by Helena Ray
“Go’ainoo-doyadukubichi’.”
At the signal of his brother Clay’s telepathic voice, Jack’s body crept backward against his will, away from the paragon of flush, feminine beauty that still gazed at him, even in his retreat. All parts of him, human and lion, were drawn to the dumbfounded creature watching him. The ancient Shoshone magic pulled him away, back to his homestead and back to his brother, but he wanted to stay with her. He wanted to stay there forever, reveling in the aroma and her beauty, wondering what it would feel like to sink into her soft skin, whether with his fingers, with his cock, or with his teeth.
* * * *
Anya Copely tried to be nonchalant as she opened the door to the Ninth Time. A bell rang when she pushed open the glass door, and she quickly dodged behind a circular rack of men’s shirts topped with a pile of women’s shoes at least three feet high. She held her breath, waiting for the secondhand store’s owner to come out and man the register. Ten seconds passed, twenty, thirty. Cautiously, she peered out from behind the rack. Coast is clear.
Attempting a casual walk, she crossed to another circular rack further inside the store, this one taller and filled with dresses. They ranged from sensible outfits Anya wouldn’t mind owning to outrageous displays of neon that could only have been from the eighties. She fingered through the rack, wondering when, exactly, someone would emerge from door behind the counter that was barely visible through the collection of ancient electronics haphazardly displayed on the wall.
Finally, the door creaked open, and Anya hurriedly jumped out of sight, satisfied that she was hidden behind a mess of taffeta that even a figure skater wouldn’t touch. A few steps sounded, followed by several curses muttered in a low grumble. When the door didn’t close again, Anya ventured to peer out from behind the purple taffeta sleeve of the dilapidated prom dress.
Her heart skipped a beat when she saw the man behind the profanity. Clayton Abbott. He had been the object of her affection since age twelve, although Anya was sure he had never noticed her. Oh, but how she’d noticed him. She studied him as he leaned over the front counter, appearing to examine the jewelry contained therein.
Age had only improved Clay’s unconventionally good looks. She ran a quick calculation in her head and determined he must have been thirty-six years old. He pushed his shaggy blond hair behind his ear, revealing his sculpted high cheekbones. His bicep flexed as he raked a hand through his hair, his short-sleeved shirt riding up and revealing the base of one of his tattoos.
Mustering her courage, Anya grabbed hold of the dress and used it to anchor herself as she leaned further toward the shop owner. God, she could spend hours admiring Clayton Abbott’s magnetic masculinity.
However, the dress had different plans. Before Anya could stop it, the flimsy strap of the dress slid from the paper-covered hanger, depriving Anya of her grip and sending her tumbling to the floor.
It took a moment for her to register what had happened, but flames of embarrassment ignited in her chest when she realized she was sprawled across the floor of Savage Valley’s cluttered secondhand store with Clay Abbott as her witness.
She listened for a moment. No footsteps. Maybe Clay didn’t hear the incident? After waiting another moment, she began to sit up, convinced that Clay hadn’t noticed her fall.
“Have a nice trip?”
Her head whipped to the right, toward the entrance of the store. Clay knelt beside her, his hand outstretched and a look of bemusement on his face. Before taking his hand, Anya looked around the store. It was packed to the rafters, yes, but she couldn’t see any way Clay could have gotten to this side of her and still escaped her notice. Maybe I hit my head a little harder than I realized.
“Well?”
Anya turned her attention back to Clay. She couldn’t believe the scene before her, the beautiful Clay Abbott with all his attention focused on her. Delicately, she placed her hand in his, savoring the feel of his warm skin against her cold hands. He deftly pulled her to her feet, and she tripped again. This time, though, Clay’s hand shot to her waist to steady her. Even through her coat, her skin burned underneath his touch. She looked up into his ice-blue eyes, taking a moment to study everything about this position, the heat emanating from his chest, the way the dirty-blond stubble played along his chin, his spicy, woody scent that seemed to wrap around her.
