by Sylvia Frost
All that considered, it was no surprise that she hadn’t noticed Christmas had arrived until her father was putting up the tree. She watched him work from her position on the couch, staring at the grilled cheese sandwich he had made her.
“You going to come help?” he asked as he threaded a string of popcorn through the branches.
“No,” Bel said listlessly.
“No?” her father asked. “You’ve been sitting there for an awful long time.”
Bel ignored him.
“Bel?” Her father stepped down from the footstool – he was too short to reach the top branches without it – and faced her.
“Mm?”
“I’m worried about you,” he said, holding up the string of popcorn like a peace offering.
“I’m fine.” Bel took a bite of the grilled cheese. It tasted papery in her mouth. She swallowed without smiling. “Delicious.”
His bushy eyebrows furrowed, and he waddled over to sit on the arm of the couch. “You haven’t talked much about your publishing contract, and I haven’t seen you do any writing. Is everything okay with that?”
Bel scowled. “Just as okay as your lawsuit issues, Dad.”
His pockmarked face went suddenly white. “Oh, no.”
Bel put down her grilled cheese. “Yeah, I know about that.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I’ve already taken care of it.” Bel held up a hand.
His face contorted with nervousness. “You didn’t pay him?”
Bel barked a laugh. “God, no. There’s no way that rose was really worth a million and a half dollars, anyway.”
Her dad frowned. “So he was scamming me?”
His mentioning scamming and Samson in the same sentence made Bel’s heart twist. Had it been a scam? Her feelings? Was it all just some sick magic trick? But no it was real. Maybe that was worse. She shook her head. “I don’t know, Dad.”
“Well, I suppose I should say thank you, honey.” Her father moved to kiss the top of her head, but Bel withdrew.
“Just tell me one thing. Why did you go there in the first place?”
Her dad blushed, a trademark of the Booksmore family. “Well, it was silly.”
Bel sat up, her pain fading in the face of her curiosity. “What?”
“I was looking for signatures for a wolf hunting petition.”
Bel’s eyes widened. That was why Samson had pressed the lawsuit. Her father had come to his door, asking him to a sign a piece of paper that would allow humans to attack his brother, Luther. But something still didn’t add up.
“But you’re an accountant, Dad, not a farmer,” Bel said.
He smothered his face with his fingers, embarrassed. “There’s this farmer in town, Anabella Gaston. I was having trouble getting up the courage to ask her out. I thought if I did something nice for her, she’d be more likely to say yes.”
“Was she?”
Her father glanced at her ruefully, his big lips pursed. “No. Not a bit. When I told her what I’d done, she told me that she could handle her own animals, thank you very much, and that the hunters would probably accidentally kill even more of her livestock.”
Bel laughed for real this time, glad for the emotion piercing the numbness that had swallowed her heart.
Her dad joined in. “Thankfully, she came around a few weeks later and told me she’d forgive me if I took her out for dinner at Lin’s Wok Grill. She said it’s silly to punish people for the images they have you not matching the way you really are.” His smile split his whole face open, revealing a tender happiness Bel hadn’t seen on him since her mother had died. Since they had first moved to Crystal Creek. He deserved that happiness more than anyone else she could think of, even if he was an idiot.
He looked how she had felt when she’d put on the yellow dress and made dinner for Samson. When she still trusted him.
She wanted that back, she realized. She wanted it to be real. And she knew what she had to do.
17
Samson was beyond sadness, beyond rage, beyond anything but weakness and pain. He was lying on the couch in the living room, trying his best not to move. He only hoped that the symptoms of their mate bond weren’t as physical for her.
“I don’t know why we aren’t tracking her down,” said Rex, his voice drifting in from the kitchen. “It’s not as if he’s in any state to stop us.”
“No,” Samson said weakly. “I said no.”
