Taming the Alpha

by Mandy M. Roth

  When she stepped out of the elevator, she couldn’t help but overhear some of the murmurs from the passengers who stayed behind.

  “Did you see that…?”

  “Wonder what happened there?”

  It wasn’t easy but Shyla refrained from turning and giving them the all the finger.

  “What took you so damned long, Roth?”

  Ah, a distraction. Good. “Nice to see you too, boss.” She grinned when a tall, harried woman in high heels and business grey marched forth.

  The woman slid to an abrupt halt. “Holy God, what happened to you?”

  Shyla bared her teeth, anger boiling over, then noted the direction of her editor’s gaze and looked down at her khaki carpenter pants. “Ah, hell.” She deflated at once and a sheepish grin tilted one corner of her mouth.

  There was blood smeared on her trousers. Not a lot, but more than enough to earn the dramatic reception she’d received on the way up here.

  “Well, I guess I’m more sensitive than I’d like to admit.” Damn it, gotta work on that.

  “What are you mumbling about?” Lisa had already dismissed the blood—clearly she’d seen far stranger things in her line of work. “Have you got the pictures?”

  “Yes.” Shyla rolled her eyes at the endless waves of hurry and stress oozing from Lisa’s pores and began rummaging through the contents of her saddlebag. “I’ve got some other photos too, of a guy who just got hit by a bus half an hour ago near the Square.”

  “Is that where the blood is from?”

  Shyla ignored her, continuing to rummage. “You want ‘em or not?”

  “Don’t be stupid, you know I do. Upload them to the server ASAP,” Lisa snorted, watching her employees scurry about the office. She was like a hawk eyeing its prey, waiting for the choicest piece before striking. Abruptly her eyes zeroed in on Shyla’s bent head. “What about the story, have you written it out yet?”

  Shyla gaped. “What are you kidding me? I said it was half an hour ago. I just got here, I’ve been busy walking, Lisa, damn.” With a triumphant grunt Shyla seized on the white envelope containing the DVD, which had dozens of moody photos and a written piece concerning the newest rash of self-proclaimed paranormal investigators saturating the independent business markets of the tri-state area. It would be released online and in print, in all the mega-conglomerate’s media outlets. Not that she cared much. It was a fluff piece. She just wanted to get paid.

  “Not for the bus guy, Roth.” Lisa sighed, impatient as ever. “Keep up with me. I meant do you have the article to go with the ghost hunter pictures.”

  “Yes, yes, it’s all there. Since when have I ever missed one of your deadlines?” She raised her head and blew a short, wavy lock of hair out of her eye, glaring.

  “Since the global warming piece,” Lisa rebutted. She grabbed the disc from Shyla’s hand.

  Shyla glared and her temperature soared. “What the—that was three years ago and I was in the damned hospital, you ass!”

  “That’s no excuse.” Lisa winked and sashayed away with her plunder, completely dismissing one of her prized photojournalists with the ease and confidence of a cutthroat businesswoman. Her thoughts were already on the next site update and subsequent viral worthiness of the treasured photos on Shyla’s DVD.

  “You’re welcome,” Shyla muttered. “Hey,” she called out fast, before Lisa was out of earshot. “I better see a deposit in my account before the day is over for that! I don’t do trash pieces like that for my own amusement you know. I gotta eat.”

  Her voice echoed off the walls and a dozen pairs of eyes turned to her, and then fell to her blood splattered khakis. Ugh! If I’m not being stared at for one reason or another would the world as I know it cease to exist?

  She marched out of the building wondering how much weirder her life could get.

  Chapter Four

  New York City, New York, Two days later

  Normally Rig adored American women. They were unreserved, forward in a refreshing sort of way that no other nationality could match, yet still utterly feminine without affecting those coy pretenses that the fairer sex adopted throughout many other cultures of the world.

  Luscious forms draped over and around him. As many as could fit in the booth. It was part of what he was, this magnetic allure and though he’d relished its benefits in the past, right now he was distracted and found the fawning attentions of his female companions a nuisance.

