by Milly Taiden
“Katrina Mejia,” Galvez replied. “She’ll be good for this team.”
She eyed the description of her new team member, something clearly missing from her file. “Doesn’t say what her ability is.”
“She’d like to discuss that with you herself,” Galvez said, shrugging as if he didn’t understand what the big deal was. He stood to go. “Call me if you need anything.”
Her cell phone rang as Galvez walked out of her office, which left her alone with Brock. She hit the speaker button and waited.
“Hello, Ramirez.”
“Hey, Boss lady. So glad you’re staying on board,” he said with an urgency not familiar with his voice.
“Thank you, but I have a feeling that’s not why you called me.”
She leaned in her seat and took a moment to just watch her man. He was so frickin hot her body heated with just a smile from him.
“So, here’s the thing,” Ramirez said without his usual humor. “I want to know why Jane’s file begins on the day she joined the academy.”
Cyn grinned. He was finally paying attention. “Sorry, that’s classified.”
“Since when is someone’s file classified?” he growled.
Uh-oh. Someone had his tail in a knot. “I can’t help you if you want to talk about Donovan, Ramirez.”
He growled again, and she heard something break. “This is crazy. How is it that she has no family history? Nothing. How the hell am I supposed to find her?”
“Ramirez, I’m sorry. I can’t tell you where Donovan is.” She smiled at Brock’s lifting of his brows. “But I can tell you that if you happen to be looking for her, the information on where to find it is right in that ‘fake’ file.”
Silence. Then. “Shit! I didn’t even think of it. Thank you, Boss.” Ramirez’s voice returned to humorous. She kind of enjoyed that side of the shifter. It made their job not so…harsh. A bit of humor wouldn’t hurt. “There’s one more thing,” he said as she was about to hang up.
“What’s that, Ramirez?”
“Brock. He’s different now.”
“Oh?” She watched Brock across from her, his gaze piercing and hot.
“He isn’t withdrawn or looking like he’s missing half of himself anymore,” Ramirez said, the sound of things being tossed in the background. “I can see he’s happy. You did that. I just wanted to say thank you. I like this version of him better.”
She didn’t realize how much of an impact she’d had on Brock’s life. “That’s really nice to hear, Ramirez.”
“It’s cool. Thanks for the advice on Jane,” he said and hung up.
He shouldn’t thank her yet. He still had to deal with Donovan and whatever mood he found her in. That would be interesting. Very interesting to hear about.
“Want to go for lunch?” Brock asked.
She nodded and stood. “Is this my employee asking, or my fiancé?”
“I do not mix business with pleasure. It’s the fiancé asking. Though the employee has the hots for you too.”
She laughed and grabbed his hand to follow him out of the office. Who said you could run from love? She must have been deluded to think she’d be able to stay away from him. Or that he’d let her. It took her ten years to finally realize: If you run from love, you’re asking for a chase.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Mina Carter – All I can say is that you forever hold a special place that no one can take in my heart. #badassbitchesrule. I love you girl! And I can’t wait to see you!
Rachel Firasek – Thank you for taking the time to help me when you know I desperately need it. I can’t tell you what your friendship means to me.
To My Betas – Tonya Rupell, Teracia Loretan, Theresa Esterline, Melinda Fulton and Julie Duran-Fernandez. You guys are so amazing! Tonya and Teracia, your support when I was stuck and down is priceless. Theresa, Mel and Julie, your encouragement and love of my work really helped me put the finishing touches into a story I already loved! Thank you so much!
Sexy Biters Book Pimps - You ladies are the best group of friends anyone could ask for! Your help and dedication to share and promote my work is worth more than I can say. Thank you doesn’t seem like enough, but I mean it from the bottom of my heart. I love you girls.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Hi! I'm Milly (AKA April Angel) I love to write sexy stories. They're usually either paranormal or contemporary with a large dose of heat. My paranormal stories can be anything from wolf-shifters (my favorites) to witches, demons and anything in between. My contemporaries are usually anything from soldiers to corporate romances.
I was born the prettiest part of the Caribbean known as the Dominican Republic. Currently, I live in New York City with my hubby, the bossy kiddo and our little dog "Needy Speedy". Don't ask.
When I'm not working some really long hours at the day job, or hanging out in the awful life-sucking invention known as Facebook or shopping with my sis Julie, then I can be found watching scary movies. Buuut when I'm not doing that, I'm usually writing because the voices won't shut up.
I am addicted to shoe shopping, chocolate (but who isn't, right?) and Dunkin' Donuts coffee.
Come on over and visit me! I love to meet new readers!
