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

by Carina Wilder

  There may, she knew, be no point in approaching him. But what was the alternative? Surrender. Giving in to the fear that one day he would reach out his long arm and hurt her or worse, her child. She could not have it. She would not.

  She’d only learned in vague terms over the months where the castle Carrfyr was: to the east, she knew, high atop a hill. At first her drake scanned the horizon as she flew, looking at the swells in the landscape to try and spot the structure. But once she saw it, there was no question: This was her father’s domain.

  The castle sat atop a rocky peak, jagged and steep-edged, which looked unnatural among the surroundings, almost as though it had been thrown together by hand in order to support the building which perched on top. And what better home for an antisocial fire-breather, thought Gwynne.

  The stones at the base of the mount were grey and light, but as they grew higher they darkened to black, onxy-like in their shade. Not at all like the local Cornish stones. And Gwynne soon realized why.

  Char-marks scarred them in random spots, and on occasion she could even see the whiteish outline of a body of a poor soul who’d gotten in the way of the dragon’s breath. Her father had, it seemed, attacked his own land and people.

  The castle was unreachable by foot. No trail led to it, though the remnants of an old pathway seemed to have been knocked about, holes on display here and there in the mountainside, preventing any possibility of a climb. Anyone unfortunate enough not to have wings would have to spend a day scaling the side of the jagged peak with hooks and ropes, only to confront a creature who could take them down with a breath. It was no wonder that the Lord Drake was considered such a fearsome creature with his army of flyers.

  But where was the army? Gwynne saw no evidence of life. No eagles soaring in defence. No hawks. Just the shell of a castle which had apparently been her intended home. She supposed that it didn’t require defending; alone in this desolate place, it was its own best defense.

  She flew at its highest tower, landing with a soft thud next to a large wooden door which sat open: more signs of the Lord’s cockiness. Clearly he’d never anticipated a visit from his daughter. That, or he’d set a trap in case of her arrival.

  After shifting, Gwynne found herself standing naked, wind whipping at her hair as she looked down from atop the tower. The view was heartbreaking: a beautiful, barren landscape. She had grown accustomed to gently sloping green hills and beautiful stone buildings decorating the horizon around Dundurn. But this was the home of one who wanted to be isolated; a man who sought to hold power over a wasteland. For the first time, she felt sad for her father.

  * * *

  Kinship 9

  Gwynne crept through the door, as though worried that her footfalls would make the stone creak loudly beneath her bare feet. Something in the air was stagnant and dark, and she’d never encountered such an unhospitable place in her life.

  A spiral staircase led her downwards, small windows lighting the way. As she descended, Gwynne pulled a woolen cloak off a hook on the wall—this was clearly a shifter’s domain—and covered herself, grateful not to come upon her infamous father without some sort of clothing.

  As she moved through the building’s halls which were tall and wide enough that even her déor could have found its way through, she saw areas of scorched blackness which had no doubt come from outbursts of her father’s rage. It was no wonder that the flyers stayed far away; the evidence of his torment sat all around her.

  Her sadness turned now to pity for the man, and yet she found her jaw clenching, her old resentment towards a parent returning. But this time it wasn’t aimed at the mother who had protected and then left her: instead it was building towards the man who lived within these walls; the one who who would rather see everyone around him ruined than happy.

  At the end of the long hall another door sat open, a dull light flickering, reflected on the farthest wall. Gwynne didn’t have to think, even; she could smell the drake from where she was before she saw his vast shadow outlined against the light stone.

  And so, her father hung around inside his home in his déor. Why was she not surprised?

  She stopped in her tracks and, certain that he was already aware of her presence, she called out:

  “Lord Drake!”

  The shadow changed then, quickly diminishing into a man’s shape, and she watched as the form reached for a garment and threw it on. A moment later the man stood in the doorway before her.

  “Ah, the Lady Gwynne,” he said. “I knew, of course, that it was only a matter of time.”