“He has to figure this stuff out on his own, Rex,” said Luther, who was probably rifling through the refrigerator. Again. He hadn’t stopped eating and doing pushups. Having lost his once extreme muscles, Luther was determined to get them back as soon as possible.
“Not if figuring it out will kill him. I say—“
Before Rex could finish, the doorbell rang.
Samson sat up, fighting through the pain. His muscles loosened and the pounding in his head quieted.
Rex drifted through the kitchen door, walking with that annoying quiet grace of his. Samson was tired of Rex running things as he had in the week since Isabella had left. That alone gave him energy enough to stand up from the couch.
Rex paused and raised an eyebrow his way. “You’re up?”
“I’ll answer the door,” Samson grunted.
“You might want to button your shirt first.”
Samson waved Rex away and stumbled to the door. Blinking at the glare of the winter sun, he opened it blearily and gave a groaning, “Hello.”
“Hi.”
Instantly, all of Samson’s senses were at attention. He didn’t need to see the owner of the voice to know who it was. He was assaulted by her at every turn. The smell of her was strong, like she hadn’t taken a shower in a couple of days, but sweet. He wanted to bury his face in her chest, cradle her to him and never let her go.
His Isabella. His Bel.
He knew he should say something, but he could think of nothing that would express the magnitude of his relief at her appearance.
“So,” Bel began, “Merry Christmas.”
She looked uncomfortable as she tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. There were deep purple bags underneath her eyes, and her normally enticing skin looked sallow. Samson had never seen anything more beautiful in his life. He doubted he ever would again. Even if she stayed with him forever, there would never be anything better than this moment.
When it became clear that he wasn’t yet capable of speech, she continued, “I brought you a present.” From behind her back, she pulled out a book. “You asked me if I would do the ending differently now.”
With shaking hands, Samson took the book from Bel, but he didn’t open it. He was afraid that if he looked away, she’d be gone when he turned back.
Her shoulders almost touched her ears as she shrugged them. “I thought that now that I know a werewolf first hand, I should rewrite it.” She twirled a strand of hair around her thumb. “This won’t be the official version mind you. I still have to extend the series as it’s published if I’m going to get another shot with a publisher. But for us I thought maybe we could have our own special ending.”
Samson didn’t let her finish. He took her in his arms, squeezing her so tightly that she let out a startled yelp. His wolf rejuvenated, finally rising to enough attention to realize that they were wasting valuable seconds. He could’ve been kissing her.
The book fell to the floor, pages ruffling in the coming winter’s breeze. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the last page and saw that the type had been crossed out and replaced with hastily scribbled pencil marks.
“Yes,” he growled into her mouth.
“Yes, what?” Bel mumbled, barely able to speak around the kiss.
“Yes, I’ll keep you.” Again he kept her from completing her thought, this time by pressing a line of kisses down her neck. Before she could protest further, he swept her off her feet and into his arms, cradling her body against his chest.
“What are you doing?” Bel said
through her laughter.
He stroked her hair and kicked in the door to his house with a bang. On the other side were Rex and Luther. Luther was midway through a pull-up using the doorframe; he dropped to the floor, landing in a predatory crouch.
Rex was on his cellphone, speaking with some New York investing firm, more than likely, and gave only the fringe of a smile and a knowing nod.
Bel waved at them all tentatively, but Samson wasn’t going to give her time to say hello. She wasn’t there for them. She was his now.
Forever.
Afterword
Wow! What a ride this serial has been. As an author I pour my heart, soul, and most of all, lots and lots of woman hours into my writing. If you liked this book (or even if you didn’t), leaving a review is the best way to let me know. So have at it!
Okay, done? ;-)
Now, if you have a burning questions about werewolves or (let’s face it) want to see some steamy pictures of Samson, come join me at my secret reader’s Facebook group. For the introverts and bargain hunters I also recommend signing up for my mailing list to receive one of my books for free.
