by May Sage
“I made it clear! I gave him a hundred grand.” Then, she had to add, “For the record, I prefer Colter because he brings me chocolate.”
The Wayland family reunion was almost as unbelievable as the Cross one.
“Tell me, is that really the Butcher with a bunch of your kids on his back?”
On all fours, the man was wrestling Clive, Jasper, Victoria, Daniel and Will – and losing, too – while his wife MaryBeth baked stuff that put Ace’s desserts to shame in their kitchen.
They looked normal.
“Yep, apparently. Just don’t get the catnip out.”
Byron had his business face on.
“I wondered if he’d be open to a formal alliance. I know he’s no Alpha but having him in our ranks…”
“Your son mated his daughter. You can definitely ask.”
Having over four hundred people in their territory was actually not as much of a problem as it might have been elsewhere; they’d just cleaned up the log cabins Aisling never used, and it had accommodated everyone with ease, but after three weeks of having company, Rye was looking forward to spending time with his pride, and his mate.
They knew each other well now; they spend every night in each other’s arms, fucking, talking, laughing, and fucking some more. But they’d never had alone time outside of the bedroom. They hadn’t gone on a date.
Plus, while they were mated, they hadn’t made it official by holding a blood exchange ceremony; every woman out there dreamt of walking down the aisle wearing a pretty dress. And if he was honest with himself, Rye also wanted to officially seal their hands.
“You’ll invite us for your ceremony, I hope,” his mother said, touching his forearm.
He wasn’t surprised that she’d known what he was thinking about; Tara Wayland was an empath, as well as a submissive. She’d stayed behind in case a fight actually broke out.
“Sure.”
“I don’t think I can say how happy I am that you’ve actually found your mate,” she beamed at him. “The feelings around you…I’ve never experienced this. And your child is going to be so fucking cute. Look at how tiny and adorable Aisling is.”
He made a double take, and not only because his mother had said fucking.
“Child?”
Did he sound faint? Because he was. He really, really was.
“Oh my…I mean, I don’t want to assume but she feels like two people. So I just guessed.”
Child. They might have a child on the way, an actual piece of him and her.
Yeah. Things were good.
The End.
Next in the series: Daunte’s book.
Spin off coming: Omega (Vivicia and Jason’s story - from the Vergas Pack.)
In the same world: Hell Kissed Angel.
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Hierarchy
Wyvern Pride
Rygan – Alpha
Aisling – Alpha
Daunte - Beta
Coveney - Head Enforcer
Ian - Enforcer
Jas - Enforcer
Tracy - Enforcer in training
Ola - Healer
Hsu - Seer
Christine - Submissive
Niamh - Child
Lola - Child
Jasper - Child
Clive - Child
Victoria - Child
Daniel - Child
Will - Child
Royal Pride
Byron – Alpha King
Tara - Alpha Queen
Colter – Head Enforcer
Vergas Pride
Arthur – Alpha
Jason – Beta
Hunter – Head Enforcer
Known Loners
Knox
Vivicia – Wolf
Rain – Witch
Faith – Raven
Note from May
I hope you enjoyed Kitty Cat.
Next in the series, there will be Daunte’s story. I’ll also publish Jason and Vivicia, entitled Omega, as a spin-off series. Hell Kissed Angel happens in the same world.
Stay in tune for a few short excerpts of other books.
To Claim A King
Rhey managed to hold back the animalistic growl that began in his groin and traveled through his entire body when he threw open the cell door and saw Xandrie. Wrapped only in a filthy blanket, she was radiant. Her auburn hair fell around her bare shoulders – dear gods, he wanted his mouth on her skin – and her eyes, flecked with a gold so bright he thought he might never look away, burned into his. Her fight-ready stance reeked of defiance, but she smelled of fresh-tapped maple and crushed cloves.
He mentally checked in, to be sure his jaw hadn’t hit the floor, his hands weren’t clenching and unclenching in their eagerness to explore her, and his pants weren’t stretched tight over his erection. She was glorious, resplendent, magnificent…his brain ran on, looking for adjectives to describe the creature who might bring him to his knees with a single word.
“You going to stare at me all day or she we just get to the part where you cowards strap me to the ducking stool and plunge me into the pond, with its algae and tadpoles and sharp-toothed water pixies?” said Xandrie.
Her voice was no siren’s song, though he was baffled to know what he’d expected, because each harsh word – delivered with a sneer – only amped up his desire. He knew he was gawping. He also knew he had to stop. He had no right. The Elders had spoken; his wife would be chosen for him; he wasn’t a free man. And, in any case, she was a human and there was no way on Eartia a dragon and a human would be permitted to pair. He shook his head, willing the thoughts of what he’d like to do to her – with her, on her, in her – away.
“Demelza sent me.” He was glad he was able to speak in whole sentences.
Xandrie cocked her head and she dropped her “fight or flight, feet apart, fists at the ready” posture.