  He wished these women had not invited themselves to sit beside him in the dim corner he’d chosen to wait out his prey. It was getting harder and harder to turn them down nicely.

  Fresh from his flight out of Europe, he’d entered this small neighborhood bar and grill with only thoughts to feed his hunger and quench his thirst before continuing his hunt. The moment his boots crossed the threshold however, he’d known that this was where he would find her. He just had to sit and wait.

  He had never erred in a hunt and this was the most important ever set before him. So he waited here. Rig had been waiting here since last night. He’d spent closing hours camped out in the shadows across the street with a full view of the quiet pub and arrived as soon as they had opened their doors for business. If not for an endless flow of cash for drinks and food he did not eat, Rig was sure the proprietors would have thrown him out by now.

  The bar was filling up with people as the night hours drew in and the women were flocking to him like hummingbirds to nectar. He was growing impatient and no good would come from that.

  A mouth tugged at his earlobe. A giggle from another as a hand moved down the hard, flat plane of his belly. Rig gently seized the hand before it could wander lower and placed it on the table where he could keep an eye on it. Ye gods, was he giving off such a strong allure that these women couldn’t take a hint?

  He grabbed his beer and swallowed the contents of the glass in one huge gulp. It was weak and thin—nothing but water compared to the incredible Valhallan Mead he was gifted with at the start of every new season—but it was cold and it helped to dampen the heat of his rising temper. He wondered if he shouldn’t get up and wait outside.

  Every time the door of the bar opened he felt the kiss of the breeze and smelled the air, the burning fuels, the pollens of trees and shrubs, the moist stagnation of too many humans in one place…no, he decided it was best to stay inside.

  Fingers were finding their way past the buttons of his shirt. He swatted them away and closed his eyes, praying for patience, listening for signs.

  The sounds were so thick here, layered blankets that pressed on his head. If he listened close he could hear the passions of the city, the arguments, the speeches of love and business exchanges. So much to hear and learn.

  The purposeful stomp of booted feet echoed in his ears as someone took the booth across from his. So many rich sounds yet this one echoed in the halls of his imagination, setting fire to his blood.

  “I’ll have the roast beef and a glass of milk.”

  That voice. A stark contrast to the cooing, baroque tones of the ladies next to him. Curt and dismissive, but husky and alluring, it moved him as no other had in recent memory. His eyes opened wide.

  Her gaze was downcast, studying something beneath the table in her lap. The light played on her shiny hair and eyelashes. Her hair was a unique shade, ripe apricots in spring. The wide collar of her jacket framed the sharp angles of her face, the white sheep’s wool striking a contrast with her complexion, which was a healthy peaches and cream. It made him long to lick his lips.

  It made him long to lick hers, which were the hue of fresh, pale roses.

  Though the lighting was dim and dull, and night had fallen in the world outside, she was dusted with pure sunlight.

  As if she sensed his gaze on her, those rose-gold lashes fluttered up, her attention leaving the camera he could see, despite the impediment of the table that would have blocked a mortal’s view, cradled in her hands. She met his stare without hesitation or fear.

  I
t is her. I knew it. No man or woman, save one touched by the gods could have met his eyes so easily.

  And what otherworldly eyes she had! They were green and blue and gold, a mossy swirl of vibrant color that mesmerized and captivated. Rig was caught and held by her and a more willing captive, there was none.

  He pushed aside the hands that fawned over him, rising to meet this woman he’d been seeking for years. This creature was so coveted by the gods that they had sent him, their own Watchman, to fetch, train, and—well that bit didn’t bear thinking on yet.

  The coral pillow of her lips moved.

  I wonder what the first words between us will be?

  She sneered, revealing a flash of even, white teeth. The disgust on her face could not have been clearer. She darted those kaleidoscope eyes between him and the three women sharing his booth before rolling them in disdain and returning her attention to her camera.

