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

by Cassie Wright

  I curl up on my side and grin at the wall. It was amazing and weird and electric all at once. On some level, we slipped back into our old roles, with Drake sincere and open, Dean quiet but attentive, and me teasing them both as mercilessly as I could. Yet beneath that old familiarity lay something completely new. Images of their kissing and licking my body flashed through my mind at random times, causing me to blush furiously. And they, sensitive as only wolves could be, would only grin at me and press in a little closer.

  Oh. How have things become so good, so quickly? It's as if I've been denying the best part of my life for six years, my back turned to the light, and I've finally resolved to turn around and be bathed by the sun. Hmm. I remember how Dean's tongue felt between my legs. The shuddering, incredible orgasm that shattered my body. There was so much more that I wanted to do with them. To explore. And to think! I could do so with both of them at once. Neither of them showed any inclination to not participate. Two for the price of one.

  I slide my hand down my body, cupping my breast as I imagine Dean and Drake naked beside me. I'm dying to see what Dean's tattoo is of. I want to feel their skin against mine. Hot like sun-baked rock. Their flesh firm. Their muscles hard. The three of us pressed together.

  My hand slides further down my body and slips between my legs. I sigh as I imagine Dean's cock. Thick and hard and long. Will they both take me at once? Is that possible? I slip a finger inside myself, and decide that yes, that's what I want. Both of them inside me. Moving together. Claiming me. Making me their mate.

  It doesn't take long to bring myself to orgasm, though it's a pale ghost of what I experienced last night. I sigh and stretch, then get up and pad into my bathroom. A hot, scouring shower later, I get dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. Breakfast, and then work. Today I'm going to start blowing glass.

  Downstairs my parents have already had breakfast and headed out. A note is set on the counter, written by my mother and admonishing me to eat, but I just grab a small carton of coconut water from the fridge and an apple and head out. I feel light and energized, and suddenly I'm dying to get to the studio.

  I drive down, humming and waving at people just for the pleasure of seeing them wave back, and park in front of the old mill. I hop out and see Anna from the jewelry shop getting out of a sky-blue Mini.

  "Good morning!" I say, all smiles.

  "Well, good morning! You seem happy. Did you get the studio?" I dangle my new keys in response, and she claps her hands. "Wonderful!"

  "You can't imagine. I can't wait to get to work. Feel free to swing by later if you want!" I'm literally hopping from one foot to the other, so eager am I to get started, so I head inside, down the hall, and let myself into my studio.

  My studio. I love the sound of those words. I get the furnace going, then open the boxes of glass and begin searching for what I want.

  And what glass. Drake must have consulted experts and spared no expense, because the quality and variety is astounding. I find what I want quickly: clear glass, then gray, then cadmium yellow followed by a smoldering crimson.

  I know exactly what I want to create. It's going to be part of a series, an evolution of forms. Each piece will be beautiful by itself, but when seen as series, one after the other, they'll tell a tale. Rebirth. The phoenix, reborn.

  I've grown used to working in a team. I haven't crafted glass by myself in some time, and what I'm envisioning would be infinitely easier if I had Jerry and Rick with me to help. But no. I'm going to tackle this one alone.

  I spend a good fifteen minutes creating a rough web of wires while the furnace grows fiery hot, radiating heat such that the whole studio becomes warm. Then I take up one of my pipes and affix the clear glass to the end of it, and then add the slender rods of colored glass in my desired pattern. Clearing my mind, I thrust the glass into the furnace's open mouth.

  I focus as I rest my pipe on the raised pincers that allow me to spin the pipe slowly as the glass heats up. Gravity will pull at the molten glass constantly, and in order to keep it shaped as I desire, I have to constantly spin the glass. When I judge the moment to be correct, I pull out the pipe, the glass already glowing orange, the metal pipe a deep cherry red.

  I immediately begin to roll the glass on a smooth iron bench, back and forth, over and over again, pushing the rods of colored glass into the clear glass, melding them together. Once I'm happy and the glass has begun to cool again, I thrust it back into the furnace.

