’d seen how hard it was for my mother. And how hard it was for me just keeping secrets from Melanie and everyone around me—forget a husband and kids. Time to break the cycle.

  One magical stop on the trip, since I’d agreed to do it last year. Then this witch was putting out the fire under the caldron and hanging up her pointed hat.

  I needed a bumper sticker for my VW at home: Mundane Forever! But hadn’t been able to find it yet.

  From Melanie and Henry’s house, I walked to the Seastar Hotel, a sweeping Victorian, expertly restored, overlooking the red pebble beach and Brighton Pier.

  Tourists already clogged the sidewalk. Sun well up, beach hot and inviting, people in flip-flops, snapping pictures on their phones. Me running late.

  Why had I agreed to this? When I could be having breakfast with Melanie, giggling over descriptions of those four guys, in sandals instead of flats, sunscreen instead of eyeliner?

  Was I just a sucker?

  No, I’d said I’d teach Scrying 101 this evening and Advanced Scrying on Sunday morning because we were a small community. That was how I’d been raised.

  Nana—who’d been the famous scry, not me—in particular had been adamant about this.

  We do not merely carry the magic; we are the magic. We are a collective of remaining humans and magical beings and we must be our own allies, our own family, or this community will continue to fade.

  Just what I was doing, willing myself to fade
: turn my back on my own magic. Mundane forever.

  Unless asked, very nicely, to lecture on scrying, to be a valued member of that community. One more history conference.

  So, yes, maybe a sucker.

  A doorman—or bellboy?—opened the massive wood panel door of the Seastar Hotel for me and stepped back, sweeping his arm out to take in the lobby as if I were a duchess and he an 18th-century courtier.

  “Thank you. I’m here for the conference, if you could show me…?” I may have grown up small town USA, but, after a big city wakeup call for so many years of college, I didn’t get tongue-tied just because a cute guy opened a door.

  Even so, if this did not happen to be one of the local men my sister intended for me to meet, I may have to come back here and find him myself.

  Had they hired him to stand at the door purely on his looks? Chiseled face, sleek appearance, and dramatic manner to lure tourists?

  He gave me a bow when I said what I was here for. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d produced a red rose as well.

  “Right this way.” With a smile like we shared some intimate secret.

  I felt flushed at the voice, and look in his eyes, as if he’d said something entirely different—inappropriate.

  Settled in the conference room, still warm, I caught glimpses of him escorting others to the open double doors. Not like it had been anything personal about me.

  Fueled on espresso, the day passed quickly. The crowd rounded out to perhaps one hundred individuals from all over Great Britain. Easy environment to meet people, but also to get lost.

  A few years ago, I’d have hoped to meet. Now, plotting my own escape, knowing this wasn’t a life I wanted, I avoided eye contact. I made notes or doodled, going over material I had to deliver later on, and sat alone for lunch when I’d usually have found a group to chat.

  My resolve not to interact was tested late in the day, myself about to go up, when I heard snatches of conversation about, “How many dead now?” And, “Of course they keep to themselves—”

  Disjointed, cut off, I looked around for the speakers yet couldn’t tell in the group.

  Casters dead? Mundane gossip?

  Too late to ask even if I’d wanted to.

  An hour talking about scrying, journeys, aids to the seer, spells, meditations, inducing trance, and how to get started as a scry—small, with a clear mind and clear intentions. Then half an hour of Q&A. And, finally, freedom.

  I’d meant to take Melanie and Henry out for a drink, Saturday night, visit their favorite pub. Instead, jet lag clobbered me, the long day caught up, and I was asleep by 8:00 p.m.

  Sunday morning. Same hottie at the door. In fact, some noticeably good-looking people in this crowd who I didn’t remember from yesterday.

  Like that tall guy with the ponytail and eyes like gold flakes. A willowy woman with hair the color of burnt honey, long enough to tuck into her waistband. And that broad-shouldered one with the torn jeans, high cheekbones and a carved jaw, young as myself, staring at me while I did the advanced talk on scrying into distant places, unknowns, even across time. All you have to do is understand that time makes the same difference to scrying as distance—which is none at all.

  While I talked, those eyes fixed on me.

  Everyone else occasionally glanced around, took notes, nodded, checked their phones, or frowned as they pondered a question. These newcomers only stared, sitting at the back of the room. Three or four that I knew hadn’t been there yesterday. I’d at least have remembered the muscles in this room of intellectual spellcasters. But, with faces like those, I should have remembered more.

  By Q&A I felt creeped out, yet intrigued. What did they want? Who were they?

  They must have questions. Maybe I could ask some myself. At least approach one once I was clear of the podium.

  Questions for me about seeing out of time. That one tended to be a hang-up. I was having to clarify and follow with another answer along the same lines when I noticed the willowy young woman slip out of her seat. By the time she reached the doors, ripped jeans, ponytail, and another dark, handsome guy with noticeable biceps, had also left their seats.

  No one seemed aware of them drifting out. Except me—hardly able to finish Q&A.