  Rig stiffened. The sting of her dismissal was a greater blow to his ego than he would have imagined. How dare she?

  Perhaps it was too dark for her to get a good look at him. Yes. That must be the problem. He willed her to meet his gaze again. Inevitably, after several seconds had passed, she did.

  Her teeth bared again in a feral show of aggression. “What are you staring at?” Her terse voice resonated through him like the sound of a great horn and he feared for the fate of all mankind.

  Such wrath. How magnificent she is. But of course she would be. She will lead the charge to bring about the end of an era if my brothers have their way. He wanted to say something to her, to take away her anger, soften it. Why did she dislike him so? Of all the women on Earth, why did she have to be the one to hate him on sight?

  She scoffed, blowing a lock of her magnificent hair out of her eyes and once more looked away before he could think of anything to say.

  What in all the worlds is happening here?

  Rig took to his feet now, ignoring the protests from the rejected women. He found a way out of his booth and slipped over to hers. Without bothering to wait for an invitation, he took the bench opposite her and waited for her to acknowledge his presence once again.

  She stiffened and gave Rig a look so full of venom it was a wonder he did not fall over dead. He tried to smile, to use his wealth of charm—such tricks had worked on more women than he could remember—but his smile would not come.

  She spoke again and her voice enraptured him.

  “I didn’t say you could sit there.”

  Her hair was a corona, wavy, somewhat curly around the ends, layered so that it framed the strong lines of her face. She had a hard look about her, around the corners of her mouth and eyes, as if the world had touched her with an unkind finger. Yet, through some mysterious, unseen core of strength, she had survived it and come out all the more beautiful for it.

  She was no delicate saint, but an angel of fire and vengeance. There was no mercy in her he could sense.

  “I didn’t ask,” He said, pleased to find his wits and his voice at last.

  She absently thanked the server as she received her meal, but her flashing gaze never left his during this brief exchange. When the waitress left, her voice reverted from polite to enraged. “If you don’t stop staring at my face, I’m going to pick up my fork and poke out one of your eyes with it.”

  He presented what he hoped was a pleasant, flirtatious front. It had been so long since he’d had to put forth any effort to attract a woman that he wasn’t sure he was doing it right. “Do you attack all your admirers?”

  The sharp angle of her jaw tightened and he heard the grit of her teeth. “Jackass,” She snapped, face a mask of distaste. “Stare all you want. If there’s any justice in the world you’ll have nightmares.” She then threw a handful of bills on the table and without another glance, without even touching her food, she rose from her seat and turned to leave.

  Aghast, Rig was left gaping. He didn’t understand what had just transpired. He knew that he couldn’t let this woman get away. He had to figure out what he’d done to piss her off so completely and undo it right away.

  Regaining his wits, he reached out to stop her, but she sidestepped him with a swift and economic motion that left Rig stunned. No woman had ever slipped free of his grasp.

  Before he’d recovered to try again, she was already out the door. Rig slid out of the booth to follow her. He was caught in the tide of women who hurried to spring from their booth and stop his departure, begging for him to stay. Their hands clung to his clothing and hair.

  “I wish they were all this easy,” he muttered.

  It took him precious seconds to wriggle free from the sirens’ clutches and by that time he was forced to use his preternatural sight to locate the golden woman. He looked through the bar’s walls, through people and streets. She was already well ahead, the minx.

  A dangerous temper boiled through his blood, granting him speed as he flung himself into the crowded night.

  Chapter Five

  She wanted to turn around and hit that arrogant ass right in his magazine-ad kisser. What right did he have bullying her, making her feel like a freak, on her own turf? In this city that bar was her favorite place to people watch on a Friday night. He’d invaded it and despoiled it, made her leave when he should have been the one to go. The confrontation had been so unexpected that Shyla’s rage had sent her over the edge. That guy was lucky to still have all of his perfect, even teeth.