His dragon groaned, deep in his belly, for a second time. She was naked under the blanket and he could smell her sex. That was no way to effect an escape. He needed her covered up and running through the corridors before they were discovered, not leading him by the dick with her impossible scent.
Xandrie was on it. “Turn around,” she said.
He obeyed.
In seconds, she was at his side, fully dressed and ready to flee. She popped her head outside her cell. Her former jailors lay, unconscious, in the corridor. “You took out the guards?”
Rhey nodded. Hell, he needed to get a grip. With her so close, the growling was almost unbearable. He heard footfall on the stairs. Steel-capped boots and the sound of clanking side-arms meant more soldiers were headed their way. He’d come in through a window in the tower. Made sense to head out the same way.
“Mount me,” he said.
“Excuse me?” said Xandrie.
Rhey shifted, his white-and-gold scales shimmering in the moonlight. He felt her hand on him, then her legs, then she was astride him, her hot sweet self snug against his neck. He flexed his shoulders and shook out his wings. At least she was on top and couldn’t see how she excited him. No point dwelling on what would never be.
As the soldiers stormed the jail, Rhey took off into the night.
Hell Kissed Angel
Thatcher stood in the alleyway behind the library, a hood drawn up and tight around his face. He blinked in the sunshine. He wouldn’t be able to stay out for very long – his skin would flake off, his energy would deplete. Whatever he had come here to find, he had to find it quickly, before it cost him more than he could afford to pay.
Demons are night creatures, which is why Thatcher had decided to take the risk to come check this crime scene out for himself at the hottest point of late morning, the sun high in the sky. The Hunters, he figured, would expect him to come out only at night, never exposing himself to the sun’s harmful rays. If he’d visited this alleyway under the moon, he felt certain he’d have been arrested by now. But in daytime… in daytime, the bright
ness, paradoxically, provided him with cover.
At first he hadn’t believed Damian when Damian had told him what the Hunters had said. Damian was his closest friend, his long-time business partner, but it sounded too far-fetched. Like a trap. But then Damian had shown him the picture. Thatcher had immediately recognised the tell-tale marks of a soul sucker’s work. This baffled him and angered him in equal measure. A violent demon he didn’t know of – here, in his city? Taking lives, and getting Thatcher implicated – deliberately or not – in his own crimes?
Thatcher had decided right away to look into this himself. Hunters, for all their bravado, didn’t really understand paranormal codes of justice and retribution; and besides, it was his reputation, even his life, on the line. And he wouldn’t trust any answers unless he found them himself.
The problem so far, however, was that there weren’t any answers here. The crime scene cops had removed the dead girl’s body, cleaned up her blood. If there had been a struggle, the evidence had been put away. And he was struggling to make out scents in the thick hodgepodge of summer odors.
Sweat was dripping down his cheeks and neck. The pain on his skin was becoming unbearable, and he could feel himself growing weak. He wouldn’t be able to stay in the sun much longer. Perhaps it was time to go home, or at least underground to recuperate before returning…
Just as he formulated these thoughts, his powerful nose picked up a scent. It wasn’t much – faint – but distinctive. A woman. Not the victim – the victim’s scent ended abruptly here, where she died; this smell left the area and, judging by the power of the pheromones and chemicals, in a panic.
There was a witness, he thought.
Finally finding a clue invigorated him. He gritted his teeth against the agony, focused on the smell, and started tracking.
The scent led to the cheapest block of apartments in Spanish Harlem, a squalid block of low-income housing, fleabag hostels and homeless shelters. He’d almost lost it a couple of times – once when it grew fuzzy, because the woman had hidden from whatever was following her; another when it had become confused, because, it turned out, the woman had finally jumped aboard an uptown bus – but always found it again.
The woman’s bodily perfume was stronger now, as she had slowed down as she approached home. It led right up to an apartment building. Thatcher smashed the lock on the lobby door open and walked straight inside.
Someone – a woman – was screaming for her life on one of the upper floors.
Thatcher broke into a run, climbing the first flights of stairs two by two. He followed the scent up the first six flights of the walk-up, right up to the door behind which the screaming was coming from.
Just in time, he said to himself.
He lunged forwards without missing a step and smashed powerfully through the locked door, splintering it to pieces. A petite, beautiful woman was pinned onto her back on the floor of the small apartment’s living room. Her clothes were ripped, her genitals showing. Above her was a dark wraith, blue flames sparking off every inch of his body, seconds away from raping the woman so horrifyingly she would likely never be able to walk again.
“Away, you fiend!” Thatcher roared. He pulled his dagger out from under his coat – forged in dragon’s blood and ancient salt, it looked diminutive, but was more powerful than many modern weapons on Earth – and drove it between the wraith’s ribs. The demon’s flames burnt his arm but Thatcher held firm and twisted the blade, and soon the spirit shrieked, twisted, and collapsed into a heap.
“Disgusting thing,” Thatcher spat under his breath. He looked over at the woman – she was terrified, shaking and sweating. She was recoiling from him now, as if he scared her as much as her assailant had. He grabbed a throw from her couch and carefully laid it over her, averting his eyes.
