Between Two Wolves and a Hard Place: (BBW Paranormal Shape Shifter Romance) (Honeycomb Falls Book 4)

by Cassie Wright

  "We're men. We don't need our mate to make the first move. We don't need to be chosen. We can do the choosing. We can tell her we want her. That we've always wanted her. That nothing has been right since she left."

  Dean opens his mouth to protest, and then shakes his head and looks away.

  "Dean. I want her. Her scent is like smoke rising up through my soul. I want her more than anything. And I know you want her too. Deny it. Look me in the eyes and deny it."

  Dean purses his lips. I can almost see him shake from the intensity of his anger. "She's scared of me, damn it," he finally whispers. "And for good reason. I'm a monster."

  I grab him by the arms. "You are not a monster. You were young. You lost control. That's it."

  "No," he whispers again, voice raw. "I drove her away. I ruined everything."

  "Brother," I say. "You're wrong. And even if you were right, it doesn't matter. This is our chance to make good. To reach out and take what we want. What we need. She's back, Dean. She's here. Right now. All we need to do is go to her."

  "And if you're wrong? If she doesn't want us?"

  I laugh and let go of him, spreading my arms wide. "Then she leaves, and we're where we before. We'll have lost nothing, but we'll know. We'll know that we tried. We tried to take the perfect mate."

  "I don't know," he says.

  "Yes you do. Again, I'll ask you. Look me in the eyes, and tell me you prefer Leena over Kiera. Go on. Do it."

  Dean looks up. Stares me full in the eyes, and for a long, aching moment I think he's going to do it. Tell the lie that will damn him, damn me, and ruin everything. Because of his pride. His guilt. His fear.

  But he doesn't. He opens his mouth, but then he closes it, and relief swamps me like a tidal wave. "See? Come on. One chance. We'll go to the studio tonight. We'll talk to her. We'll tell her we want her, we'll offer everything we've got. And if she says no? Then fuck her."

  "And - if she says yes?" Dean sounds almost nervous.

  My smile becomes positively wicked. "If she says yes? Then, my friend, we will take her as we meant to, all those years ago."

  Chapter 9

  I do my best to put all thoughts of Dean and Drake from my mind. To not think about their smoldering presence, their hands and lips. I busy myself with setting up shop, with checking out the kiln and firing it up, with unpacking the crates, and checking out the different kinds of glass I have to work with.

  I feel giddy. Like a kid on Christmas morning. The space is perfect; if anything, it's too large. But I love the stark brickwork, and the flowing of the Conway just outside my window. I love the ceiling being so high overhead, and the naked light bulbs that hang from wires. I love the rough cement floor. The almost brutal way that this huge space is dedicated to glass working. There's nothing extraneous. Nothing superfluous.

  Still, this is all just gear. No matter how fancy, it's nothing without vision. Without a direction for me to take my art. As that realization starts to set in, I feel a moment's panic. What am I going to create? I can't just work in the same line I was creating back at Iron and Roses. I can't turn in more of the same, no matter how well-designed and executed. I need to stand out. From my own work. I need to turn my back on my old style, and in a matter of two weeks, recreate myself like a phoenix rising gloriously from the ashes.

  I step outside, thrilling as I lock the door behind myself, and go for a walk. I need fresh air, and I almost always have my best ideas when I'm outside. I look back at the Conway Studios as I leave, marveling at my fortune. No matter what comes, I owe Drake a debt of gratitude I doubt I can ever repay. To think: he put this all together after I left. What depth of emotion would lead someone to do that? And then keep it empty, waiting for me, on the off chance that I would ever decide to come home.

  Which I didn't. Guilt floods through me. I spent years fighting to not even think about Dean and Drake. To deny the passion that I had for them. To block a part of my soul. And why? Due to fear. Due to trauma.

  I walk past the trestle bridge and step up to the bridge of flowers. The path is narrow, and the bushes and plants that are blossoming on both sides are glorious. A number of people are crossing slowly, pausing to bend down and read name tags, and here and there ridiculously fat bumblebees are humming as they waft slowly through the air.

  I pause.