Phew! That was a lot. Now that you’ve read all of that, I’ve got one more special treat just for you. On Feb 24th, I’m releasing a sexy shifter full length novel retelling of Cinderella. I’m so excited about it, I couldn’t help but include a chapter here. Turn the page, and let me know what you think! :-)
Cinder’s Wolf
Cynthia was no private detective, but as an aspiring fashion designer, she knew her shoes, and a half mile down the trail back to camp, she spotted a pair of tracks that were definitely from Bel’s discount-store sneakers. Unfortunately, the footprints had wandered right off the path.
Following them instead of going to get help from a more experienced counselor had been almost as stupid as expecting her father to remember her birthday. On the bright side, at least the sun hadn’t gone down completely. Although the light hadn’t stopped her from accidentally stepping in every puddle known to man.
Her flip-flops squelched as she landed in the latest one. A few rhinestones were left on the thongs of her shoes, but the rest sparkled behind her in a trail like the Upper East Side version of Hansel and Gretel.
“Ugh!” Cynthia kicked the air, trying to get the slime out from between her toes, and sent her blue flip-flop flying through the forest end over end in the process.
It went almost fifteen yards. Impressive. Even more impressive, it didn’t snag on any of the low-hanging leafy branches. Most impressive of all was where it landed. In a man’s hand. He plucked it from midair as easily as if time had stopped before leaning back on a nearby oak.
“Nice kick,” he drawled in an accent that was all old-money prep school. He was so not from Michigan.
Cynthia’s eyes widened. “Nice catch.”
He gave her a too-charming grin. “Thank you.”
The first thing that struck her about him was his clothes.
Any self-respecting aspiring fashion designer would recognize the sharp silhouette of a deep blue Zachary Prell sports jacket or the gleam of bespoke cobbled oxfords. His silk navy tie had to have been custom made to match the coat. That alone was enough to grab her interest.
Then there was the matter of his face. While his clean-shaven jaw should’ve looked non-threatening, it was male-model square, and his cheekbones were high and sharp enough to cut glass. Only his hair was slightly messy. Its sandy locks rebelled against his attempt to slick it back. The hair was the thing that gave him away as just another grade-A douchebag.
But damn it if she didn’t want to run her fingers through it.
Cynthia frowned and crossed her arms.
The man pushed off the tree and began to stroll toward her, sizing up her as he went. “So what are you doing in the woods?”
Cynthia refrained from rolling her eyes at his obvious interest. She pointed at her T-shirt.
“Camp Kick-A-Canoe?” he read, staring openly at her chest while not going completely slack-jawed. It was a feat most guys rarely managed.
“Camp Ki-Ka-Noo.” Her hand traced over the each syllable like the bouncy ball on a musical sing-along. “I’m a counselor.”
“Lost your campers?” He stopped about a foot away from her. It was still too close.
“Campers left yesterday. Now I’ve just lost my friend. Brown hair, glasses—seen her?” Cynthia gestured to the forest around her vaguely, as if she and Bel were playing a game of hide-and-seek and she was just asking for a friendly tip.
“Can’t say I have. Although I do wonder why you went on a search and rescue mission in these?” He raised an eyebrow and held up her shoe, glancing dolefully at the one remaining rhinestone that glinted in the dying light.
“I’m not the one going on a hike in a sport coat that hasn’t even been officially released in stores yet. Are you interning at Zachary Prell?”
“Nice guess, but no.” His second eyebrow joined his first, and his gaze dipped to survey her waist, lingering where the camp T-shirt rode up to reveal her tanned, but very much present and convex stomach. It was the one feature Cynthia was self-conscious about, but his pupils dilated as he took in her naked skin.
Cynthia tucked her shirt into her jean shorts to keep it from rising up again. “What are you doing in the woods?”
He smiled, showing a line of white teeth. They didn’t look like veneers. If anything, his canines seemed just a tad too sharp. The back of her knees went stiff.
