by Anya Byrne
Love Letters from an Alpha
A Lone Wolf Pack Ripples Short Story
Copyright 2015 Anya Byrne
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
All Romance Edition February 2015
All Romance Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please forward them a link to buy their own copy, or use the gift function available on your All Romance account. Thank you for respecting the hard work and livelihood of this author.
This book is a work of fiction, not to be confused with fact, advice or suggestion. The characters are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons is purely coincidental. Cover art is for illustration purposes only.
Blurb:
A dancer at an exclusive club for gay men, Owen Ellis has long ago learned to separate his real life from his alternate identity—the masked Incubus who comes to life on stage. But then a mysterious man comes to his every show, watching him with eyes that speak to Owen in a way he can't hope to understand.
When love letters and beautiful roses start popping up in his dressing room, he tries to tell himself romance can never happen in such a situation. But the man's gaze follows him in his dreams, as does the want he can barely contain.
Unbeknownst to him, his secret admirer is none other than Luther Valentino, an Alpha werewolf with a painful past. Despite the love he already feels for Owen, Luther can't help but fear what his nature might mean for his human mate. Can the stories of the Lone Wolf Pack's courage bridge the gap between this unlikely couple?
Warning: Gay erotic romance. The material in this document contains explicit sexual content that is intended for mature audiences only. All characters involved are adults capable of consent, are over the age of twenty-one, and are willing participants.
14,289 words
Table of Contents
Love Letters from an Alpha
About the Author
Other titles by Anya Byrne
Coming Soon
Love Letters from an Alpha
A Lone Wolf Pack Ripples Short Story
Anya Byrne
Copyright 2015
Chapter One
"Fuck, fuck, fuck."
Owen swore under his breath as he stole a look at his watch. The bus seemed to be moving at a snail's pace today, and he was impossibly, ridiculously late. He tapped his foot against the floor, knowing V would not be pleased if he screwed up the schedule.
Not for the first time that day, Owen cursed his rotten luck. Everything seemed to have conspired to delay him—from one of his teachers deciding to prolong their class, to his mother calling in to demand her check and his landlady asking for the rent money. The horrifying traffic hadn't helped, and Owen clenched his fingers around the strap of his bag, wishing he could be anywhere else but here.
When the bus finally reached his stop, Owen practically shot out of the vehicle. It was already dark, but Owen knew every shortcut in the neighborhood and could have found his way to his destination in his sleep.
He was panting and sweating when he finally ran the alley that led to the backdoor of the club. Sonny, the bouncer, arched a brow at him. "You're late, Ink. The boss is pissed."
"Yes, yes, I know. I'll talk to her later."
Sonny didn't delay him, and Owen slid inside, only to be immediately intercepted by V. Seriously, the woman reminded Owen of an eagle, zeroing in on him the moment he stepped into view. She grabbed his arm and dragged him to the side, like a predator catching its prey.
"Mr. Ellis. Do you know what time it is?"
Owen nodded sheepishly, although in all honesty, he hadn't checked since he'd been on the bus. "I'm sorry. I was delayed by some personal difficulties."
V glowered at him. "I'm sure you were, but you have responsibilities here, Mr. Ellis. Our club is popular for certain reasons, most of which include our respectability and stability. One mistake can change that."
"I know." Owen winced. "I'm just..."
Anything he said would have sounded like a stupid excuse, so he trailed off. V sighed and her hold on him loosened. Her slender fingers—strikingly strong despite their apparent softness—gripped his chin. "Your mother?"
Owen nodded miserably, and V tsked. "Next time, call me. I can give you an advance if you need it. You know that, Owen. You don't have to run yourself into the ground."
Owen wanted to come up with a reply, to thank her, but she smiled gently and patted his cheek. "Run along now, dear. You have five minutes to get ready. Your show is just about to get started."
He hastened to comply, and he was already halfway to the dressing room when V called out to him. "He's here tonight."
Owen's muscles seized, and for a few moments, he found that he couldn't breathe. He forced himself to walk, although it was probably only habit that got him to the dressing room without stumbling. Him.
V didn't have to elaborate on the identity of the person she meant. Owen already knew. His heart was racing like he'd run a marathon—and not because of his mad dash from the bus station.
With trembling hands, he reached for his costume. In his eagerness, he almost dropped the damn thing, so he stopped and took a couple of deep breaths.
He was being ridiculous. This was not the first time he had come, and it would most likely not be the last. Whatever hope or emotion he stirred in Owen's chest, there was no point in dwelling on it. That way lay madness, heartbreak, and possibly the loss of his employment.
Owen liked the club because the dancers weren't required to do more than that, dance. Other places were nothing more than glorified brothels, crawling with pimps who'd have leaped at the chance to have someone like Owen. But here, Owen knew he wouldn't be forced into anything. He hadn't counted on meeting someone he actually wanted—in his bed, and out of it. For that reason alone, the stranger was dangerous for his peace of mind. But maybe, some risks were worth taking.