  Did that bee have a smiling face? I blink, but it's gone. Surely not. I rub at my head and keep going, taking in the gorgeous flowers. The women here have real talent, and for a moment I feel my panic retreat. I enjoy the sun on my face, the beauty of nature, and the good energy of the folks enjoying the bridge like I am.

  When I get to the far side I take a deep breath and look around, and see that a new spot has opened next to Mindy's General Store. It's simply called Anita's, and from the display window I can immediately tell it's my kind of store: a gourmet bakery. I cross the street, tummy rumbling, and pull open the door, enjoying the pleasant tinkle of the bell.

  Inside, everything smells delicious, and the lighting is warm and inviting. The counters, floor, and tables gleam, and the display case shows an array of tempting morsels that bewilder me. Which to eat first? I drift up to the counter, and a plump woman a little older than me beams a smile at me, adjusting her glasses and wiping her flour-covered hands on her apron. She's working on what looks like the frosting of a wedding cake, which looks absolutely scrumptious.

  "What can I get you today?" She's so pleasant, her smile so genuine, that I can't help but smile back.

  "I don't know. I feel overwhelmed. Is it wrong for me to want to eat everything?"

  She laughs, a warm sound. "Given that I baked most of them, I'm delighted to hear that. The only thing that's out of bounds is this wedding cake. How about a boysenberry bear claw? They're fresh out of the oven."

  "Ooh," I say, leaning down to inspect them. "Perfect. And a coffee too, please."

  "Coming right up." She places the bear claw on a small plate and sets it on the counter, then turns to pour my coffee. I hug myself, moving back to the front window where I stare out at the old mill across the Conway. It looks grand, august even, and I can't believe I have the perfect studio in there.

  Which brings me back to my dilemma: what am I going to create? What is my line of glasswork going to revolve around? Vases? Abstract shapes? Small and detailed, or large and ornate? I don't have time to deliberate. I need to know, and now.

  "Here you go," says the woman, setting the coffee next to the pastry, and I step back to pay.

  "Are you guys new? I grew up around here, but I haven't been back in awhile."

  The woman swipes my credit card and hands it back to me. "We just opened up last fall. I'm Anita, by the way."

  "Hello!" I shake hands with her over the counter, her infectious smile bringing back my own. "Kiera. I love your bakery."

  She gives me a cute little shrug. "Thanks! I love it too. I hope to see you around."

  I nod, pick up my coffee and bear claw, then move back to the window. You wouldn't get this kind of contact with a random barista in New York. Or if you did, it would be because they'd been instructed to be friendly in their corporate training.

  I sigh and sit. Art. Glass. What to do? I cycle all of my favorite artists' work through my mind, but I don't want to be derivative. Whatever I create has to reflect where I am in my life, who I am right now, what I'm going through. And what is that?

  I munch on my bear claw and moan, then immediately cover my mouth and blush, looking over my shoulder. Anita clearly heard, and looks past the customer standing in front of her to give me a grin and a thumbs-up. I beam back, then turn around. The pastry really is amazing. I wash my bite down with a sip of coffee, then force my thoughts back on track.

  What feels most real to me right now? Loss. Anger. Shame. Those are the first words that come to mind. Marv standing in the hotel doorway, offering me fifty bucks if I'd let him take me from behind. That memory causes anger and the closest I've ever felt to hatred to blossom wit
h me. How could he? How could he treat me that way? And to think, I spent years with him. Defending him. Standing up for him. Paying for his rent. Making excuses for him.

  I force myself to relax and take another bite. Why did I stay with Marv for so long? I stare out the window. Why? I munch slowly, trying to answer the question. Nothing comes at first. But I can tell that whatever reason kept me shackled to his side, it made his betrayal all the more galling. It was connected. His betrayal was unexpected. Shocking. It revealed a side to him that I'd never imagined existed. Like a monster emerging from the dark.

  I freeze, coffee halfway to my mouth. Like a monster emerging. Like Dean turning into a wolf. It clicks then, and with painful clarity I realize what kept me by his side: he was predictable. Safe. I thought I understood him, and that he had no surprises in store for me. I felt superior to him. In control. I thought, erroneously, that he would never scare me. Surprise me. Turn into a monster.

