Breaking the Alpha Beast

by Ana Felix

  He tosses his head back and howls mournfully through gritted teeth. He knows the guards have given each other a look, glancing over their shoulders at the bolted door. He smells their fear heighten, hears their heartbeats grow louder, faster.

  It won’t be long before he has become a wolf with no trace of humanity left behind.

  * * *

  The elevator finally reaches the correct floor. The door opens and Claire lets out a quick gasp at the sight of two men in suits, hands clasped together at the waist, heads cocked to the side, in a typical guard stand. They are instantly alert when they see her. In her excitement she has forgotten that one important detail that Mal had given her earlier. He has guards outside the door if he requires any help.

  “Ms. Pomeroy,” the guard on the left holds up his hand, palm out, “You’re not supposed to be down here. In fact no one except Mr. Tranter can be here. I’m sure you know this, right?”

  Claire stands in front of them, defiant. “Of course I’m not supposed to be here—I want to be here. In fact, in light of my…role…in Ian’s performance, I think I’ve earned the right to be here.”

  Both guards exchange glances, eyebrows lifted in an unspoken query. The guard on the right shrugs, “What the heck, let her look. Maybe once she sees what’s going on, she won’t be back next time.”

  The other guard grins at his partner, then at Claire, bobs his head in agreement. “Yeah, there’s enough steel between us and…him. And he’s chained up.”

  The guard who spoke turns and slides a section of the door back to reveal a pane of Plexiglas. With mock flourish, the guard motions toward the window, “Step up and take a look. He’s almost there; heard him howl a while ago.”

  Claire steps tentatively up to the window. It’s low enough that she does not have to stand on her tip toes. She sees Ian crouched atop the bed. He is completely covered in black and tan fur. She watches as his torso elongates and his arms and legs taper and haunches rise. His ears grow into triangular points. He opens his mouth in a snarl, revealing sharp canine teeth. His jaw is lengthening into a long muzzle.

  Ian l’Argent is now fully a wolf. The largest wolf Claire has ever seen in documentaries from The Discovery Channel, Animal Planet, and the National Geographic channel. No trace of the man he had been on stage, save the tawny eyes.

  Instantly the wolf leaps from the bed and lunges for the door. The shackle around his neck sends him scrabbling backward. He lunges again, carefully this time, straining toward the door, whimpering pitifully.

  Oddly, Claire feels no fear. “Open the door,” she says, her voice calm.

  “Uh-uh,” says one of the guards behind her. “Abso-fucking-lutely no way. He…it…will tear you to shreds.”

  “No he won’t,” she says, face pressed against the glass. “He knows me.”

  “He knows you’re dinner. Orders from your boss—no one is allowed inside the cell when l’Argent has fully transitioned. You know that. Shouldn’t have let you have a look in the first place.”

  Claire turns around to face the guards. “His restraints are strong enough, right? Otherwise why would you bother to shackle him, right? The chain isn’t long enough to reach the door, right?” Sarcasm drips from each word. She can’t help it. The guards’ nonplussed expressions are her reward.

  The two men exchange looks, nodding. “Okay,” one of them says, sighing as if to appease an annoying child. “Have it your way. I gotta say, though, that mopping up blood and guts from a stone floor and collecting body parts ain’t included in our job description.”

  Claire only smiles her answer. She steps aside, letting a guard unlock the door. When it opens a sliver, he says, voice deadpan, “Have fun.” He sweeps his arm toward the door with a flourish of game show host.

  Claire doesn’t answer, doesn’t look at either man. She slips into the room, hears the door shut behind her with a thick chunk sound. She imagines the two men crowding round the small window set in the door, elbowing each other for viewing room. She smiles to herself. They want something bad to happen, just like spectators at a auto race—they’re hoping for the excitement of a crash, even if it means someone dies horribly. A little death and dismemberment to liven up a dull evening.

  The wolf who is/was Ian l’Argent stares at her, muzzle parted and lips skinned back in a snarl revealing teeth as long as tusks, sharp as ice picks. Saliva drips slowly in shiny viscous threads from the corners of its enormous jaws. A growl begins deep in its throat, ends in a sharp moan.