  Now. Now comes the moment for artistry and careful precision. I spin the pipe once more on the raised pincers, smoothly, slowly, allowing the glass to grow molten, and then draw it forth once more when it's glowing.

  I love this. I feel alive, my blood afire with creative passion. The glass is soft, and as I roll it against the bench, I raise the far end of the pipe to my mouth and blow sharply into it, causing the glass at the other end to bulge. Quickly I spin the pipe, round and round, and then blow. Then spin, and then blow. The glass knob grows, swelling, and as it begins to cool I immediately push it back into the furnace.

  The third time I remove it I can tell the glass has grown almost liquid, and I point the pipe up into the air at a forty-five degree angle and keep spinning it as the glass seeks to sag and warp. I wait till the exact right moment, then lay it down on the bench and press the orange and crimson slivers of glass into its apex. Immediately I thrust it back into the furnace.

  Nothing about working glass is easy. Your attention has to be unwavering. Your body cannot rest. You have to maintain complete and strict control of the temperature, the form, the shape, and the speed at which you work. Once more I remove the glass, and once more I blow into the pipe, swelling it further, pushing the glass.

  Now for my unique touch. I grab the rough web of wires and slip it over the swollen glass. I begin turning the pipe again, and blowing once more. The glass swells - but now it's constrained by the wires. Large wedges bulge out gently between the wires, and still I turn it, very slowly now, allowing gravity to pull the glass down and out. I pass a thick cloth over the glass as it cools, smoothing it, as gently as I can, and when I think the moment is perfect, I lift my piece, stagger over to the fridge, open the door, and very, very carefully lay the glass down on the pad inside. I unscrew the pipe, and shut the door quickly.

  Success.

  I grin, wipe the sweat from my brow, and glance at my phone. I've been at it nonstop for almost an hour. I'll let the piece set for the rest of the day, and take it out in the later afternoon. Only then will I step back and critically examine what I've made.

  Immediately my thoughts turn to Dean and Drake. I told them very sternly that I had to focus this morning. I want to call them. I want to invite them over, or ask them to go on a hike, or anything, really. But I can't. Two weeks. It's all I've got to impress Harrowgate. So I blow a strand of curly hair from my face, and get to work on my next project.

  Five hours later I've got three more projects cooling in the fridge, and my stomach is growling rebelliously. I'm exhausted, but it's that good kind of fatigue that makes you want to grin. I wipe my face with a cloth and set aside my pincers. Oh, it's good to focus on glass again. To banish everything away but the immediate and urgent art that's coming to life right before your eyes.

  It's after three in the afternoon. I should get lunch. I should stay calm and collected, and only check on my first project when I get back. But it's ready. I know I can pull it out without risking any danger to the glass.

  Suddenly nervous, I crack open the fridge door and glance inside. I blink as if seeing the piece for the first time. It's - it's gorgeous. I press both my hands to my face. It looks like a cloud striving to take form. Its base is clear, then smoky gray, and rises delicately to hints of yellow then fiery red at the tips, like a cloud catching fire. Intricate bands of colored glass like a fisherman's web run through it, and the name comes to me in a snap: Phoenix I.

  Cautiously, almost tenderly, I lift it out and set it on one of my tables. Sunlight enter
s the piece and causes it to glow as if it's alive. I step back and let out a squeal of delight and leap into the air. Impulsively I take out my phone and take three photographs of the piece, each from a different angle, and then bundle my images and send them to Julia at Harrowgate. Just a taste of what's to come: Phoenix I.

  I lower my phone and heave a deep sigh. I feel content. And weary. And happy. I give myself a hug, then turn my thoughts to lunch. Where should I go? Anita's? Hmm, I could use a strong coffee and a slice of blueberry pie.

  I pack up my tools, clean everything that needs cleaning, turn off the furnace, and am about to head outside when my phone rings.

  It's Julia's number.