  I set the cup down with a rattle on its saucer. My heart is racing. I fled Dean and Drake, and blocked them from my mind. I thought I'd moved on, but I hadn't. That evening in the woods had haunted my every decision, right up to picking a despicable man I thought would never surprise me.

  And yet he had, and had proven to be a worse monster than Dean ever could be. Tears prick my eyes, and I laugh bitterly at myself beneath my breath. I was a fool. A blind, ignorant fool. All these years I've fought to avoid being hurt, and I only set myself up for the greatest devastation of all.

  I finish my bear claw and coffee, but the pleasure in their taste is gone. Feeling raw, vulnerable, I rise to my feet and slip back outside, not wanting to let Anita see my pain. The cold spring air feels good on my face, and I set out for a walk, not caring what direction I go in. South, and soon the road curves away from the river and Honeycomb Falls and into the woods.

  Marv proved to be a monster, but I'm the one who was purposefully blind to his faults. I'm the one who refused to see what was right before my eyes. I can't totally blame Marv for acting according to his nature; the true blame lies on my shoulders, and in my deluded denial.

  But no longer. I won't hide from the real world any more. I won't deny what I wanted, what I needed. Immediately an image of Dean and Drake appears before me. My truest, oldest friends. I ran away from them, terrified, and while that's understandable, is it fair? I wrestle with that question. Is there a way to a second chance? The thought sends a shiver through me, and an image of a slavering wolf flashes before my eyes. My throat clenches, and I hug myself tight.

  Dean isn't a monster. He's a shifter. Can I trust him? Trust him to keep control of himself? I don't know. I don't know the Dean of today. He looked so dark and lost in Fool's Gold. And that Leena. She seems more his style now.

  My walk takes me past that grand old estate, Honeycomb Hall, hidden out here on the outskirts of town. I'm pleased to see how well-kept it looks. Growing up, we all knew to avoid its grounds, where the witch Mama B held sway. Is she still around? I see a number of cars parked in the circular driveway, and what looks like a lot of activity on the grounds. An archway is being erected, with wreaths of flowers everywhere. Is somebody getting married? I remember Anita's wedding cake and grin. Whoever they are, they're in for one delicious wedding cake.

  I turn and head back. Thoughts of my art, of Dean and Drake, and of Marv swirl through my mind. The past. The present. But what about my future? Can I change? Can I confront my fears? Can I become stronger, wiser, more self-aware? Can I rise from the ashes of all my disasters, and recreate myself?

  Like a phoenix, I think, and then stop. Rebirth. The phoenix. Red glass. Flame and fire. Ashes and death. New life. Hope and freedom. Victory in defeat.

  My whole body shivers with creative joy, and I realize: this is it. This is the theme I'll work with. This is what speaks truest to me, this is where I am.

  I need forgiveness, I need growth, I need to rediscover love. My old, haunted self must die so that a new, braver, more honest version can live.

  Energy fills me, making me wanting to run, to leap and laugh. Yes! I rush back to Honeycomb Falls, cross over the trestle bridge, take a hard right down to Conway Studios, and grab my bike. I need to get started. I need to start sketching, start creating. I ride my bike back to my parents' house, rushing along sidewalks and darting across streets, and despite the cool air I'm bathed in sweat by the time I get home.

  I grab my dad and, explaining everything to him in fits and starts, get him to help me load all my glassblowing equipment from his garage into the back of his car, and then drive it down to my new studio.

  He helps me unload, bemused and happy for me, and doesn't even protest when I hug him as tightly as I can, and then usher him out the door. He knows my creative moods. He knows how I get. With the door closed, I grab my sketch pad and sit with my back to the wall that looks out over the river. With charcoal and pencils I begin to sketch, free-flowing, not holding anything back, page after page of designs, whirls, swirls, forms and figures.

  Time passes. When I finally blink and look up, the sun is setting behind the mountains to the west, and the shadows stretch long across the cement floor. There's a crick in my neck, and my butt has gone numb. I'm surrounded by countless drawings, an outpouring of creativity that I haven't felt in over a year. I grin and stand with a moan, then stretch, fists pressed into the small of my back, and wander over to the wall to flick a switch and turn on the lights.