All too soon for Anya’s taste, he released her, but thankfully put one hand on her shoulder to steady her.
“You okay there?”
“Y–Yeah,” she stammered. “Sorry about that. I guess I got tripped up in the sea of polyester over there.”
He let out one brief chuckle as he looked past her to the dress rack. “I keep telling Jack that he needs to get rid of that purple number.” He shook his head and turned his attention back to Anya. “Do you wanna take it off my hands, or would you like to keep looking?”
He didn’t remember her. He really didn’t remember her! Anya thought that might be a good thing, considering her state when she had last spent much time around Savage Valley. She had been an awkward teenager, complete with acne, braces, and a very flat chest.
“I think I’ll keep on browsing,” she said, curling up her nose in mock disgust.
“Wise choice.” Clay turned from her then and started toward the counter. Her chest constricted a little when he headed back to the counter, but his brief moment of attention could suffice for the evening’s vibrator-time fodder.
“So, you visiting the Valley?” Clayton asked as he busied himself at the register, confirming Anya’s suspicion.
“What makes you say that?” Having waited so many years for this much attention from Clay, Anya figured she might as well have some fun.
“You’re carrying a Woodland Den bag. They only give those out to guests and…” He looked up and narrowed his eyes at her. Would this be his moment of recognition? “Are you working at the Den?”
“Maybe.”
A smile broke over his stoic features for just a moment, but he quickly schooled his countenance.
“Didn’t realize they had hired anyone for the holiday season.”
“Well, I’m not just anyone.”
He narrowed his eyes at her once more, and finally they widened in recognition.
“Anya? Anya Copely? Is that you?” He stared at her as if she were in costume and walked around the counter. “How are you in…But I thought…You’re not…”
“I haven’t been around for a while.”
She didn’t miss the way his gaze traveled up and down her body, his appreciative gesture speeding up her heart rate.
“God, you can say that again.” Clayton leaned against the counter, crossing his arms as he cocked his head and studied her. “So how’ve you been? Frank and Cora talk about some of your exploits when they come in, and your grandmother brags on you to everyone at Savage Hunger. Aren’t you supposed to be travelin’ around with some big-time figure skating coach?”
Anya flinched, the mere mention of her former employer resulting in a bodily reaction. She forced herself to grin, determined not to let Christopher’s actions taint her time with Clay.
“Guess my aunt and uncle haven’t been in recently. I decided to take…a hiatus from the skating world, at least for a season or two.” She forced her smile wider. “I’m working at the Woodland in the meantime.”
Clay shook his head and continued to examine her, heating her cheeks. After a few beats, Anya started to feel awkward, the silence between them electrified with what she hoped was mutual attraction.
Just when the tension became so unbearable Anya thought she’d have to leave, Clay broke the silence.
“H–How’s your dad?” His voice came out shakier than she ever remembered hearing it. “He enjoying his retirement from the NHL?”
“I think so,” Anya said, slightly disappointed that she’d have to recite this story once more but still more than elated to be talking to Clayton. “Although he’s been working with the US national team until rec
ently. My parents have just started up a training camp at a rink in Saint Petersburg—”
“Florida or Russia?”
“Russia, silly,” she said, unable to stifle a giggle. “Anyway, it’s going really well for them, and I think my dad is finally learning Russian.”
“Yeah, but how are you taking it? You guys started moving around a lot, didn’t you?”
Anya felt her jaw drop. Clayton Abbott remembered all those details about her family? Did he really care that much? Then the sobering thought occurred to her that her father was a bit of a town celebrity. Right. That was why Clay cared.
“It’s been…” Images of that fateful competition flashed through her head. The last five years had been anything but easy. “It’s been interesting.”
A look of concern flashed across Clay’s face, but it vanished quickly. He snapped out his scrutiny and started to move to the other side of the counter.
