Werewolves of Chicago: Xavier
The Hero
Faleena Hopkins
Contents
Copyright
Description
Epigraph
1. Emily
2. Xavier
3. Xavier
4. Emily
5. Xavier
6. Xavier
7. Emily
8. Emily
9. Xavier
10. Emily
11. Xavier
12. Xavier
13. Emily
14. Emily
15. Xavier
16. Emily
17. Emily
18. Xavier
19. Emily
20. Xavier
21. Xavier
22. Xavier
23. Emily
24. Emily
25. Xavier
26. Emily
27. Xavier
28. Xavier
29. Emily
30. Xavier
31. Emily
32. Emily
33. Xavier
34. Emily
35. Xavier
36. Emily
37. Xavier
38. Xavier
39. Emily
40. Xavier
41. Xavier
42. Xavier
43. Emily
44. Xavier
Hot. Exclusive. Free.
WEREWOLVES OF N.Y.
WEREWOLVES OF CALIFORNIA
A Stand-Alone NA Romance
About the Author
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Cover Image licensed from www.Shutterstock.com
Cover designed by Faleena Hopkins
Published by Hop Hop Publications
Copyright © 2016 Faleena Hopkins
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
Description
MATURE READERS ONLY. 18+
Emily Foster, a newly single mother of two is NOT what Xavier needs right now. Their chemistry is a pain in the ass. And her kids? Little Michael and Sofia are too cute for words, even to Xavier — a wolf who has no interest in family or children. This isn’t the time for flirtations and she’s off limits anyway, for reasons he can never tell her… but damn if her pussy doesn’t smell delicious. And what's driving him really crazy is...why can't he hear her heartbeat? What. The. Fuck.
“There is hope and sometimes it is in the shape of a wolf.” - It’sMe Review
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Those that don't got it, can't show it. Those that got it, can't hide it.
Zora Neale Hurston
Sometimes the heart sees what is invisible to the eye.
— H. Jackson Brown, Jr.
Sex is a part of nature. I go along with nature.
— Marilyn Monroe
Emily
“Yes, that’s him,” I whisper hoarsely, looking away from the body. My fingers flutter to my lips and I close my eyes, the cold sterility of the morgue disappearing from vision.
Dr. Peters’ voice is gentle. “I’m sorry.”
I nod, speechless as I take two steps away, heart pounding.
“Do you need me to call someone?” he asks.
I breathe in with a soft shake of my head. Emotions are totally wreaking havoc on my system. I can’t think. I should be crying, shouldn’t I? This is wrong. So wrong.
I should be sobbing, asking why God would do such a thing…but all I can feel is that there must be one. There must be a God. If this has happened, my prayers have been answered. Oh, how awful that I’m thinking this, but it’s the thought that keeps rushing through my mind. I’ve prayed so many times we’d be free and now that the key has been handed to me, I’m staring at the cage door, feeling guilty for wanting to run through it without saying goodbye or looking back.
How sick am I?
But then again…how sick was he? Far worse than this. No doubt of that. And so...
There must be a God.
After being absolutely silent for who knows how long, I finally whisper, “What am I going to tell my children?”
A hand touches my shoulder. I open my eyes and glance quickly over my shoulder to see the handsomer-than-he-should-be coroner looking at me with gentle concern. He has such kind eyes. Not like my husband. He had the opposite. Vicious and mean. I hated his eyes.
But I guess I don’t have to worry about them anymore. Or his shouting horribly cruel things I will never forget. Or his merciless fists. His belt.
“What happened to him?”
Dr. Peters rubs his hands together, trying to think of what to say. “These are the wounds of an animal attack.”
“A rabid dog or something? I mean, he looks…terrible.”
He deserves this.
Stop it, Emily. No one deserves this.
“No,” the coroner shakes his head then hesitates before adding slowly, “The animal was larger than a dog.”
“What then? We’re in Chicago, not the forest somewhere.” Blinking through a confused frown, I tell him, “It looks like a bear got to him for God’s sake!”
He exhales and goes to push glasses up on his nose, then stops as he realizes he isn’t wearing any. “The zoo has been called to investigate whether or not there’ve been any escapes.”
I nod from a very distracted place because my mind is swimming with visions of grizzlies tearing out of their dens, jumping fences and making a beeline for the bar my husband spends most of his late nights right before he comes home to make our lives a living hell.
From outside, on his way in, the deep male voice of a tall and extremely well built, bearded man turns me to the door. “HOWARD! How’d it go with…?” His mouth goes tight when he sees Dr. Peters isn’t alone. From the way he’s frowning, the sight of me is not welcome and even confusing.
As our eyes lock my breath suspends in my chest. He’s without a doubt the most masculine guy I’ve ever seen in my entire life. It’s not just because of the thick beard and sharp, hard lines of his face. It’s how he carries himself, too. His frame is ridiculous, taller than hell with wide shoulders under a black Henley shirt that tugs at all the right places. His faded-by-time black jeans hang like they simultaneously never want to leave and are about to fall off. I hate that belt right now.