I hope you enjoyed this book. If you did, please consider writing a review
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Now Available
Scent of a Mate Sassy Mates Book One
A Mate’s Bite Sassy Mates Book Two
Wolf Fever Alpha Project Book One
Wolf Protector Federal Paranormal Unit Book One
Dangerous Protector Federal Paranormal Unit Book Two
Sharp Change Black Meadows Pack Book One
Caged Heat Black Meadows Pack Book Two
“Mate Event” Halloween Heat III
Fate’s Wish
Wynter’s Captive
Coming Soon
Pack Princess
Unexpectedly Mated, Sassy Mates Book Three
Caught by the Alpha
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Their Second Chance
A Hero Scarred Wounded Soldiers Book Two
A Hero’s Pride Wounded Soldiers Book One
Stranded Temptation
Party Crasher
The Sizzling Encounters Series
Mr. Buff
Wicked Valentine
Lucky Break
Coming Soon
A Hero for Sale
A Hero’s Surrender
CHECK OUT WHAT’S NEW FROM MY FRIENDS
Reaper and the Cop
Mina Carter
&
Walk on the Striped Side
Jessie Lane
REAPER AND THE COP
Obsession the marketing industry has latched onto like a leech, and from one person to the next, ranges from the absent worry about leaving loved ones behind to narcissistic panic at leaving this mortal coil.
For some of us though, death is a job. I would say it’s a nine to five, daily grind, but it’s more of a 24/7/365 deal.
Let me introduce myself.
I’m Laney Larson, and I’m a Reaper. Yeah, you heard me right. I said Reaper. As in the big, bad dude wi
th the robes and scythe—looks like he needed a few extra squares in his life? That guy.
Kinda.
Well, not quite.
It’s more accurate to say that I’m his great—god-knows-how–many—great grand-daughter. Hard to tell since no one has seen his Grimness since the middle ages, but every single Reaper carries a piece of him, their Grimm, within. It’s what gives us our abilities and lets us see things that others can’t. Without a Grimm, a Reaper is a standard human with an interesting family tree. Nothing more, nothing less. With a Grimm? Yeah, even I don’t know everything we’re capable of.
I don’t want to think about what we can do. Not with how many of us there are.
It’s a bit like the Santa deal, but instead of presents, there are lots of souls to be reaped daily all over the world. I have no clue how the big dude in red manages it—yeah, he’s real too. And the Easter Bunny? Don’t get me started on that asshole. Reapers spread the load.
It’s like a franchise. You don’t buy into it, you're born into it. There are Reaper families everywhere, but not all of us get the call and receive a Grimm. When my grandfather died, it skipped over my mom and two older brothers to pick me.
My eldest bro had been so convinced that he’d be the one, he’d gone out and bought himself a costume. Head to toe armored bike leathers in Reaper black, with a death’s head helmet. Idiot can’t even ride a bike. He thought it looked cool though, so he was well pissed when the Grimm passed him over and picked me. You can imagine how awkward Thanksgiving was in our house that year. He’s still not talking to me ten years later. Twat.
So yeah, back to the point. I got the family Grimm—which, by the way, is a cantankerous bastard at the best of times—and I’ve been reaping souls ever since. It’s an interesting job, especially since my promotion less than a week into it.
You see, there are different types of Reaper. My grand-pop dealt with the “Naturals.” Those are the nice and easy reaps, those who die all peaceful of old age in their sleep, or in their garages, or gardens while cutting the grass. The ones who are expecting a visit from the big old GR himself so they’re not surprised to find they’re dead.
In fact, I remember Pop saying that the most exciting reap most months tended to be the old boys who snuffed it while on the job. According to Pop, trying to convince a soul that it’s not still having sex can be difficult. And icky. I don’t want to see no soul’s junk. Ever. Thank God, I’ve never had to deal with one of those.
Nope, after a couple of days on naturals, there was an opening, and I moved on to violent deaths. Gunshots, car accidents, beatings. You name it, I get to wade in and take the souls out. Some fight, but I prefer those to the victims. The pain in their auras, and the relief to see me because they know that their ordeals are over, tears at my heart. Especially the kids.
I’ve put more than a few email requests into head office to be the Reaper who takes their abusers down. Reaping is painless for the reapee. Is that even a word? Huh, I made one up. Go me.
Where was I, oh yeah, we train long and hard to make sure the souls don’t suffer. But since Reapers don’t go to heaven or hell, we’re out of that loop. There’s nothing to stop me from holding up somewhere quiet and taking a couple of days to strip a soul from its body. And believe me, given the right situation, I can be real inventive.
Find out more at Mina-Carter.com!
WALK ON THE STRIPED SIDE
GAGE
MARCH 2010—
FORT BRAGG ARMY BASE,
NORTH CAROLINA
“What do you mean I can’t pick up my weapon?”
Gage Ivanov was in no mood to be fucked with by the woman looking blankly back at him from the other side of the desk that separated them. One would think he’d be in a better mood. He’d finally caught up on some desperately needed sleep after being awake forty-eight hours for a mission. This was not the case. If anything, he felt as if he was approximately three point two seconds from flipping his shit, which would involve tearing the door off the Fort Bragg Military Police’s inner sanctum, stalking past the annoying female with a tantalizing scent that was starting to drive him insane and then collecting his Heckler & Koch MK 23 his damn self from the evidence room. Screw the harpy for saying he couldn’t have his issued side arm back.
Taking a deep breath to try to battle his building anger, he blew it out slowly and decided to give the feeble human another chance before he did something drastic, like pin her to a wall and kiss the ever living shit out of her.
Whoa.