  When the beast sees her it ceases straining against the chain. The thick dark fur flattens back and the wolf pants, licking its chops amiably, like a friendly pup expecting to be petted. It sits back on its haunches and offers a massive paw.

  Claire steps forward, ready to accept the proffered paw. She hears two muffled “Ohs!” from behind the bolted door. She doesn’t turn around to acknowledge that she has heard them.

  She kneels before the beast, so close that she feels its warm, fetid breath coat her face for a moment. She takes the beast’s paw, cupping it in both her hands, brings it up to her cheek, then kisses it as she looks directly at the wolf. The wolf hisses a squeaky whimper, its dark golden eyes softening.

  He recognizes me, she thinks to herself. Even through the madness of his transformation, he knows it’s me and he’ll do no harm to me. She stands, then sits on the edge of the bare mattress. The beast leaps up beside her, the bed rocking and swaying with the weight of its huge bulk. The wolf circles once, then settles beside her. Claire reaches an arm round the beast and buries her face within it thick musky fur. The beast nuzzles her neck and licks her cheek with its long scarlet tongue.

  * * *

  Claire wakes suddenly to the sound of fists pounding on thick metal. She is not immediately aware of where she is, nor how long she has slept. She brushes the first joint of an index finger across her closed eyelids, wincing before she opens them. She feels a heavy weighty grogginess pulling at her muscles and bones, enticing her to lay back down on the mattress. Now she realizes that she has slept for an extended period of time.

  She looks up and sees the faces of the two guards pressed against the Plexiglas rectangle cut in the door. “Hey!” one of the men shouts, pounding his fist on the metal beside the window. “It’s two-something o’clock in the morning. You have to be out of here now!”

  Claire offers them a passive-aggressive smile and rolls on her side, expecting to see the sleeping wolf beside her. There is only a deep round impression in the mattress where the beast had sat. She sees the chain stretched taut across the length of the bed, leading down to the floor. She crawls to the opposite side and looks over the edge to see Ian naked and curled in a fetal position on the floor.

  She scrambles off the bed and crouches by Ian’s side, looking for a way to remove the shackles. She needs the key. Turning around, she rises to her feet and rushes to the door. The guards open it and pull her out of the room, slamming the door shut behind her. “He needs help,” she pleads.

  “No,” the taller guard says, irritated. “You need to go home. He can take care of himself.”

  “But he’s still in chains. The transformation is over—”

  “And your visit is over. Our orders are to leave l’Argent in there until Mr. Tranter arrives in the morning. We’re not even allowed in there, and as you can see,” he turns around once with arms outspread, “we have no fucking key for the shackles. So, you need to leave right now, no exceptions. It’s bad enough we let you in there in the first place. Just go home, lady—and don’t even tell anyone about this little adventure.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  The guard who spoke, lowers his head and squints at her menacingly. “Yeah, it’s a threat. Especially if I lose my job over this shit.”

  Claire raises her hands, palms out in mock supplication. “Okay, okay. I’m gone, and not a word about this…adventure.” She pantomimes zipping her lips. She strolls to the elevator with languid roll of her hips, then turns, “
Thanks for the show. It was better than the one on stage.”

  NINE

  A bizarre erotic dream about a man morphing into a wolf jolts Claire awake. She didn’t have coitus with the wolf, but the erotic part was that she was naked and climaxing as she watched man become alpha canine. Between the foggy corridor of light slumber and fully awake, she realizes that part of the dream actually happened.

  It’s Sunday morning and her day off. Claire glances at her alarm clock and notes the time: 10:30 AM. The blinds in her bedroom are closed, flushing the room with a grey gradient that imitates early dawn. The last thing she needs on a late Sunday morning is a cruel slash of bright sunshine tracing her face, making her wince and squint. She rolls on her back, yawns and stretches her arms above her head until her knuckles graze the headboard. As she stretches she clamps her thighs tightly together and squeezes a tiny orgasm left over from the dream.

  Because it’s her day off, she can luxuriate in bed as late as she likes. Which means she has all morning to masturbate if she wants. Sometimes she tries to resist, convincing herself that she needs to have a productive Sunday morning for a change. But her resolve disappears quickly into a “what the heck” moment. This is one of those moments.