Jesus, Emily, stop looking at him like that.
Your husband is on a cold metal table with a sheet over his head.
Good.
“Oh my God,” I rasp, turning away and covering my face with my hands.
Dr. Peters hands me a tissue from his lab coat pocket. “It’s clean.”
“Thank you.” I wish I were crying. That would be so much more normal. But what do I have to cry over? I’ve prayed for this.
Oh, please stop thinking such things! They’re wrong!
A long and shaky breath leaves my parted lips.
The hot-as-fuck man grates to the young doctor, “I didn’t realize you weren’t alone,” as though accusing him of something unknown to me.
Dr. Peters blurts, “You didn’t know she was here? I mean…right. How would you? It’s not like you can hear through walls.” Flustered, he clamps his mouth shut, turns bright red then glances to me as I look over. “Mrs. Foster, would you excuse me a minute?”
Are these two friends? They’re both so good looking it would make sense. Brothers maybe? Their faces aren’t similar at all, but they’r
e both built like tree trunks, if trees had muscles and the sex appeal of five men shoved into…Dear God. What is wrong with me?
I glance from one to the other and am about to say, “…of course,” when I’m cut off.
“No need. Sorry for interrupting.” He turns to head out and the coroner and I both watch him, only I’m the one who’s staring at the guy’s ass. It’s impossible not to. Even a straight guy would look at that butt.
Dr. Peters calls out like an afterthought, “Xavier!”
Xavier? Of course that guy’s name is fucking Xavier. So perfect for him. So manly and otherworldly. He’s a woman’s dream.
Turning around like he doesn’t want to, Xavier strokes his beard and shoots me an angry look. Well, what the hell was that for?
Oh, I get it. Of course. He’s an asshole, just like all men who are that good looking. He probably has the world falling at his feet and sees me staring at him, so obviously thinks I’m into him. And he’s judging me for it. Hell, under the circumstances I’m judging myself.
Wait a minute.
He doesn’t know who I am or why I’m here. He can’t be judging my lack of grieving. He knows nothing about me.
Then what the hell was that look for?
With dark eyes full of trouble, Xavier grumbles to Dr. Peters, “What?!” He shoots another look at me from under those manly, thick eyebrows. “Howard, don’t even think about asking me what you’re about to ask me.” There’s a sharp warning in his tone that the young coroner completely ignores, his eyes bright and forever kind.
“Will you take Mrs. Foster home?”
We both stare at him, Xavier and I. I’m shocked. Totally and completely shocked. I want nothing more than for him to drive me. And home would be a good start. Which is exactly why I have to refuse the kindness of the young doctor. There’s no way with how my insides are squirming with delight that I should be anywhere alone with this Xavier guy. No. Way. Uh uh. I do have some sense of decency.
Both of us say at the exact same time, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Our mouths go tight and we exchange a charged look. It’s always so weird when you speak at the same time as someone else. Like they invaded your personal space or something. That’s how it feels. To him, too, apparently because he’s just staring at me now, jaw ticking like he’s sucking on his teeth.
Jeez, is the idea of him driving me home really so disgusting. Well, fuck him. And here I thought he was hot. Which he is. But fuck him and his hot fucking body.
Coughing, I turn my back on him and tell Dr. Peters, “That’s not necessary. Really.”
But he’s not looking at me. He’s staring at his asshole of a friend. Dr. Peters asks, “Why not?” then adds with heavy meaning in his tone, “Mrs. Foster has been through a lot today.” He reaches out and grabs my arm, like he’s offering me up to his friend. Like I’m a sacrifice to the hot-guy gods. Here’s a poor widow. Have pity on her. “She took the bus here and she’s in a state of shock. I just thought you could…”
FUCK. THAT.
Straightening up and holding my chin high, I firmly tell them both, “I can get home fine on my own, thank you!”
Xavier is literally glaring at me. “See, she can get home fine.”
“I can get home fine, yes. I don’t know why we keep repeating the same thing, but there it is. So stop frowning like I’m the biggest burden you’ve ever been saddled with. And thank YOU, Dr. Peters, and only you, for being a gentleman.”
Frankly, I’m surprised and proud of myself. This is the kind of mouth that used to get me bruised and bloody. The one I quieted years ago. But those days are gone. I am sick and fucking tired of having my voice stolen from me and of decisions being made for me.
Walking to the body of my sadistic tormentor, I wait for Xavier to leave. I will not look at him again. That will give him the message that he is not wanted either.
The subject is over. I will take the bus to pick up my kids. We had a truck up until a few months ago. But Sam crashed it. I’ve made due. And I will not be someone’s charity-ride even though that would make my life easier. I have too much pride. Sam hadn’t beaten that completely out of me.
Women are capable of taking a whole hell of a lot while still managing to keep a piece of themselves safe, secret and eternal.
“Take her home, Xavier,” Dr. Peters pleads in a low voice. “C’mon.”