  "Hello?" I try not to sound breathless.

  "Kiera? This is Julia Castle from Harrowgate. How are you?"

  "Fine! I mean, I'm doing well. Thank you. And yourself?" I feel like I've suddenly lost the ability to string words together into coherent sentences.

  "Kiera, the photographs you sent me are stunning. The colors. The shape. The energy contained within the glass - I love it."

  "Wow." I blink and stare at nothing. "Thank you."

  "If your other pieces are of this caliber, then I believe you stand an excellent chance of being selected for our next line."

  "Ms. Castle, I don't know what to say." Suddenly, beating Marv seems like a childish reason to be making these sculptures. Suddenly, it's only the art itself that matters. All that drama in New York can fade away. What matters is the future.

  "Now, let me ask a question. You told me in our last conversation that you are no longer with Iron and Roses. Is that correct?"

  "Yes," I say. "For the near future."

  "Are you working with another studio, then?"

  "I, well, no. I've come home, and I'm working out of a small place all my own."

  "No team?"

  "No, no team." I restrain the urge to sigh. I could maybe call up my people in New York and invite them to join me here, but would they come? Would they leave their lives in New York to come to a little town in western Massachusetts? I don't know.

  "Well. The reason I'm inquiring is that if you were to win the nomination, then based on your talent and drive, I would like to extend the offer for you to become our Harrowgate Artist in Residence, and to come work at our studio in Charleston."

  I draw up short. "But - but I thought Charles Vernaki was your Artist in Residence?" Vernaki is a legend in the field. His works have been installed and displayed across the world.

  "He's decided to step down by the end of this spring," says Julia. "We're looking for new talent, somebody who can take our own Harrowgate line in a new direction. Based on your work at Iron and Roses, and what you've just sent me today, I believe there's an excellent chance the board would extend the invitation to you, if you're selected. Are you interested?"

  "Interested in being the Harrowgate Artist in Residence?" I try to keep the incredulity and squeals out of my voice. "Yes! Oh my god, yes, absolutely."

  "Wonderful." Julia sounds almost smug. "I hoped you would be interested. Very well. Please send over the rest of your pieces so we can judge them by the deadline. Well done, Kiera. Well done, indeed."

  She hangs up, and I lower the phone. I feel like I'm having an out-of-body experience. The Harrowgate Charleston studio is famous. Old, prestigious, where some of the best international artists have come to work. To be offered the position of Artist in Residence is beyond anything I've ever dreamed.

  I'd have complete artistic control. I'd be able to choose where in the world I want my art displayed - not just in Harrowgate galleries, but live installations. I could have my pieces displayed over the canals of Venice. Maybe inside the Tate Modern in London. I'd become an instant authority, backed by the prestige of the studio and Harrowgate's name. It's the chance of a lifetime.

  My phone rings, and suddenly I go cold. On the screen is a name that five minutes ago would have brought me nothing but joy. Now it sends an earthquake of doubt and confusion through my soul.

  Dean.

  Chapter 13

  I don't answer the phone. I feel like I've been punched in the gut followed by a hook to the jaw. My soul wants to split into two. I can feel the different pressures tugging on me like iron hooks sunk into my spirit. Dean and Drake. Harrowgate. Art versus love. I lift my hands to my temples and press tight. Why? Why does it have to be this way?

  My phone rings again. Dean. I don't answer. Biting the corner of my lip, I move to one of the windows and stare down at the water. Rushing and cold. I almost want to dive into it and have it wash away all my concerns. Is there no winning in this world?

  A wild idea strikes me. Would Dean and Drake be willing to move to Charleston? I laugh. Of course not. Their pack is here. Their territory. Their home. To ask them to transplant everything to South Carolina would be beyond madness. And worse: it would tell them that they still aren't the most important thing in my life.

  Are they? I put the question to myself. What's most important, my artistic career, or my love for Dean and Drake?

