Sought by the Alphas Complete Boxed Set: A Paranormal Romance Serial

by Carina Wilder

  Gwynne let her tongue meet his, revelling in its taste and velvety softness. His lips had always sent goosebumps down her spine and to every other place on her body, and even now after months, she felt herself sink into the stone of the floor, gravity becoming stronger and weaker at once as she found herself in a sort of weightless state. A flash of energy seemed to centre itself at her core, her nerves reminding her of their sensitive existence, of their constant need for this man’s body.

  “Someone might come in,” she said finally as she took a deep breath and looked into his eyes.

  “I don’t care about that. Do you?” he asked, knowing the answer already.

  He tugged at the laces which secured the front of her gown and it came away, the front splitting open, her breasts seeming to spill out as Lachlan let out a gasp of pleasure. The beautiful, perfect white flesh was swollen, her nipples dark pink, hard. Delectable.

  “Dear God,” he said, “I so want to eat you. Over and over again.”

  Lachlan allowed his index finger to slip over the hard reddened tips that had defied the gown’s silk, displaying themselves over the falling fabric as Gwynne’s green eyes closed and she inhaled deeply. He watched her face contort in quiet pleasure, as always in love with the reactions that she had; her unadulterated, purest of pleasures. Her beautiful desire and utter lack of inhibition. She never resisted the urge to let him know how he pleased her.

  She offered herself to him silently, allowing the dress to slip from her shoulders and fall softly to the floor around her. Her eyes remained shut in spite of her desire to look at her lover. His beauty never ceased to baffle her, but in the moment she wanted the bliss of feeling his touch without the distraction of his physical perfection.

  The first time she’d seen him in the pub in Trekilling her initial thought had been, “There is no way that man is looking at me.” And now, as he moved to kneel before her, her mind was still in that place. This perfect being—a perfect being who had driven her mad at times, but was nevertheless something close to a god—was still enthralled with her. And sometimes she just liked to take it in: The sensation of his touch. The first moment when the tip of his tongue would make contact with a sensitive nerve. His unebbing desire to satisfy her, to make her come by working his way slowly around her body, stroking, licking and sucking every erogenous zone before focusing on the delicate bud between her legs.

  He was unpredictable like his cousin, and yet she knew him intimately. He might let a finger caress her sweet, wet opening first. Or he might dwell on her nipples, or even focus for a time on one white thigh. But every slight touch began with a desire for her pleasure. Lachlan derived joy like that of from a perfectly-designed drug from Gwynne’s ecstasy, and over the months he had brought her to orgasm more times than she could count. The miracle was that each time had been different; sometimes she’d kept silent, allowing a flood of chemicals to cascade throughout her body. And at other times she’d allowed herself a cry as her entire body shuddered violently, letting him know what he’d done to her.

  She’d learned to come with her lovers inside her. The best was to have them both in her at once, one of them sliding a wet finger over her bud, rubbing her gently as they both penetrated her depths. The severity of an orgasm while two enormously thick cocks were deep inside her made her swoon at later times when she was alone and recalled the sensation.

  But now it was just the two of them, alone in the large room, a cool draft making its way between windows and stroking Gwynne’s flesh as Lachlan was doing. He knelt before her, a hand pulling gently at her and parting her lips so that the tip of his tongue could access her as he sighed at the vision before him.

  “You’re so delicious,” he moaned, allowing a finger to run over her lips, spreading her glistening moisture over her flesh as she inhaled sharply. “You make such beautiful cream for me.” He kissed her pink petals softly.

  “Always,” Gwynne sighed.

  Lachlan’s left arm made its way up, his fingers searching for one nipple and then the other, running lightly over their tips as his right hand thrust her legs further apart and he sucked and lapped at her bud, his tongue occasionally stroking her opening, reminding her as always how she ached for him to be inside her, his thickness pushing her walls open as they grasped him tightly.

  “I’m going to make you come, my cwen,” he said. “Here, in this place. Now.”

  Gwynne responded wordlessly by slightly parting her legs, allowing him further access.