“You must get dressed,” he told her. “Please – quickly. Your home is not safe anymore.”
“W-what…what was that?” she stammered.
“It was merely a minion,” Thatcher answered, sniffing, analysing scents. He walked to the window and looked out. “Which means there’ll be more soon. More… and much worse.”
Shy Girls Write It Better
Cassie felt like a James Bond Girl, minus the grace and the fake boobs, as her fingers flew on the keyboard, typing the super-secret words no one could ever see.
Hearing steps behind her, she minimized the document she was working on, opening up a spreadsheet as quickly as she could – given the antediluvian system she was working with, that could take a while. Thankfully, the incriminating window consented to disappear in time. It just wouldn’t do for one of her colleagues to glance over her shoulder and read the word cock.
It wasn’t her fault – not really. If her boss sent anything even remotely challenging her way, she wouldn’t feel bored to tears by eleven every morning. At the start of her employment at Harris Toys, she’d done her very best, always eagerly asking for more projects, but each time, Michelle Davis, her direct superior, just sent her on a coffee run or an equally boring task. There was nothing wrong with being treated like a secretary; when you were one.
Cassie was an accountant with a double major in business; after working her way through college and amassing more experience than your average thirty-year-old, she’d received a good dozen job offers right out of school.
She’d accepted Harris Toys’ offer because, come on, it was Harris Toys. Not only did the company specialize in really cool children’s toys, half of which were crafted for the use of kids with special needs, but it also generously gave to just about any cause that seemed worthy these days. That was the kind of company you could boast about at a high school reunion. But not when you were a glorified secretary-occasionally-doing-payroll.
As it became clear that Michelle refused to let her do her job, Cassie resorted to two equally underhanded behaviors. Firstly, she’d started to schedule her occasional trip to her boss’s desk when Michelle’s own superior was within ear shot, to make it clear that she wasn’t the slacker Michelle was trying to show she was.
She was all smiles as she said things such as, “Is there anything I can do for you, Michelle? I’m done with the last expense report.”
Because Cassie was shy – terminally so – people mistakenly believed they could walk all over her. Not happening.
Her second coping mechanism, when she had nothing else to do, consisted of plugging in her USB stick, opening up her last document, and writing the naughty books she’d never had the time to focus on until now.
After adhering to the routine for over seven months, she had three books under her belt and the hearing of your average German Shepherd, as catching approaching steps had become her biggest challenge in her cubicle.
Lifting her head to see who the newcomer could possibly be, she dropped it right back to her keyboard quicker than usual, hunching her back to disappear behind her screen.
Patrick Johnson, the CFO, Michelle’s boss, came down at least twice a week, so she’d gotten as used to him as she could – although Cassie would never feel comfortable with a man like him: tall, broad, with a killer smile and too much charisma. She preferred them to stay where they belonged: in fictitious romance.
Still, she could deal with Trick. He was one of the nice ones; he remembered her name and asked how she was until she felt comfortable enough to return the greeting.
The problem was that Trick hadn’t come alone today. Oh, no. He’d brought his best friend, the founder and CEO of Harris Toys, Carter Harris.
Given the fact that she was working for him, Cassie had seen him a few times; on her first day, for one, and maybe once or twice in the elevator. Okay, seven times. Yes, she’d been close to hyperventilating at each damn occasion.
Trick was an upgrade on the All American guy, light brown hair, with amber eyes and a ready smile, while Carter was his exact opposite. Dark wavy hair he styled like Superman and cold grey eyes always penetrating whatever they landed on. Everyone in the room held their brea
ths and not only because he was signing the paychecks. Well, not literally; Cassie was the one who signed them.
He was the kind of person who effortlessly dominated whatever space he entered.
She risked a peek up from her screen and regretted it immediately: he’d just been looking in her corner – her movement brought his attention to her. Shit.
That’s when, in her mind, she confidently got up, walked straight up to him and grabbed his jacket, kissing him deeply right then and there like they were alone in the world. If it had been one of her books, her protagonist would have done just that. In reality, though, she kept her ass firmly planted on her chair, and blushed like there was no tomorrow.
To her surprise, the corner of Carter Harris’ mouth curled up, although he soon turned to look at everyone else in the room.
“Morning,” his deep voice greeted them. “Don’t mind us – maintenance is redoing the carpet in the three upper floors; we’ll just borrow some of your space for a couple of days.”
Yeah, sure. No worries. Great news.
She was dead. Her nerves would not survive “a couple of days” of seeing Carter Fucking Harris for eight hours straight. With a bit of luck, he’d choose the office behind her back, and she could always do without using the coffee machine nestled against it; that meant she’d only spot him when he came in and left…
Her hopes were dashed as the man carelessly waltzed in the large office right in front of her; as the walls were entirely made of glass, he might as well have been in the same room.
Great. Better get a heart surgeon on speed-dial.
He walked in and made himself at home, placing his cool MacBook on his desk as he talked with Trick, who nodded a lot, without lifting his head from his phone.