“Well, I’ll be damned.” He shook his head at her once more. “Anya Copely. I gotta do a bit of work, but feel free to look around all you want.” He raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure you’re not interested in that taffeta-polyester mess over there?”
Anya laughed, thankful for the injection of humor. “I think I’ll leave it for some other lucky girl to find.”
“You do that.” Clayton disappeared into the back of the store, and Anya let out a breath she had held through their entire interaction.
Did all of that really just happen? Or was it some sort of trauma-induced dream? Either way, Anya couldn’t help the silly grin she knew she was wearing.
* * * *
Clay had to struggle not to slam the door to the front of the store. As soon as it was closed, he rested his back against it and tried to catch his breath. He was hyperventilating, his heart pounding. He had called on his deepest stores of energy to stay calm in front of Anya, and now he couldn’t ignore the raging hard-on begging for his attention. Had he really just seen little Anya Copely? Rita’s granddaughter?
He searched his memories for any recollection of the girl. He had never known her particularly well. Last he remembered, she was an awkward prepubescent teenager, sweet but still quite gangly, nothing like that creature that spilled onto the floor of the Ninth Time, beautiful even in her clumsiness. He couldn’t get the image of her long, lean body out of his mind, the sight of her long, dark hair flowing around her shoulders haunting him.
After a great effort, Clay’s heart rate slowed, but there was no relief in sight for his cock. He turned toward his desk, hoping some paperwork would serve to wilt his hard-on, but a whiff of something caught his attention. It was a bizarre smell, a cross between body odor and cologne. It had been years since he’d had a date, and therefore years since he’d broken out any sort of man fragrance. He wondered briefly if Jack was getting laid and not telling him about it, but he doubted his little brother would either spend money on something so trivial or be poking around his studio.
He dismissed the notion, instead passing his desk and continuing to his easel in the corner. As he picked up his brush, hoping to distract himself from his encounter with Anya, he closed his eyes and tried to recall the arresting visual stimuli experienced by his leonine consciousness. Only particularly powerful images from his shifted form stuck around once his human brain took over, but Clayton always tried to conjure up the scant memories for use in his work. Think. He squeezed his eyes tighter and tried to recall either his own experiences from the last few hunts or the experiences of the collective pride consciousness that formed when they all shifted together. With the cold weather forcing the Rocky Mountain mule deer population into an early mating season, food was plentiful, making for uneventful hunts. Think, Clay. Nothing on the last hunt, or the one before that, or the one before that, or…Wait. Only a few short weeks ago, one of the pride families, the Popes, had scented their mate on the hunt, sending the rest of a pride into a frenzy. They had felt an overwhelming bodily yearning, the intensity of their focus unheard of. Their lust had consumed them in an extreme arousal that—
Holy fucking shit. Only a few hunts before that, Oliver and Roarke Cash, the pride alpha and beta respectively, had experienced the same heightened awareness when they scented their mate.
Suddenly, Clay knew the source of his overpowering reaction to Anya. He had felt all those same sensations—the yearning, the intensity, certainly the arousal—the instant he heard Anya’s soft footfalls as she entered the store. His reaction to her was like none he had ever experienced, and now he knew he would never feel that for another woman.
Just as his heart surged with a happiness and relief he hadn’t thought possible, his fathers’ words echoed in his mind. The story of when they first found their mother was legendary in the Abbott family. The three had been at Savage Convenience and Auto Plus, their favorite destination for parts to fix up the ever-revolving stable of ancient cars that filtered through the Abbott household. A young woman covered in ink stains had run into the store, gesticulating wildly and shouting something about a car stalled on Highway 131. It turned out that the clunker only needed a new serpentine belt, but the Abbott brothers would have built her a new engine right there in the middle of the store. They had fallen in love instantly with the bushy-haired beauty driving from art school in Boulder to her home in San Francisco, and legend had it, the Abbotts mated her only two days later.