  The man in front of her was tall and quite handsome. He looked young; perhaps thirty or so, though for a shifter that wasn’t terribly surprising. He was at the point when his physical ageing process would slow considerably.

  His hair was the only real sign of any age; it was thick and dark, greying slightly around the temples. He had a square jaw and, like her, bright green eyes. His face was kind, which only added to Gwynne’s previous feelings of sadness. He didn’t look like a tyrant, but, she thought, they seldom did. After all, what did a tyrant look like?

  “Do come in,” he said, backing away and gesturing towards the room where he’d been roaming in dragon form a moment earlier. “Come. Don’t be afraid.”

  Easy for you to say, she thought, the death of Lady Gwendolyn burning itself into her mind like a memory that she’d adopted as her own.

  She had her child to consider; it wasn’t only her own life that she was risking. But she advanced slowly, taking stock of the room.

  It reminded her of similar spaces in Dundurn: large, comfortable furnishings, considering the time period. A large window on one side, which she supposed her father used as an entrance and an exit.

  She didn’t accept his invitation to sit, however.

  “I won’t stay long,” she said. “I came to make a simple request.”

  Lord Drake turned and looked at her, his long, deep red cloak pooling around his feet. A clever outfit, Gwynne thought: he could shift anytime and let it drop away. But she wouldn’t let things go so far, or so she hoped.

  “And what is your request, my child?” asked the man. His voice had a sugary-sweet tinge to it which sent a shiver up Gwynne’s spine. She felt the now-familiar anger of her déor rise up within her.

  “Don’t call me that,” she growled. “Never call me that. You have no right.”

  “Haven’t I? The same right, I should think, as your ‘mates’ have in referring to what’s in you now as theirs.”

  “No,” she said. “They won’t treat our child as though it’s a threat. They won’t ensure its banishment or murder.” As her own words came out, she wondered if she could truly believe them.

  “Won’t they? Are you very sure about that? Are you telling me that your beloved alphas are so in love with the idea of your happiness that they’ll ensure a perfect little life for you and your young? That they will happily accept the idea of another shifter taking over their leadership?”

  He had a point, Gwynne knew. But she hated him for it.

  “Alphas enjoy power. But power doesn’t always corrupt, not if those who have it are strong,” she said.

  “Ah, I see. So I am weak. Well, perhaps you’re right,” said her father. “I don’t like the idea of relinquishing my land, my control, to the irresponsible dire wolves.”

  “Well, you’re going to have to. And while you’re at it, I need you to stop attacking the villages. I don’t know what good it does you, anyhow.”

  “Don’t you? It gives me pleasure,” Lord Drake said, playing with the hem of his cloak. “I believe you’re familiar with the concept, daughter.”

  His tone of voice denoted nothing but disgust at her lifestyle, as though she lived in a den of hedonistic pleasures. Gwynne finally had the full picture of what it had been like for her predecessor to live under his roof for twenty years. Death might have been a blessing with such a jackass for a father.

  “So you’re simply a sadist?” she ask
ed. He looked at her, puzzled, as she worked out that the word probably wasn’t in his vocabulary. “Never mind,” she said. “You’re a sick man. It’s no wonder my mother ran a million miles from you.”

  The mention of her mother seemed to send him into a state of near-paralysis, and Gwynne watched as his fingers curled into tight fists, their knuckles going white as the rest of him remained frozen in place.

  “That woman betrayed me,” he said. “She will suffer for it yet.”

  “As if she hasn’t suffered enough already,” shouted Gwynne, for the first time realizing just how much her mother had truly sacrificed for her. “How dare you? She saved me. She saved my life, and the life of my unborn child. And you…you’re nothing but a sick, depraved murderer.”

  Lord Drake’s eyes seemed for a moment to change, almost to glow.

  And then he shifted.