  I want to scream. Frustration rises up within me like wings flapping in my throat. I turn to regard Phoenix I. Just the sight of it gives me pleasure. An almost vicious satisfaction. Mine. My art. My creation. I didn't think of either of the werewolves while I was making my art. Does that mean I love my art more?

  No. Because while Dean was licking my pussy and driving me wild, I didn't think about glass blowing, either.

  I pace the studio. Can I turn down Harrowgate? Of course I can. But then word would surely get out, and people would assume I was problematic, or too arrogant, or simply not interested in that level of attention. Jumpstarting my career would be that much harder for having turned down the best position out there.

  My mind is a whirlwind of conflicting desires. An urge to talk to my dad wells up, followed equally fast by a sense of negation: no, this one I have to figure out for myself. I'm no longer a little girl. I have to act like an adult, and take responsibility for my life.

  Without thinking, I grab my car keys and head out to the parking lot, jump behind the wheel of my car, gun the engine, and reverse out of the parking lot and back up onto Bridge Street. I drive over the trestle bridge and turn right, heading toward the beautiful Mohawk Trail which undulates through the hills of northern Massachusetts all the way to New York State. It's a stunning drive, the original way west before the Massachusetts Turnpike was built, and one of my favorite drives.

  I put on good music, turn off my phone, and sink down into my seat. Take the curves, admire the greenery, and think. The road rises and falls, until it climbs the Whitcomb Summit. I pull over and park. It's taken me nearly an hour to drive out here. A large statue of a regal moose stands somewhat incongruously to one side, along with an abandoned motel and a large, bustling building. I don't pay any attention to the people who have driven up here to admire the view, and instead step away, find a quiet spot, and stare out over the land.

  The view is stunning. I can see into southern Vermont and New Hampshire. The woods seem to roll out forever below me. A cold wind is blowing, and I hug myself. The sun is sinking rapidly toward the horizon. My drive has given me a sense of peace. But what do I want?

  I don't know. I'm perfectly balanced between the two options. Dean and Drake on one side, fulfilling a part of me that I've denied for years. A yearning for love, for acceptance, for a sense of completion. With them I know my life will be rich, amazing, and filled with passion. On the other hand I have my art, and the pure, unadulterated joy I derive from creation. Harrowgate will open doors behind my imagining. Will allow me to travel the world and share my art with thousands.

  The wind blows colder, and I hug myself tight. Taking a deep breath, I realize I need to talk this over with Drake and Dean. I can't make this decision alone. The last time I did, I spent six years running in the wrong direction. I need to trust them and their love for me, and be honest about what I'm going through.

  That feels right.
That feels good. So I get back in my car, do a 180-degree turn, and head back toward Honeycomb Falls. I turn on my phone and dial Dean's number.

  "Hey!" He sounds almost startled. "Where are you?"

  "Whitcomb Summit," I say. "Or I was. I'm driving away from it as we speak."

  "Whitcomb Summit?" I can hear him chew that over. "I thought you were working on your art today."

  "I was. I did."

  "And? How did it go?"

  "Good. Amazing. And that's part of the problem."

  A pause. "Problem? What problem?" I can hear the wariness in his voice. Despite last night, he still doesn't trust me to not hurt him again. I don't blame him.

  "We need to talk. The three of us. Can you meet me at my studio in an hour or so?"

  "What's going on, Kiera?" His voice has grown hard.

  "Nothing. I promise. I haven't made any decisions. I want to talk something over with you both. I need your help in making a decision."

  Again there's a silence, and then, "All right. I'll tell Drake. We'll be there in an hour or so."

  "Thank you, Dean." I want to say more. I want to tell him how intensely I feel for him, how that very emotion is making it impossible for me to think straight. But he hangs up, and a moment later I lower the phone into my lap.

  I recognize Drake's truck in the Conway Studios parking lot as I pull into an empty space beside it. Dusk has fallen, and a few lights are still on in the mill. People working late. With artists, there's no such thing as office hours. I lock my car and enter, then make my way to my studio.