Owen studiously pushed back the treacherous thoughts and focused on his costume once again. Really, for something he was meant to take off after only a few minutes, the damn outfit was ridiculously elaborate. Still, he was used to it by now, so by the time V called out to him again, he was ready.
He touched up on his make up and rushed out of the dressing room. The previous dancer—a big man in a cowboy costume whom Owen only knew as Loneheart—was just leaving the stage. Loneheart greeted him with a grin, tipping his hat at him. "Hey, Ink. Quite a crowd out there tonight. Good tips. What do you say? Will you do better than me?"
Owen smiled back. He liked most of the dancers here. Even if they all hid behind masks, they were nice enough, more so than any people Owen had met in his "real life". The supposed competition between them was all in good fun, and no one really resented Owen for being among the most popular dancers.
"I suppose we'll just have to see what happens, won't we?" he teased.
Loneheart chuckled, and at a different time, Owen would have loved to stick around and chat more. But duty called, and V's familiar voice was already announcing his stage name. "Good luck, Ink," Loneheart said, winking.
Owen braced himself and with one last nod of acknowledgment, he stepped out into the light. The crowd exploded into enthusiastic applause, and Owen became someone entirely different—the Incubus.
When he swayed his hips, following the beat of the music, he didn't think about anything else but the motion. He let go, losing himself in the seductive tones of the melody. His body remembered the choreography, each movement coming to him as naturally as breathing. He took o
ne step forward, then several steps back, extending his arms in invitation. He curled his leg over the pole in the center of the stage and rubbed against the metal before performing a flip that even a gymnast would have envied. He slid his corset off, tossing his hair and letting it fall back in a dark curtain. And all the while, he managed to ignore the crowd watching him, even if technically speaking, he was dancing for them.
Only... He wasn't, not really. At one time, he had completely tuned everything out except the song, pretending he was in his room practicing instead of stripping for people who paid to see the show. But Owen barely remembered that now. Had that only been months ago? Owen couldn't answer that. He just knew everything had changed when the stranger had stepped into his life. Since then, whenever the man was present, it was Owen who faced the crowd. His Incubus mask was there for everyone else, but not for him.
Even as he moved, Owen let his body speak for him. It wasn't the music that had his attention, but the fierce presence of the stranger who haunted his dreams. He dropped to his knees and crawled to the center of the stage like a panther, all the while looking solely at the man. He was thankful for the mask hiding his eyes, because he didn't think he could have kept the truth from the rest of the crowd if not for it.
The tight leather pants did very little to hide Owen's body, and in fact, served more to emphasize his best assets. As such, there was no way to conceal the reaction the stranger had on Owen's dick. When he got up, he had men crawling over each other to reach for him, shouting things Owen studiously ignored. The bills they waved were more important, and with the skill of long practice, Owen managed to grab them even if the bouncers kept the patrons back.
Still, Owen's focus remained completely on the stranger. He sat at the same table as always, one located in the VIP section that directly faced the stage. They weren't exactly eye to eye, and the lights kept Owen from distinguishing the man's features. Nonetheless, Owen could practically feel that dark gaze burning into his skin. In fact, maybe he felt a little like the incubus he'd been named after, because he found himself humping the steel pole and caressing his own body, imagining different hands on his skin—the hands of his hopeless crush.
By the time his routine ended, Owen was burning in the fires of arousal, but so were many of the members of his audience. Thankfully, that manifested in a lot of bills thrown his way. Owen highly suspected his tips had passed Loneheart's by far, but he couldn't really muster any enthusiasm over the money. He looked toward the table, his heart clenching with something he didn't dare to acknowledge. Finally, he retreated backstage, breathing hard—and not because of the acrobatics he'd done during his dance.
Why did that stranger have such an effect on him? The man had never approached him, and for a while, Owen hadn't even known how his secret admirer really looked. Owen had eventually stolen a few glimpses of him after the show was over, and he was always left dumbstruck at the stranger's dark handsomeness.
Since then, Owen always dreamed about his admirer, wondering what his deep black eyes hid, if he was imagining the emotion he'd thought he'd seen. He dreamed about the man's large body pressing him into the mattress of their bed as they made love. It was insane, and Owen hated himself for not being able to let go.
In his defense, maybe he'd have tried to bury it all deep. He was no child, and he understood that for the patrons who came here, he was basically just a piece of meat. A man like that was completely out of his reach. He would have perhaps been able to squash the fantasy and let the spark of hope fizzle—if not for the letters.
Dancers were not allowed to receive any presents from admirers—club's rule. But the letters were different. At first, Owen had thought V wouldn't want him to accept the missives, but she didn't seem to care, and in fact, almost encouraged it. It was a good thing, because after each of his routines, the letters were always there without fail.
That knowledge helped him walk away from the stage, and from the table with the mysterious stranger. When he reached his dressing room, he was not disappointed. As always, a bright red rose was waiting for him, and beneath it, a lone envelope.