  * * *

  Kinship 10

  The dragon stood before Gwynne huffing loudly, plumes of smoke erupting from large nostrils. She backed away, thinking of the unborn child inside her, unsure of just how far the creature before her would go to ensure his own victory.

  Lord Drake’s déor seemed to fill the large space, the vaulted ceiling just barely accommodating his high back. Like his daughter’s déor, his was a sort of gold, though with a greenish tinge which made his scales appear tarnished and old. He lacked the glint of Gwynne’s own dragon’s flesh, and something in him appeared neglected, spoiled, as though he’d once been beautiful but now, like the land around him, was ruined.

  Gwynne hesitated only for a moment before casting off the robe and shifting herself, to stand in confrontation. This man—this creature—was not to threaten her or her child. And he was no match for her, she knew. She stood sideways, displaying her impressively armoured side to her father, her back arched. The large window which led to the outdoors was only a few feet away and she eyed it, wondering how quickly she could access it.

  But he seemed to read her thoughts ahead of time and moved to cut off the route. He faced her again, his body a blockade. And then the first missile of flame shot at her, hitting a large wooden chair which sat between the two of them, erupting in orange and blue flames.

  Gwynne moved quickly, her drake’s form more nimble than she’d anticipated after months of neglect. She darted towards the large fireplace at the side of the room so that Drake had to spin around to keep up with her. Before he could take aim again she’d lunged at him, shooting her own stream of fire. He moved quickly out of the way and she saw her only chance: she dashed to the window and leapt out, her giant wings unfurling as she off in the direction of Dundurn.

  He was after her, she knew, soaring, catching up as she crooked her long neck to look back. Her father’s form was menacing, the silhouette of his wide wingspan against a dark, overcast sky, and Gwynne wondered if she was so terrifying to those who saw her. It was no wonder that the people of Trekilling wanted him gone; he was like a spectre of doom. A shell of a being with no capacity for kindness or human emotion.

  As she led him forwards she began to question her choice of direction: she was heading both for her home and for Trekilling with a furious drake on her tail. Perhaps she should pull him towards another destination.

  Her question was answered when she caught sight of movement below: her two alphas in their dire wolf forms, dashing towards Drake’s castle. They were looking up now, panicked, no doubt desperate to protect her. She wished in that moment that they could.

  Gwynne swooped around and changed direction on a dime, pulling Lord Drake out towards the sea. She could only hope that he hadn’t seen the wolves, whom he could take down too easily from above. It was up to her this time to protect the alphas.

  Her father followed her, much to Gwynne’s relief, and she headed out over the open sea, the whitecaps under her ebbing as if in reassurance that the world would continue regardless of the outcome of her altercation.

  She had no real plan in mind and wondered at her own sanity for showing her face before this madman. But she thought then of her real parents; her mother and her adopted father, who had loved her and done for her all that they could. Of the little heart pendant that her mother had left behind. Of what they’d done to protect her, to ensure her safety.

  And she flew. For miles and miles she continued, out over open water.

  Only when they were far from the castle Carrfyr did she use her ability to move through time and space, for the first time leaping while in her déor’s form, and found herself back in Dundurn’s courtyard. Her father, she knew, was still over the open ocean, confused and no doubt incredibly angry.

  Gwynne shifted and sank to the ground, exhausted.

  * * *

  Kinship 11

  Lachlan made his way quickly towards Gwynne’s secret chamber when he’d returned to Dundurn. When he and Rauth had realized her tactics in leading her father over the water they’d turned and headed home, knowing that it would be up to her to deal with the drake, much as it pained them to watch her isolate herself from them.

  Lachlan was intensely relieved when the guards had told him that she was back, that she’d appeared in the courtyard out of thin air. He knew this meant that she’d leapt, a skill that few shifters had, and was safely away from her father. By now the wolves were used to her powers and though a few of the shifters were slightly afraid of her for them, most admired and revered her for her multitude of skills.

  Lachlan wanted only to see that she and the baby were safe and to ensure that she knew she was loved.