This does not sit well. I steal a glance over because the air is suddenly as thick as that hot fucker’s thighs. Xavier looks like he’s about to punch the coroner, friend or no. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans like he’s trying to avoid violence.
This is ridiculous.
Appalled and embarrassed, I shout, “The bus is fine! I’m fine.” I cover my face with my hands and shake my head out, trying in vain to clear it. This is a huge day. I’ve just lost the man I’ve spent the last seven years with and have been faithful to, even when I had several legitimate and tempting offers to stray. For the children I was true to this horrible person…and also because Sam would have killed anyone who touched me. No matter how much I wanted to know what it felt like to be held by a real man, I turned them all down to protect them, and me.
But now I am free.
I don’t have time for any more bullshit.
“Can I have a moment alone with my husband?”
Dr. Peters stammers, “Of course,” walking to join that fucking asshole Xavier at the door.
They leave quickly. Thank God. I step closer to the horrible white sheet. I do not lift it up, though. It’s too gory what’s underneath.
When you’re the victim of abuse it always seems like the world is very small. This man kept my world the size of one of those little bumps on a thimble. He didn’t want me to fly. The only reason I have a job is because he always lost his and we had to pay rent. He didn’t want me to, at first, but when I implored him to remember that we have children to house, clothe and feed, he finally and very reluctantly agreed. But it took him three eviction notices to do that. And then not surprising to anyone but maybe himself, he never regretted it. He liked that I paid most of the bills because Sam had a poor man’s mentality. The world owed him. Even though he was white and fairly intelligent, it was societies responsibility to take care of Sam Foster.
Fuck. That.
Glancing over to the door to make sure I’m alone, I lean down and whisper to him, “Sam, you son of a bitch, I am supposed to cry for you. That’s how it should be. Do you see any tears? No. You know why you fucking asshole? You stole them. God forgive me for not being a Christian woman when I say this, but I hope you’re in hell where you belong.”
Rising up, I flick the sheet with my thumb and middle finger. “Fuck you, Sam Foster. Fuck you for what you’ve done to me and our children.”
Our children. Oh no…
What am I going to tell Michael and Sofia?
Xavier
Why am I still here? I should have left by now. But I had to hear what she was going to say to him. Listening to her condemn him to a fiery inferno for all eternity makes me smile. She’s got sparks left in her. He may have dampened her fire, but he didn’t put it out. And there’s something about her. She’s curvy as hell, bigger than some of the woman I’ve been with. Childbearing hips, man I love ‘em.
Leave. You’ve gotta get outta here.
Before you do something you’ll regret.
When she appears in the hallway, Mrs. Emily Foster’s eyes are still dry. She holds her neck high and meets my look. I cock my chin in defiance. The last thing I need is for some woman to glare at me like she’s doing right now. Doesn’t she know we did her a favor? Of course she doesn’t. She has no idea. She just thinks I’m an asshole who won’t give her a ride.
I’d like to give her a ride of a different nature. Those angelic lips of hers are begging to suck on my…
Xavier.
Fucking cut it out.
She’s off limits and you know it.
I
t ain’t right.
This human female is the victim of domestic abuse, which in my opinion is the worse kind. To hurt the people who love you with violence of any kind is fucking wrong. It goes against the whole meaning of family.
Draik discovered what was happening in the Foster household when he left Sandra’s bed, a woman he’s been fucking who lives in a low-income apartment building. Us wolves, we’ve all got supernatural hearing so it wasn’t hard for him to hear the shouting, the body hitting the wall, the pleading words: “Sam, stop! Please! Please stop! The children are sleeping!”
We take care of shit like that. It’s what we do.
Yeah, we’ve been distracted by the larger problem that is the motherfucking Russian mafia as of late, but before that my pack and I handled people like Sam Foster. It gives us something to do with our animalistic urges, being half wolves as we are. Using the fire that rages in our primal selves for good is much better than acting that shit out in ways we aren’t proud of. We’re all damn proud of taking bad men and women down. It’s effective. Keeps the wolves happy and there is a strong feeling of self-worth when we can help human beings who can’t help themselves.
Robberies.
Rape.
Murder.
Domestic Violence.
We cover them all.
We bring criminals to their fucking knees. Sometimes when we want to scare the shit out of them, we show them our wolves. Maybe just a glint of glowing eyes, or some fangs. Sometimes we just beat them until they turn themselves in. Sometimes we shoot the bastards dead as we’ve been doing a lot with this mafia bullshit. What we don’t do is what we did to Sam Foster. No, we try not to let it get that…hairy. But things got out of control.
I expected the new widow to be low-class coming from where she lives. Maybe a little easy, like the women Draik goes for, and the one who lives across the hall from the Fosters.
But Emily is anything but. She’s got a classy I’m-better-than-you vibe. Her hair is so deep brown it’s almost black. Like mine. It’s clean and straight. Not like mine. And as she walks up frowning at me I spot a scar peeking out near her clavicle. I want to trace it with my tongue.
Werewolves of Chicago: Xavier Page 1