Gage rubbed his forehead and wondered where the hell that crazy thought had come from. That idea was flat out ridiculous. He must be loopy still from lack of sleep. He’d probably meant that he’d pin her to the wall and scare the shit out of her, not kiss her. Yeah, that sounded better.
Shaking his head to clear the crazy thoughts, he looked back to the female. Through his frustration he had to admit that she was unconventionally pretty. Most humans were short to his six-foot-five frame, but she seemed tall for her race. When she’d led him past the front counter shielded by bulletproof glass that she’d greeted him at to her desk to question him, he’d sized her up to be somewhere around five-feet-nine. She would be close to the perfect fit to rest his chin on the top of her head if he was holding her. However she looked a bit on the thin side, and he usually liked women with ample curves. Some body parts should jiggle, dammit. At least she wasn’t anorexic skinny; more like athletically built. Next to his broad, brawny build she’d look downright tiny in size. She was dressed in her fatigues with her brown hair, which was so dark it almost looked black, pulled back in a tight bun on the back of her head. Between the dark hair, the slightly olive-tinged complexion and her narrow, almost aquiline nose, she more than likely had a Mediterranean background. Perhaps Italian or Greek.
He quickly noted that she had quite possibly the prettiest blue-green eyes he’d seen in all of his two hundred sixty-two years. Amazing eyes or no amazing eyes, nothing would stop him from giving her a dressing down that could go down in this Army’s history books if she didn’t hurry the hell up and give him back his weapon. He had better things to do with his time right then, like sleep some more, or make the short drive home so he could hunt down a deer on his property. Shifting into his tiger and using his claws and teeth to eat dinner sounded kind of perfect to assuage his bad mood.
The last time he’d been this mad at another soldier had been during the Russo-Persian War of 1804-1813. Back then, he’d damn near torn apart a Commanding Officer of the Infantry with his claws for a tactical error that could have cost them the battle and too many men to count. Usually, Tigers were either too lazy or just didn’t care enough to get involved or get mad about something, but this female with her clenched jaw and stubborn lines set around that mouth he couldn’t seem to stop looking at was testing him.
He looked down to her name tag stitched onto the front of her uniform to see just who the hell he was dealing with.
DEMOS.
The three stripes on her uniform also gave him her rank.
“Look, Sergeant Demos, I’m sure it was a simple mistake. My team just came in from a mission, we were all dog tired, and I probably left it on the Black Hawk, right? Although I don’t remember taking it out of my holster. I know it’s not acceptable to leave one’s weapon lying around, but let’s see how well you function after not catching some shut eye for two days. Let’s just say I’ve learned my lesson. It’ll never happen again. Now, give me whatever paperwork I need to sign saying that you’re relinquishing the weapon back into my possession and then hand it over.”
He flicked his fingers, palm side up and open in a hand-it-over gesture as he stared across the desk, trying to look as if he was patiently waiting. If he had been hunting for his dinner, then patiently waiting would be fine. Otherwise, it was something he didn’t care to bother with. Why wait patiently for something when you could just flash a little fang and scare your opponent into giving you whatever it was you wanted
? Except he couldn’t flash his canines here, and that only pissed him off more.
When the female continued to sit stiff-backed in her chair and stare at him as though he was a moron, he felt his claws prick the insides of his skin, begging to be released to do something that would relieve his agitation. He had to hurry up and get the hell out of here.
Snarling a little, he snapped at her, “If that simple task is in some way, shape or form too complicated for you to perform, Sergeant, then perhaps your CO should send you back to your AIT school to re-take your training courses. Maybe, while you’re there, you can learn how to do something more complicated than annoying the shit out of your superiors.”
The scent of extreme anger rolled off the brunette. He really could care less that he’d made her mad. No, what was really starting to bother him was that the smell of her pissed off was even more appealing to him than the way she’d smelled before. Since he was currently battling the overwhelming urge to either go furry or sex her up as if he was hopped up on Viagra, it just irked him that this little human could do anything that would make him want her more than he already did.
The sound of her teeth grinding drew his attention back to those plump lips that were currently flattened into a thin line of irritation.
“Sir, I cannot return your pistol to you because it has been formally confiscated pending an investigation. Your issued Heckler & Koch MK 23 was found in Major General Fetherman’s daughter’s bedroom.” The irritated woman held three fingers up and practically shoved them into his face. “Which means one of three possibilities. Either Ms. Fetherman managed to get into a secure area so that she could have access to the Black Hawk and found your gun there. Or, number two, you didn’t head straight to your premises for that shut eye you claimed to have been so desperate for. Instead, you met Ms. Fetherman somewhere and she took your weapon from you while you were otherwise pre-occupied since you don’t remember taking it out of your holster. One can only imagine what the two of you were doing that you would be so distracted for her to be able to procure your weapon without you having noticed.” She cocked an eyebrow at him in disgust. “Or, the third possibility is that perhaps you went to Major General Fetherman’s residence to meet with his daughter in her room where you accidentally left your weapon. Would you care to clarify which of these three scenarios is correct?” That dainty eyebrow came back down so she could shoot him a condescending look before she grudgingly added “Sir” onto the end of her rant. It was clear as day that she’d loathed giving him even that little bit of respect and had done it only to keep her ass out of trouble.