  The hallway which led to Gwynne’s secret quarters was concealed behind a heavy door of its own which hung from sturdy iron hinges, normally kept locked. This evening, Lachlan found it open and tried not to hold it against Gwynne; she’d no doubt forgotten to lock it in the confusion after her confrontation.

  He walked through and closed the door behind him, locking it with the iron key which usually remained around his neck. Very few other shifters owned a key to the wing, and only Rauth and Gwynne were officially allowed access.

  But as Lachlan progressed down the hallway, he found that he wasn’t alone. A man came out of the darkness towards him, walking rapidly.

  “My Lord,” the man said, bowing his head as he walked swiftly by. He wore a cloak, as though he had only recently come from the outdoors—or as though he wanted to conceal something of his identity.

  Lachlan slowed and then stopped when the man had passed. “You,” he called after the stranger.

  “My Lord?”

  “What are you doing in this wing?”

  “I lost my way; I must have taken a wrong turn a little while back. It won’t happen again.” The man’s eyes, directed at the floor, looked up only briefly to make contact with Lachlan’s. They were blue: those of a wolf shifter. But there were other colours as well; a ring of yellow around the pupil which distinguished them from most of the eyes in the castle. Eyes which Lachlan would remember.

  “See that it doesn’t happen again, or there will be consequences for you. Tell me your name.”

  “Afton, my Lord.”

  “Go, then, said Lachlan, turning back to unlock the door once more. “And don’t let me see you here again. You’ve been warned.”

  The dire wolf clan was made up of hundreds of shifters, all male but Bree, and Lachlan knew many by name. He’d seen this one before from a distance but knew nothing of him. Still, the young man was probably telling the truth; occasionally the shifters grew restless and roamed the castle, particularly since the siege by the flyers had kept them mostly contained within the castle’s walls.

  After turning the key in the lock he headed back towards Gwynne’s room and rapped gently at his mate’s door when he arrived.

  “Gwynne?” he called, his voice soft in case she was resting.

  “Come in,” he heard, muffled by the thick door.

  When he entered he found her sitting up on her bed, freshly bathed in a robe. She smiled at him.

  “Are you
all right?” he asked, relief masking his concern over all that had happened.

  “Fine. I’m fine,” she said, but Lachlan was far from believing her.

  “Tell me,” he said, perching himself on the edge of her bed.

  He watched her face as she attempted to speak. Her bright eyes welled with tears.

  “He is no father of mine,” she said quietly. “My father died in the year 2014. My father was a good man.”

  “I know, Gwynne.” Lachlan reached out and took her hand, which she offered gratefully.

  “I’m afraid, Lachlan, that Rauth will end up like him. I’m afraid that the wolf inside him will learn to dominate his heart. And it destroys me to think that. Especially with our baby coming.”

  “We mustn’t let that happen,” said Lachlan. “You and I both love Rauth, each in our own way. It pains me too, you know, the way that he is. He can be cruel. But there is a human heart inside him, and there are ways to remind him of its existence. When the baby is born I know that he’ll open up. How could he not?”

  “I don’t know if that’s true,” said Gwynne. “My father…Lord Drake…is half human, and yet he’s a monster.”

  “Lord Drake isn’t as strong as Rauth, much as his déor may be daunting. I spent time with him. I know his mind. He isn’t half the man my cousin is.”

  “Well, I can only hope that you’re right,” said Gwynne. She was always impressed by Lachlan’s ability to see the good in others, including his cousin, even though Rauth was often less than charitable with him. “Now come here and hold me.”

  Lachlan slid up the bed towards her and took her in his arms, resting her head on his solid shoulder as Gwynne slid her arms around his taut waist. When Lachlan touched her she always felt as though the world had given her a layer of armour which could protect her against every ill that could come her way. In her drake form she was strong, she knew. But this sort of strength came from another place. This was a human strength. This was what her father lacked, and what she could only hope Rauth still had.