  With his head tilted sideways he focused his efforts now on her clit, his lower lip running first over it, then his tongue, delicately laying stroke after stroke as his hand slid upwards and he pushed two fingers inside her.

  In moments like these it was difficult for Gwynne to choose between allowing him to continue or begging for him to be inside her. She knew that he was rock-hard without even looking. She knew that his cock was throbbing for her, aching as she was to be satisfied. But she also knew how Lachlan loved to make her feel, to pleasure her to completion, and so she chose to enjoy the moment without regret, to throw her head back and cup her breasts, running a fingertip over each nipple as the alpha ate her, his mouth bent on her ecstasy.

  It wasn’t long before he felt her walls close in around his fingers and silently she came for him as she stood naked at the front of the Great Chamber, squeezing his fingers as he moaned, his tongue taking in the savoury delights of her flesh.

  “Oh, God,” she sighed at last as the pulses slowed and he let his fingers slide out, rubbing them on her nipples before licking her juices off their tips. “You really are perfection, aren’t you?”

  He stood and put his arms around her. “No. But perfect for you, perhaps.”

  Lachlan walked to the nearest wall, where a large cloak was draped over a hook, and returned to Gwynne. He laid her on the floor, wrapping the cloak around them both and held her, kissing her forehead.

  “But we haven’t satisfied you…” she said.

  “I’m fine, my love,” he replied. “Better than fine, in fact. You gave me exactly what I wanted and needed.”

  “Like I said, perfect.” Gwynne nestled her head into his chest.

  “So tell me after all that,” he said, “what brought you to this place? I have never known you to enter this chamber.”

  “A man from town wanted to see me,” Gwynne replied, hesitant to divulge too much to the alpha, much as she trusted him.

  “Oh? Anything I should be concerned about?”

  “Apparently my dear father has been driving Trekilling’s residents nuts with his penchant for barbecuing pretty much everything in sight. I suppose the merchant wanted to see me specifically because of my link to that tyrant.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about their troubles, but not altogether surprised,” said Lachlan.

  “What is with other shifters? It seems like the dire wolves are the only ones interested in peace,” said Gwynne, sighing heavily. “I don’t understand it.”

  “The wolves aren’t the only ones. There are good shifters everywhere. It’s simply that shifters, like humans, are corruptible, Gwynne. Money and power can buy a good deal of loyalty and your father is a smart man. He has convinced his army that they are on the right side, and that it’s the wolves who are hungry for power. In their eyes we are the enemy, and the threat.”

  “Well, if there are good shifters I haven’t met one, outside of this place.”

  “You will. I once knew one whom you would have liked, my sweet queen,” said Lachlan, brushing hair off her forehead as he held her. “A flyer of sorts, but not an eagle, hawk or drake. Something else entirely.”

  “What was he?”

  “He was a she. And she was a phoenix. A bird of fire.”

  Gwynne’s eyes widened so that Lachlan laughed. She reminded him of a small child learning of the joys of birthdays for the first time.

  “There really is such a thing as a phoenix?” she asked.

  “I adore you. You are half-dragon a
nd I a dire wolf shifter, and yet you’re still stunned to discover the wonders of the world.”

  “I am,” she said. “I thought phoenixes were myths. Like unicorns. Wait—you’re not going to tell me those exist, are you?”

  “God, no,” said Lachlan, laughing. “A horse with a horn? You’re insane, woman.”

  Gwynne slapped his arm gently. “Infuriating man,” she said. “So who was the phoenix?”

  “Someone I knew long ago, but who long since gave up shifting. That happens at times. Occasionally a person’s déor becomes so strong within them that they spend most of their lives in animal form, and sometimes it goes the other way. She found herself at home in her human form, I suppose, and decided to forego her déor, which may in the end have been out of fear. I imagine that a phoenix is a difficult creature to control.”

  “Can she still shift?”

  Lachlan’s expression turn to melancholy. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I should think so. No matter what else might occur, I don’t think a shifter ever loses the ability. Only the motivation.”