  She parts her legs in short quick segments until her knees are inches from the mattress. She dips a forefinger into her damp and swelling cunt, worming it around from just under her clitoris to her anus and back again. She releases a long mournful sigh, opens her legs wider and arches her back, humping her hand. She imagines that her legs are held in stirrups and she is unable to move them. She closes her eyes, then slips her finger all the way in and whispers, “Relax, this may tickle a little.” She sighs again.

  She decides against using a vibrator to get herself off. It’s Sunday morning and she wants to take things slowly, prolong the pleasure of foreplay by using only her hand—no need to rush a climax.

  She sits up a little so that she can see her hungry pussy pulsing under her touch. Aroused, it looks like a split cantaloupe. She fondles and teases her nipples with one hand as the other rubs and strokes her vulva. She feels her labia puffing up beneath her slick fingers. When she touches the swollen nub of her clitoris she moans deeply as a needle of pleasure shoots through it.

  Claire senses the thickness of an orgasm building deep in her pelvis. No, not yet. She reluctantly ceases her rubbing and stroking, leaving her legs open to a drift of breeze from the window—although not as widely spaced. Her thighs feel as if bees are trapped there, buzzing all the way to her groin. She waits a brief moment, then lightly daubs her cunt in tentative bursts. Pleasure comes and goes like a skimmed stone.

  She smells her own musky sent come off her and she can no longer resist the temptation, can no longer hold back. With intense ferocity she rubs at her cunt, bringing off an explosive orgasm despite her efforts to resist. She arches her back into both hands and feels the residue of her climax.

  Her phone’s cheerful ringtone interrupts her reverie like a cuff to the head. Fuck!

  As she picks up her phone, she wonders who would be calling her on a Sunday morning. “Hello,” her tone sounds a tad resentful.

  “Oh…sorry to interrupt your morning off. Did I wake you?” It’s Ian l’Argent’s raspy burr.

  “No,” she murmurs, caught off guard, sits up, alert. “Not at all. I should be up, making a hearty breakfast for myself.” Pauses, carefully. “Would you like to join me? I’m willing to wait for you. I make a mean omelet…or rather, an omelet that ends up becoming a frittata.”

  “I’d be happy to sample your frittata,” Ian says, a bit of chuckle edging his words. “That didn’t come off very well. Sorry.”

  Claire smiles, her voice warm. “I wouldn’t take it any other way. You’ve had my other frittata—but the one I’ll be serving you this morning is more nutritious. Let me give you my address—”

  “Already have it. You forget that I live at the office and am privy to the HR files.”

  “Mal doesn’t keep it under lock and key?”

  “Nor does he keep me under lock and key. I supposed you’d wondered about that.”

  Actually, she had wondered. Somehow, she still believed that Mal Tranter would always make sure that his meal ticket remained beneath his watchful eye. “No bodyguards or spies to accompany you?”

  “Oh, they’re ‘round. They keep a discreet distance to note where I’ve got to, but I see them. As long as they don’t approach me, they can do as they like.” There’s a slight irritation touching his words. “I’ll be at your place soon. Have to shower—feeling quite gritty at the moment.”

  Before she can say good-bye, the call has ended.

  * * *

  Claire knows that with Sunday L.A. traffic it won’t take long for Ian to travel from Sunset Blvd. in North Hollywood to her condo on North Fuller Avenue in West Hollywood. She showers quickly, barely rinsing off the herbal-scented body wash, toweling off as she mines through her closet, grabs a navy-striped J. Crew Breton shirt and plucks a pair of denim cut-off shorts from the floor. With the clothes balled against her chest, she rummages in her dresser for a bra and underpants.

  She’s just hauling the cut-offs up over her ass when she hears her phone’s ringtone echo from her bedroom. She runs to the bedroom and scoops up the phone. A text from Ian: “I’m outside. Don’t like doorbells. Sorry.” She texts back, “No worries. You chose wisely because my doorbell doesn’t work. See ya.” He replies with a thumbs up emojii.