  Damn it. Her face burned with anger and, yes, embarrassment. Pretty people—especially arrogant, mocking jerk wads—made her feel ugly these days.

  No. Damn Mr. Perfect. She amended. Damn him for making me feel like this.

  So he had flawless, sun kissed skin. No doubt he had to pay out the ass for it at a spa, and he deserved to with arrogance like that. Shyla never considered herself cover girl material, even before the scars, but her photographs had graced many a magazine cover because her talents deserved the accolades, and talent trumped beauty any day. Shyla’s photojournalism had even won her the Pulitzer—that man’s looks would never win any prizes worth remembering.

  But those eyes…those incredible blue eyes of his had pierced right though her. They’d seemed to see everything. She’d never encountered a color so pure and so clear. And the way he had met her gaze…the way he had stared right into her, exposing everything she’d fought so hard to bury—it had spooked her.

  It had sent her straight back into that Southern Arctic ice, into the freakish, impossible volcanic rend in the earth, into the steam and molten rock and primeval chaos roiling the ice shelf as far as the stretch of the horizon. With just one look from those eyes it had all come back to her, all the pain and fear of those moments, when her life had been forever changed beyond all measure.

  When she’d faced her greatest challenge and failed.

  Shyla had thought those raw feelings were buried so deep she’d never have to relive them, but those sky blue orbs of his had pierced the armor of her heart and brought it bleeding out.

  Of course, Shyla had instantly hated him for doing it.

  Right now the burns on her arms and face ached, the skin throbbing as if raw and abraded. The deeper wounds she’d suffered—failure, loss and shame—were a fever in her blood, sweating through her pores. Shyla was panting like a trapped animal. Hurrying her pace, darting through the crowd, trying to outrun the memories. But Shyla knew very well that there was no way to outrun herself.

  If he hadn’t been so magnetic, even with his rude and irritating behavior, perhaps she wouldn’t have reacted with such an appalling temper.

  There had just been something about the guy that had reached into her and flipped every switch, pressed every button. Despite his behavior, she’d been drawn to him and that had made every reaction feel exponentially worse.

  I’m no better than those chicks that were in the booth with him! God, just kill me now and put me out of my misery.

  From behind her a warm hand seized hers. Shyla looked over her shoulde
r and snarled. It was Mr. Perfect. He jerked her to a stop.

  She turned, camera swinging like a pendulum against the buttons on her jacket…

  Before Shyla could react, the world bled out in a profusion of rainbows; the darkness of the city banished in an explosion of light.

  ***

  Rig had never seen a person who was so agile in a crowd. It mortified him to have to chase her so long. When he finally managed to grasp her hand, the skies of all the worlds split open, alive with colors so wild they would have driven other men mad.

  “The twilight of the Gods is soon upon us,” A voice like the cracking of a mountain boomed around them. “The fall of Man is imminent unless all Midjungards’ heroes heed the call of the Horn.”

  She cried out and would have fallen to her knees if Rig had not held fast to her hand, gripping her closer to his side. Despite the chaos of the Godstorm that raged around them, Rig could not help but note how well this unique creature fit against him, how the strength of her form complimented his. And still she mysteriously retained a soft femininity that nurtured a protective instinct he’d thought long dead inside himself.

  Borr’s voice was thundering again and it was a struggle for Rig to keep them both on their feet. While Hermod, the gods’ Messenger, often spoke through corpses; this god wasn’t one for using such subtle measures.

  “We have watched you, Shyla Roth. You are full of valor and possessed of a mighty spirit. Your courage and perseverance in the face of hardship has been written down in the Edda of Leaves. For your deeds you have been chosen to undertake a great and difficult task.”

  “Be strong now.” Rig urged her as she threw his hand aside and clutched her head. He put his arms around her and held on, lending what strength he had to give.

  Borr continued. “You are called upon now to take up arms, to decide your fate in an unfolding saga that will end in the death or rebirth of the cosmos. Daughter of the mountain, you could be destined for high summits, the choice is yours.”