  “That’s a sad thought, but I do understand it. You know how I felt when I first learned about my drake. I was terrified.”

  “I know, my love.”

  “Lachlan,” said Gwynne, changing the subject, “I think I’d like to go look at the village, to see what’s been happening.”

  “Are you sure? It might not be safe, my Lady. I should come with you. Or Bree…”

  Gwynne hadn’t seen the female wolf shifter in some time; as one of the most trusted soldiers, lately she’d been involved in Rauth’s reconnaissance missions outside of the castle.

  “No. Thank you, but I’ll be all right. I get the impression that it would be best if I went on my own. Don’t worry; I always find my way back,” she said. “And I’m not afraid of a thing. Not even my father.”

  “Very well. But be careful, and be safe. In the morning I’ll show you a way to leave the castle undetected.”

  “All right,” said Gwynne. She shut her eyes then, and for a while forgot about the stresses of the world as she slept against her mate’s chest.

  * * *

  Kinship 6

  The following afternoon Gwynne put on a long hooded cloak and let herself out through the underground passage which Lachlan had shown her that morning. The strange, dark hallways were seldom used since their existence was kept more or less secret, and so it was overgrown, more like a natural cavern than something man-made. The way was dark and damp, phosphorescent liquid helping to light blackened walls as Gwynne walked forwards with her torch.

  She stopped for a moment, contemplating where and who she was: Gwynne, pregnant, cloaked, making her way through a secret underground passage beneath the grounds of a medieval castle like King Arthur would have lived in. Something about the experience was magical and she wanted to savour it, and to convey to the child inside her what it all meant. And what a life he or she would have.

  “I’ve had the strangest life I can imagine,” she said quietly. “But yours might actually manage to beat it if you’re lucky.”

  She arrived at what seemed like a dead end and shone the torch around, looking for an exit. Finally she saw an old iron ladder, camouflaged by its blackness, set into the stone of the wall. She set the torch down on the damp tiles of the floor and ascended to find a wooden trap door at the top, which she pushed open with some force.

  As she stepped up and out, Gwynne found herself on the castle’s west side among deep woods. The trap door, when closed, was hidden by a thick shrub and virtually undetectable even to her eyes. She took note of any landmarks surrounding it and turned away.

  The way to Trekilling, she knew, was through the woods and down a hill. To grandmother’s house we go, she thought, laughing internally about the notion that in her fairy tale, the wolves were the good ones who would no more eat grandma than a pile of dirt—unless they discovered that she was a flyer, of course.

  Gwynne had left a note for the alphas explaining where she would be, but in truth she hoped to return before they even noticed her absence; even Lachlan, who knew of her plans. He would worry if he knew for sure that she’d left. In the daytime the two men tended to occupy themselves anyhow; she could often expect to go for hours without seeing either of them.

  She made her way down to the village, walking briskly. The wool merchant’s house was located near the church, he’d said, and she found her way there without difficulty. After all, only a few houses lay here and there, and discerning one from the other was a simple task.

  A woman answered the door when Gwynne knocked, and as soon as she answered, the cwen knew that her cloak was doing nothing to disguise her. She could only hope that it hid her belly from view.

  “My Lady,” said the woman, curtsying before her.

  “Mrs. Bolton,” said Gwynne. “You don’t need to do that. Curtsy, I mean. I don’t particularly want to be recognized while I’m here.”

  “Understood, my Lady,” said the woman, escorting her into the stone house. “My husband had to run out of town on business. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “No, thank you. I think I’d rather take a look around the village, if that’s all right.”

  “Of course, my Lady.”

  The woman threw on a cloak of her own and the two walked out again, down the village’s main street where stone masons were working on a new town hall.

  “The old one was burned, you see,” Mrs. Bolton said. “By Lord Drake. The man is a lunatic, and no mistake. He’ll destroy everything as soon as look at it.”

  “But why?” asked Gwynne, more to herself than to anyone else.