  Claire opens the door, finding it both odd and familiar to see him there. He is wearing his ubiquitous fashionably damaged denim jeans and a slightly over-sized white polo shirt, untucked. His black hair is loose and wavy, barely touching his shoulders. The combination of black hair and olive skin give him the look of a modern-day Moor. He smiles genially as he casually pulls his Ray-Ban Clubmasters from his face, folds them and hangs the sunglasses from the V in his shirt. She stands aside to let him in, sweeping her hand at the living room, “Entre vous.”

  Ian stands in the middle of the living room and glances around, inspecting the height of the vaulted ceiling, then glances over his shoulder at the sofa behind him. She takes the cue and sits down, patting the space beside her. Once seated he twists to face her, “I remembered everything last night—and usually I don’t at all once I’ve…well…fully become a wolf.”

  “You recognized me.”

  “I did. It was as if you were the only clear thing in the room—everyone else was a blur: the furniture, the men looking through the window in the door. Yet, I saw only you—sensed you, or something like that. I promise you, this has never happened before. With anyone else.”

  Ian’s eyes barely blink, his gaze touches here and there on her face as if connecting some unseen dots. His mouth seems to soften and relax and he reaches a hand up to cup her jaw gently, his thumb stroking her chin. “You know,” he says, the deep timbre of his voice thrumming the air between them, “to put it bluntly, we’ve had sex but we haven’t ever kissed. In fact, I’ve never kissed any of the…others. I didn’t want to, really. But you…”

  He puts his other hand on Claire’s neck, just below the hairline, thumb cradling her earlobe. He draws her face to his and gives her an intense look that makes her freeze, as if she expects to be devoured by him. She stifles a gasp, because she still finds his behavior a little unpredictable. A corner of his mouth cants upward and he tilts his head, then lowers to press his slightly opened mouth to hers. He doesn’t go in right away, just presses his lips against hers, then gently strokes her lips back and forth, nuzzling her mouth.

  Claire opens her mouth, inviting his warm tongue to enter—and it does. She feels it probe the roof of her palate until it tickles. She shivers a little, then moans into him. She brings her hand up along the back of his neck, fingers threading through his thick dark hair.

  Their heads weave in opposite directions, lips press still harder. Claire imagines that she will see impressions of her front teeth on the inside of her l
ip afterward. Her face is so close to Ian’s that she feels the pulse of exhaled breath from his nostrils dust her cheek. She needs air, but she doesn’t want to offend Ian by pulling away too abruptly. Carefully, she slowly turns her face away and gasps, then brings her face to rest in the space between Ian’s chin and shoulder.

  Claire feels Ian’s hand press warm and heavy on the crown of her head, clutching gently, sliding slowly toward the base of her neck. She feels every follicle in its path tingle at its root, sending a wave of pleasure across her scalp. She is both confused and pleased by Ian’s sudden tenderness toward her—and just a little curious about it. He seems to have exchanged personas with the aloof, mysterious and distant rock star that she’d initially met. “Rich hermit with an attitude” had been her first impression of him, making it easier to dismiss him, even though she couldn’t deny that she was physically attracted to him—but then, wasn’t everyone regardless of gender?

  “Last night,” he whispers against her hair, “I sensed that you were special—perhaps I knew it from my first taste of you. Of course, you had the correct chemistry that I required, but there was something more, a quality beyond that. I didn’t want to believe it—I have a rather cynical nature that you’ve doubtless noticed. It’s simply that I’ve been so disappointed over and over again by people I’ve tried to become intimate with. I don’t fancy being taken for granted, used for what I have or can provide. So I gave up, closed myself off. Put some distance between myself and anyone I met, pretending I had no real feelings at all. It’s been hard and lonely creating this shell—this barrier.”

  Claire pulls away from him, looks directly at him as if determined to locate his core. “But after last night in particular, everything has changed?”

  “Indeed after last night,” his voice sounds boyish with excitement. “I’ve told you my family’s terrible history and now you have confirmation that it’s no fanciful tale spun by firelight. Now here’s another for you to ponder: there is a legend that the curse of lycanthropy can be broken by a coupling with a woman who shares lineage with the witch who cast this wretched spell.”