“I live nearby.” He pointed casually in a direction that Cynthia would’ve sworn was the way back to camp. As he turned, a sunbeam caught on his dark eyes, revealing the hidden blue color beneath them.
He caught her staring, but kept smiling in that way that should have been gentle. “I heard yelling,” he continued, “so I thought I’d investigate.” He looked her up and down once again, and this time, his eyes did linger on her chest. For a while.
Cynthia crossed her arms, although the barrier of her limbs felt flimsy. “How do you live nearby and not know about Camp Kikanoo?”
“We keep to the farmhouse.”
“The farmhouse?” Oh no. “You live in the farmhouse?”
“Yes.” He took a step closer, his footsteps eerily quiet even in the underbrush. “I commute between here and New York for my… well, I suppose you could call it an internship.”
Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.
All the warmth drained out of Cynthia’s cheeks, but she didn’t run. The best thing she could do for Bel right now would be to stall this guy so he didn’t go home. Assuming Bel had made it to the greenhouse and wasn’t dead in a ditch somewhere.
His blue eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Cynthia said too quickly.
As the man neatly dodged a tree root, Cynthia felt for the first time that maybe arrows weren’t such a ridiculous idea. Not when he moved like that. Like a predator.
She tripped backward, and her shirt scraped against the rough bark of the tree.
The man stopped, clearly satisfied with their positions. A breeze filled with the last lingering warmth of day rifled through her hair and then his, sending a whiff of his scent toward her. Herbal aftershave, the tang of fresh leather, and something else. Something darker. Something she wanted more of.
He was more than some jock posturing at being a man. If it weren’t crazy, Cynthia would’ve said he was more than a man all together. She remembered Bel’s stupid classic movies, the ones about the werebeast emperors of Rome invading Egypt and capturing Cleopatra. Or maybe it was the other way around.
Sweat pooled between her breasts, and her nipples stiffened against the soft fabric of her designer bra. Damn it.
“Your boyfriend lets you wander out in the woods by yourself?” he asked abruptly.
“I don’t have a boyfriend,” Cynthia answered, too off-balance to lie. “If I did, I certainly wouldn’t let him decide where I get to wander.”
“Good.” He cocked his head, staring at her
as if she were an alien species he couldn’t wait to examine.
“Is that good because you’re glad I’m single, or good because I don’t let guys walk all over me?”
He didn’t reply. Instead, he slowly, so slowly she had more than enough time to get away, stepped onto a nearby root and put his hands on either side of the trunk, caging her in.
Her heart thrummed fast and loud like a helicopter’s blades, but she didn’t try to slip under his arm and escape. If I move, he’ll think I’m scared of him. I’m not.
His sensual mouth parted, his tongue slipping out to moisten his lips.
Cynthia tilted her head, lips pursed. Kiss me, I dare you.
He leaned in and dropped to his knees.
“What are you doing?” she asked, blushing as she heard how disappointed she sounded.
“Giving you back your shoe, obviously,” he said, his voice smooth. His position at her feet should’ve made him look weak, but the way he never broke eye contact was anything but. Through the rogue strands of his sandy hair, his blue eyes burned with such intensity it was like they were trying to carve a hole in her heart.
He reached out and cradled her bare foot.
She sucked in a breath. His touch set off sparklers in her blood. Her knees buckled, and she was glad for the tree behind her. She couldn’t look away as he gradually slid the flip-flop back onto her foot. When her toes reached the separator in the middle, he pushed them apart. His motions had the soft certainty of a master craftsman. An artist whose medium was her body.
Cynthia shivered against the tree, the friction of the bark against her arms the only thing distracting her from the sensation of his hands. Her ankle, in particular, throbbed.
“This is the part where you thank me,” he said as he stood.
“Thank you, but I do have to get going.” Before they were eye level, Cynthia ducked away and started off in a random direction. Flirting was one thing, but this clearly was another. What it was, Cynthia didn’t know, but she knew finding out would be very messy.