  Rebirth. That's what my new line will be called. But I have to embody the concept for the art to feel true. And what does that mean? It means I need to clear the air with Dean and Drake. I need to apologize. I need to ask for their forgiveness, and tell them how I feel.

  I dig out my phone and pull up Drake's number. I bite my lower lip. He's going to be furious with me. At my nerve in asking for another meeting. At my utter lack of shame. But I have to call. I have to speak to them both.

  Just then, my phone lights up and rings. It's Drake's number. I nearly drop the phone in my surprise, and then press it to my ear. "Hello?"

  "Kiera?" His voice is tight, almost breathless.

  "Drake?"

  "We need to talk."

  "I - yes! I was just about to call you. How did -"

  "The three of us. Dean's here with me. We need to see you. Now."

  "Now? Yes. Perfect." I feel bewildered. What's going on?

  "Are you at the studio?"

  "I am. Come over."

  The door opens, and Drake steps in, lowering his phone, Dean right behind him. My heart seizes up. They're here. Their eyes burn into me, so intense they seem to glow in the gloom, and fear and desire cause my heart to stop.

  Chapter 10

  Like that, they're both suddenly there, in the flesh, staring at me, their eyes consuming my body. I have a ridiculous urge to turn and run. But where would I go? Drake closes the door behind him, and for a long, aching, terrible moment we simply stand there, staring at each other.

  And good god, they're delicious to look at. Both of them could be underwear models. No, what am I thinking? They exude far too much primal, dangerous energy to ever just stand around in undies. They would scare and arouse people beyond measure if they were seen naked on subway billboards. Oh no. These two men are wolves, primitive and alluring and oh, what am I thinking? Say something!

  My throat is parched, so I gulp and give my silly wave. "Hi."

  Drake snorts and Dean stalks across the large room to one of the windows, where he looks out at the Conway. I watch him go, and feel even more uncertain. Why does he look so angry?

  Drake runs his hand through his hair. "Thanks for seeing us."

  "Are you kidding? I was about to call you. I have so much I need to say."

  Dean's got his back to us, fingertips resting on the windowsill. His stillness draws the eye. When did he grow so hard? The Dean I knew was prone to moods, could even be called taciturn, but was easily drawn into laughter and goofing around by Drake and me. This man - he looks like he's forgot
ten how to smile.

  "Yeah? Why was that?" Drake steps closer, and I step back. It's not that I'm afraid of him. Rather, it's that I don't trust myself close to him. Don't trust my hands not to rove. To explore.

  I lick my lips. "I've realized a lot of things. Today. Things I didn't understand. About myself. About you two."

  Drake lowers his chin and crosses his arms. He's not mad. He's not closed off and cold. He's receptive. He's listening. So I take the plunge.

  "I - I ran away from you both. You know that, but I didn't realize it. I buried my past. Honeycomb Falls. Even my parents. I took it all and hid it at the back of my mind."

  "Because of me," says Dean, his voice harsh.

  "I - yes." It's hard to say. To admit. I want to soften my words. But the truth is hard, and it needs to be spoken. "You scared me. I was young. I didn't know what was going on. I felt vulnerable. So I ran. And I've been running ever since. Venice. Seattle. New York. Never staying anywhere for long. Avoiding anything that reminded me of you two. Of anything dangerous. That I couldn't control."

  Dean turns to stare at me, and his gold eyes catch the faint evening light and seem to glow. I shiver. He's not a man. He's not a human. He's a werewolf. Dangerous. Both of them. I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be alone with them - no. I force those thoughts down and take a deep breath.

  "And I hooked up with a guy. Marv. Who was your complete opposite. I thought I could control him. And in the end, I was wrong. Dead wrong." I give a bitter laugh. "He stole everything from me. Hurt me worse than I thought was possible. He shattered my world, and stole my art. So I did what I always do. I ran away. But this time I came home."

  They're both listening intently, as if nothing in the world is more important than my words. Dean pushes off the windowsill and approaches. I fight to not step back. My heart is racing. The tension between us is so thick I feel like I'm underwater.

  "And..." It's hard to speak. To string words together. I just want to drink them in. " I realized I can't run anymore. I'm going to fight him. I'm going to create new art. And win the Harrowgate nomination. But..."