With trembling hands, Owen picked up the flower and inhaled deeply. He could never get tired of the scent of the beautiful blooms. He loved roses, but he found that the flowers that could be purchased in shops often had no scent. They were beautiful, but lacked... soul. Not so with the roses Owen received. It meant something, and it conveyed the very same sentiment the letters hinted to.
Owen set the rose aside and reached for the missive, already far too greedy to find out what message was waiting for him. He instantly recognized the now familiar script and practically drank in the written lines.
"My incubus,
As I write these words, you are just finishing your routine. It never ceases to amaze me how you move the way you do, despite being just a human. I wish..."
There was something crossed out, and Owen grinned. He found that charming, because in a way, it made it obvious that the letter truly expressed genuine emotions.
"There are many things I would wish to tell you, but it feels like I never have enough time. I should not burden you with my problems, but somehow, even if we've never met, I believe I can trust you. I can have faith in us."
Owen's heart started to flutter as he continued to read. His mysterious admirer had indeed told him many things, and Owen had replied. There were never actual details, just enough to make it clear that the stranger was under a lot of pressure from what seemed to be a very demanding family, or perhaps a business. Owen always wrote back and left the letters with V, and although he didn't really feel qualified to provide advice to anyone, he hoped he'd helped. This seemed different, though. Tonight was different.
"I've tried to live for other people for so long, my beautiful rose," the message went on to say. "My family.. Everyone I've ever loved showed me a way they thought was right. And maybe I would have taken it... If I hadn't met you.
"But you don't know me, and I won't say more, because I don't want to scare you. I'll be waiting for you in front of the club. You're too clever to not doubt me, so ask V about me. She'll know who I am, and I know you trust her.
"This is strange, I realize that, and I haven't exactly gone the best possible way in trying to approach you. I will understand if you decide against it, but please give me the chance to explain. My Owen.
Your ever faithful admirer,
Luther"
Owen's breath caught. It was the first time the man had addressed him by his name, or had ever introduced himself as anything other than the ever faithful admirer of the Incubus. He dropped down on the one chair in the dressing room, his eyes still fixed on the words in the letter.
I'll be waiting for you. His longtime crush wanted to meet with him. Judging by the man mentioning V in the letter, Owen's employer probably knew about it and wouldn't hold it against him—just like she hadn't been against the letters. He could barely even process it.
Owen set the missive down on the table and picked up the rose again. He brushed his fingers over the delicate bloom, thinking hard.
Having an unrequited crush on a customer was entirely understandable, he thought. He was young, the stranger was hot, and the letters reached out to him in a way he had not expected. Accepting a meeting would change things, and Owen had heard enough horror stories to know this sort of thing could end horribly.
And yes, he trusted V, but only to a point. She was his employer, not his friend. Hell, he didn't even know her real name, and her allegiance definitely lay with Owen's admirer. With Luther.
"Luther."
Owen couldn't help but shiver as he tested the name on his tongue. This was crazy. It was positively insane. He shouldn't be considering it, but God help him, he was.
For months, he'd been coming to work more in anticipation of the letters than because of his need for the paycheck. And yes, he knew lines written on a paper didn't mean anything. It could easily be a strategy to hurt him, to get him alone as part of
some ploy. Owen had been hurt too much in the past to accept the sweet words blindly.
And yet, a tiny part of him, that part that loved the true scent of the rose and the grainy feel of the paper beneath his fingertips, couldn't let go. The fact of the matter was that if he refused this meeting, if he shied away from what his admirer had to say to him, he'd always regret it. Owen didn't think he could live with that.
It might be rash and it might be a horrible idea, but all Owen had to do was close his eyes and imagine his admirer sitting at the table while he danced. He had to ask—why? What was so special about Owen? What did Luther see when Owen danced for him? Was any of this real?
He had to know. Bracing himself, Owen started to change out of his costume and hoped he wasn't making a terrible decision.
****
Luther cautiously sipped his scotch, barely registering the smoky taste despite the expensive brand. He was distracted. Ever since he'd sent in the letter, his wolf had been restless, pacing inside him like a proverbial caged beast.
He had a lot of practice holding back his instincts, especially when it came to this particular situation. For months, he'd done exactly that, holding back, trying to control his impulses when everything inside him screamed to claim the man he knew belonged to him.
Instead, he came here every night and watched the Incubus expose his body to the eyes of the lustful humans—a beautiful body that no one but Luther should have to see. Luther would have been very tempted to hunt down some of the more daring customers, if the Incubus—no, Owen—didn't always look at him when he danced.
The letters had come naturally. Luther wasn't a man good at expressing emotion, but there was only so much he could bottle up inside before he exploded. At first, he'd thought Owen would reject them, or at least ignore them, but no such thing had happened—and Luther found himself writing the letters again and again, eagerly awaiting the replies.