Remembering his late parents knotted Clay’s stomach, and he tried to tamp down the immediacy of their memory. What Clay knew he needed to dwell on was the fact that his fathers had known from the very first time that they saw his mother that she was their mate, and the Cashes and Popes had experienced the same phenomenon. He may have felt his entire body constrict in lust the instant Anya walked into the store, but he had to chalk it up to something else. He had seen Anya before, and even though he hadn’t known her very well, he certainly didn’t have the same reaction to the skinny, bespectacled preteen.
He needed to get back to her. He needed to regain some semblance of calm so he could once more allow the intoxicating presence of his mate—his mate—to wash over him.
“I’m gonna go!”
Clay’s dick hardened as he heard the clear, ringing voice from within the shop. God, even the sound of her voice had him sweating with his desire. An image of her walked into his mind, and he longed to remove that jacket and the skinny jeans she wore, find out exactly how long those luscious legs were.
“It was nice seeing you.” His voice sounded strangled, even to his own ears. “Come by again, okay?”
“O–Okay. Bye, Clayton!” He heard the door close, signaling the alluring woman had finally left the store. Damn it, he had lost his chance. Clay glanced at the clock. It was 1:45 p.m. already. He had shifted and called for his brother to shift at one thirty, just before Anya came in. What the fuck was taking him so long? The lunch hours without Jack usually dragged on forever, but today’s felt even longer than usual. Clay’s cock pressed hard against his zipper, and he longed for his brother to take over the front of the shop so that he could finally relieve the pressure that had been building since Anya walked into the store.
Mate or not, one thing was clear. He needed her with every iota of his being, mountain lion and all.
* * * *
“Grandma?”
Anya cracked open the door to the Haven Salon, relieved at the burst of warm air that came from within.
“Don’t you dare call me that, honey! You’ll make people think I’m old.” Her Grandma Rita hopped from one of the chairs in the waiting area and pulled her granddaughter into the salon, still wearing the black dress from her Savage Hunger uniform.
“What do you want me to call you then?” Anya asked as she hugged her grandmother.
She appeared to think for a moment, tapping a newly manicured finger against her chin. “What do you call your other grandmother? The Russian one?”
“Babulya?”
She paused for a moment before shaking her head and laughing. “No,
I think ‘grandma’ actually suits me just fine.”
“I’m so happy to see you.” Anya hugged her grandmother again, breathing in her distinctive smell of hand lotion and coffee, a mixture only acquired by frequenting a beauty parlor and working at a diner.
“Oh, you, too, angel bunny.” Anya laughed against her grandmother’s shoulder at the use of the pet named she’d given Anya as a baby. “You come on in, and we’ll get you a pedicure. That’ll make everything better.”
“Everything’s fine, Grandma. I don’t need a consolatory pedicure.”
Grandma Rita waved off her comment. “Oh, everyone needs a pedicure, consolatory or not. And what happened to you is a big deal. I could just wring that man’s neck.”
Once more, Christopher soaked into Anya’s life, and she worked to push him out of her mind. She closed her eyes and called up the recent memory of Clay’s spicy, masculine scent. How could she dwell on the past when her dreams had nearly come true?
As she sat down, removed her shoes, and eased her feet into the blue jets of water and relaxed, Anya listened to her grandmother’s tirade on Christopher’s behavior. She’d already heard it several times before, when she called to tell her grandmother she was moving to Savage Valley then each time she had seen her since.
“I know, I know,” Anya said when Grandma Rita finally took a deep breath of air. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have stayed, but I love the sport so much. I don’t know what I would do without it in my life.”
“He never would have pulled that if your parents had been in the country. Why, I still say I ought to report him to—”
“Can we move on?” Anya hated to sound ungrateful, but she wanted to think about anything else.
“Sure thing, hon.” Grandma Rita gave her a wink, and Anya thought she knew where this was going. “So, you stopped by the Ninth Time, I hear?”
“Is nothing private in this town?”
“Only the things that matter.”