  “He’s a mad bugger, that’s why.” Mrs. Bolton’s voice was louder now and filled with rage. “Oh, goodness, I’m sorry. I all but forgot that he’s your father.”

  “It’s fine,” said Gwynne. “I know he’s not right in the head. And I have no attachment to the man, trust me.”

  Mrs. Bolton began to chat with one of the masons who’d asked after her husband and Gwynne found herself wandering over to the next building, an old market. Some of its bricks were blackened by scorch marks in stark contrast to adjoining limestone blocks. All of it was a reminder of what a madman her father had become.

  “My Lady.”

  The voice from behind Gwynne startled her and she felt the drake within her leap, ready for anything. She allowed it to calm itself before turning. It was, she knew, a familiar voice, albeit one she hadn’t heard in some time.

  “Bree,” she said, attempting a smile as she faced the shifter.

  Bree, the castle Dundurn’s one female dire wolf shifter, bowed before her. She was dressed in a tunic with the castle’s new sigil: A wolf and a dragon, posed over a large shield.

  “I’m sorry, my Lady. I didn’t intend to…”

  “It’s all right. Let me guess: Lord Lachlan sent you.”

  “He suspected that I’d find you down here, and was concerned about your safety.”

  “Of course he was.” Gwynne couldn’t be angry. Lachlan worried about her even when she was in the form of a giant dragon, breathing fire in his direction. She loved his protective nature and embraced it. “Come with us. Mrs. Bolton here was just showing me around.”

  She led Bree towards to the merchant’s wife, who was making her way over, curious about the newcomer. “So my dear father comes right into town then, does he?” Gwynne asked after introducing the two women, her fingers tracing the division between black and grey stones on the wall next to them.

  “Not in some time, my Lady. But he has done often enough. Come, there’s someone I’d like you to meet. He can tell you much more than I ever could.”

  Mrs. Bolton led the two women down the street, towards a building that looked familiar to Gwynne; it reminded her of the Boar’s Head pub, and she wondered if the newer version had been modeled on its 14th-century ancestor.

  When they thrust the large slab door open, they saw a bartender before them cleaning drinking
vessels behind the bar. A solitary man sat in the corner by a far window. He stood when he saw Gwynne and Bree, almost as though he’d been expecting them.

  “My Lady,” he said, approaching.

  I guess I’m just not going to be incognito anywhere, Gwynne thought, Let alone with Bree at my side.

  She saw in the dim light that the man who’d greeted them wasn’t like the other residents of the town. He wore a cloak as she did, and underneath it he was elegantly dressed. He also carried a sword; a weapon she saw very infrequently in a world filled with shifters.

  “Who are you?” Gwynne asked as he bowed before her.

  “My name is Cynric,” he said. As Gwynne’s eyes adjusted to the light she saw that his own were pale, not blue like the wolves’, but yellowish. Like those of a bird.

  She inadvertently stepped back. Was this a trap? Bree braced to shift, much as such a move in a village populated by humans would have been taken as an act of aggression.

  “Don’t worry,” the man said. “I’m not here to harm you—or anyone in the village.”

  “Cynric lives here,” said Mrs. Bolton. “He’s become one of us, though you’ll see that he’s a flyer.”

  “Yes, I see that,” said Gwynne. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to recoil. It’s just—“

  “No need to apologize. My kind hasn’t been very hospitable towards you over the months, I hear.”

  “No, not so much.”

  “Come, sit,” Cynric led her to a wooden table, where he pulled up chairs for Gwynne and Bree. Mrs. Bolton curtsied again and left.

  “You’re probably wondering how I came to be here,” Cynric said.

  “I am, I suppose.”

  “Your father was my commander until quite recently. He and I had a fairly massive dispute, for lack of a better way to put it. I suppose you might say that I deserted.”

  “You can just do that? I would have thought…”

  “That he’d kill me,” he said. “He’d probably like to, if he knew where I was. But as you know by now, he doesn’t exactly concern himself with the little people. I’m just a pest where he’s concerned.”