  They remained on my mind by the end of the conference and dinner with Broomantle members. I almost asked someone about them. But what would I say? Who were those beautiful, fit people who only showed up for my talk this morning? It didn’t make sense and, even if I did want to know, it could only be getting more involved to ask questions. Not less.

  I bit my tongue, thanked Broomantle representatives who’d invited me, praised the lovely venue—thinking again of the doorman—and bowed out.

  Tonight, late or no, I had to take Melanie to a pub and force myself to stay awake. I’d never adjust to the time change otherwise. With the worst of the trip already behind me, I was once more glad I’d booked that cheap flight to land on Friday.

  I started back, winding along side streets, leaving the tourist Brighton behind and walking down rows of pastel houses in residential parts of town.

  I knew the way from previous visits and felt myself decompress as I went, again worn out from the day, yet looking ahead to the next ones so much more. Until I rounded a corner, saw a blur of motion, a man moving fast, and everything went black.

  Chapter 2

  It took me about one second to understand a bag had been dropped over my head. I had enough of a glimpse before the lights went out to know where he was, even if I couldn’t see anymore. In that instant the self-defense class my grandmother had paid for me to take at nineteen when I’d left home flashed back to me. Had I been asked a moment before, I’d have said much of that full-contact course had faded from memory. Not true.

  I was knocked forward by the force of impact from the bag smashing into my head and shoulders, propelled by two powerful hands. I used momentum to throw an elbow, making contact yet feeling a solid impact. No flab here. It was like hitting a refrigerator.

  Along with fast movements, I started shouting, “No!” Stomping down hard, catching his foot and met by swearing.

  “No!” Throwing my head into him as he grappled with me. I hoped to break his nose but caught his jaw, the force of the blow making me see stars. The guy was tall as well as strong.

  “No!” A knee slammed up and in with all my body and fear and anger behind it. This, at least, made good contact.

  Violent cursing, the man knocked back, me ripping at the nylon bag around my head, and wham: another set of arms shoved me into a solid wall.

  “No!” I stomped again, trying to twist, shouting, jabbing out to catch a nose or eyes, then felt my face smothered by a large hand over the bag.

  Fighting to breathe—forget yelling—I felt a horrible sensation of weightlessness, leaving my stomach behind while I was yanked into the air. Multiple hands: two or three men crushing my mouth and throwing me around like a sack of flour.

  I wasn’t heavy. But I wasn’t a shrimp either. The way these guys moved I might as well have been a doll. Their strength further terrified, but also shocked me.

  When I heard a car door and felt the sensation of being thrown forward, suffocating, still lashing out, I thought for the first time of doing more: using all my resources.

  Then crash—sick pain in my shoulder as I landed in some sort of vehicle. My hands were wrenched around to my back, tape at my wrists, cord or drawstring pulled tight on my neck, keeping the bag in place. All in the time it took me to cough and suck in a breath with the hand gone from my mouth and the bag still stifling me.

  I thrashed like an eel against tape, kicked out, and thwack. Foot hitting something relatively yielding.

  A different man shouted in pain, possibly more swearing. I couldn’t understand the language he used. Not German, not French, maybe something Scandinavian.

  Slamming noise from the back of an SUV or station wagon and I realized that was what I’d been thrown into. The vehicle shook
. Another door slammed. A deafening engine started.

  I’d been walking past rows of parked cars on the street. I saw it in an instant—this one at the end of the row where I’d turned. There had been … was it a Jeep? Yes, a silver Jeep, not like the little sedans and compact cars. They had been waiting for me with this vehicle.

  I was being kidnapped. The absurdity, impossibility of it, left me as reeling as the blows and blindness. Two or three men had lain in wait for me on a street corner in a foreign country, grabbed me, and thrown me in a Jeep.

  It was just … didn’t even … couldn’t be…

  Impossible.

  Had anyone heard me yell? Called the cops? England was covered by CCTV nose to tail. Someone would know. Yet, this particular street and corner, even if it had been recorded, who would see it? When? How soon and how would it help if they didn’t know where the Jeep was going or who I was or who the men involved were?

  Impossible. But not impossible to fight back.

  Engine roaring, dashing off through the streets of Brighton.

  In those first moments the idea to fight with magic had not entered my head. Beyond instinctive defense. Even if I’d thought it, I would never have been able to call it up.

  Magic is an effort, draining to the user, an act of will: focus and resolve. Yes, a skilled witch can summon magic she needs in a relative flash, but only relative. Much like a gun can be loaded and fired rapidly. If the gun is not loaded in the first place, however, no amount of pulling the trigger will make a bullet fly.

  With my heart hammering, struggling for each breath through that nylon sack, smelling wet dog and sawdust, with pain beating through my bruised shoulder and knees wadded up toward my chest, I tried to think.

  Kidnapped, being driven away, fight back. I was still a witch—like it or not.

  Two problems. First, the magic mindset. If I didn’t clear my head enough to focus on it, I couldn’t get anything to happen. Suffocating and panicking were not going to make magic. Second, mundanes involved. I couldn’t use magic in front of mundanes unless they were unaware of it. Not to stop a crime. Not to save my own life. Not to prevent a war. Never. Ever.