Crookshollow foxes box set: The complete fox shapeshifter romance series

by Steffanie Holmes

  The pain won, sweeping through my body in a great wave of agony. It felt as thought a cool liquid trickled through my limbs, turning my whole body cold – except for the mound between my legs, which burned with a blazing fire. I could feel a strange energy flowing from Ryan's mouth into my body – a shimmering magic transferring into my veins through the coldness. I tried to cry out, but my lips were numb, my breath frozen in my throat.

  My body was growing colder, my veins turned to ice, the cold seeping into my lungs and pricking at my skin. It was as though my whole body was been pierced by a thousand tiny needles. The pain in my limbs became unbearable. I screamed silently as Ryan's bite held me paralyzed. He rubbed my clit faster and faster, until the ache inside burst forth, the searing heat boiling over, pressing back against that painful cold. Tongues of fire burned through my body, washing away the freezing pain and bringing my body back from the brink.

  Both the fire and the ice abated, leaving me weak and wounded. Ryan let go of my neck, dropping my head against the bed. I gasped for breath, my entire body shivering with a strange sensation, a kind of tingling numbness.

  "Now I have claimed you," Ryan whispered in my ear. "We are bonded together."

  He flipped me over, so that I faced him once again. My hands were still pinned beneath me, forcing my back to curve upward at an awkward angle and my breasts to jut out. My eyes landed on his, and there I read the hunger of a hunter spying a deer in the distance. He bent over my chest, scraping his teeth across my nipples, enjoying the shudder that ran through my body.

  I longed to reach up and touch him – to run my fingers over his wide, muscled chest – but he didn't seem to want to untie me. He had to be in control. Ryan threw the corner of the duvet over my head, so I lost sight of him. I fought against the folds of the fabric, but this only made him clamp the sheet down tighter. "Don't fight," he warned me. "I'm not going to hurt you … much."

  His words filled me with a delicious terror. I don't know what he'd done to me, but it make every inch of my body shimmer with a kind of magical ecstasy. Ryan pinned my legs with his arms, and I felt something warm slide over my wet folds, dancing over the spot that gave me such joy. His tongue. I ached for him, longing to feel his hardness inside of me.

  Not being able to see him made the experience even more erotic. He licked and sucked, reaching up with his fingers to twist my nipples, first softly, but then harder, so hard that my chest soon ached with pain. The strange energy he'd transferred to me took that pain and spread it through my entire body, pressing it against the fiery pleasure that once again threatened to overwhelm me. My stomach swelled with the pressure building inside of me, tendrils of pleasure reaching out through my arms, down my legs, across my chest, filling my body with warmth.

  Ryan scraped his nails across my inner thigh as he buried his head between my legs, his tongue darting into every fold of my most intimate place. I felt his stubble along my thighs, his long hair tickling my sensitive skin as his tongue worked its magic. The pressure in my stomach burst and the warmth flooded me. I cried out as the orgasm carried me away, my vision disintegrating into a thousand red splodges – like one of Matisse's decoupages coming to life before my eyes – and my limbs kicked and jerking of their own accord.

  Before I had even recovered, Ryan climbed on top of me and pinned my legs with his. I heard him tear open a condom and roll that on, and then he thrust deep inside me. I cried out as his length filled me, pressing against my wetness on all sides. Frantic and wild, he came at me with abandon, thrusting with such force and ferocity that the bed around us creaked in protest. I could see nothing but flashes of silk and bright red spots, but I could feel everything, more powerfully than I ever had before – every stroke, every swirl of his fingers, every thrust. The energy in my body flared up once more, only now it seemed to be swirling all around us, enclosing us in a cocoon of shimmering, sizzling magic. Feeling him move inside of me while he swirled his fingers around my tight nipples made the pressure bubble up inside of me once again, starting between my legs and rising like steam through my belly and chest.

  Ryan tore away the sheet from my face, and covered my mouth with his, his tongue darting possessively into every corner and crevice. We rocked against each other. Ryan's fingers closed around my breasts, squeezing them, pushing them together, making them ache and throb. The pain and pressure built inside of me, and became one in my body, crawling through my limbs and reaching right down to my toes. I cried out as another orgasm rippled through me, my moans muffled by Ryan's forceful tongue. Fire coursed through my limbs, and I bucked against him as I fought to gain control over my body. All the while, the strange magical energy danced over my skin.

  Heedless to my passion, Ryan continued to pound against me, his thighs slapping against mine. He twisted my nipple hard, and tears fell from my eyes as the last of the fire within me faded into a dull, warm ache. I bucked against him, rising up to meet each stroke. We began to move together, slamming against each other with enough force to knock the bed against the wall.

  Finally, Ryan's own orgasm claimed him. He cried out and collapsed against me. When he had completely emptied himself, he rolled me over and pulled the sheets around us both, wrapping his arms around me and holding me against his warm body. The air around us seemed alive, crackling with residual energy.

  "You are mine," Ryan whispered into my ear. "And I am yours."

  10

  A noise woke me. The creak of a door opening.

  I opened one eye, then the other. The room was unfamiliar. Where there should have been a pile of clothing and a large calico cat sprawled across the bed, there was only light streaming from a large picture window overlooking the forest, soft grey walls and a warm figure snoring beside me. It took me a few moments to remember where I was.

  Phew, what a night.

  I rolled over, rubbing my eyes to rid them of sleep. There was Ryan, his muscular arms curled around his pillow, one hand reaching lazily across the bed toward me. His chest moved up and down slowly, and he emitted an unattractive, wheezing snore. He was still asleep. Behind him, I saw the door to the room creak open slowly.

  I reached behind me and pulled my phone from the dresser. The time read 7:29. "Is that you, Simon?" I called, wondering if Ryan's dutiful servant was bringing us breakfast in bed. I could get used to this lifestyle. I pulled at the laces on the front of my pyjama top, trying to stuff my breasts back inside. "I'm not sure we are exactly decent at this moment."

  "Nothing is ever decent in this room," a sultry voice replied.

  I looked up again. A woman stood at the doorway, wearing a red silk gown with a plunging neckline that clung to every inch of her perfect body. Tawny red curls fell over her shapely shoulders, framing a porcelain, heart-shaped face and emerald eyes that sparkled with all kinds of wanton promises. She was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. As I watched – too shocked to cry out – she lifted the small pouch from the doorknob, raised it to her bow-shaped lips, and sniffed delicately. Screwing up her face in disgust, she tossed the protective spell into the hall.

  "Wake up, sleepyhead," she cooed at Ryan's sleeping form, stepping into the room, her red gown swishing around her shapely legs.

  "Who are you? How did you get in? The house is locked up and protected by magic."

  She narrowed her emerald eyes at me. "Who are you? What are you doing in this room?"

  "I'm Alex Kline. I'm his …" I glanced over at Ryan, his face still. I kicked him with my foot, hoping to wake him up. But all he did was snort, and continue sleeping. What was I to him? I didn't know how to articulate it. "...I'm his art curator. Who are you?"

  "I'm surprised he hasn't mentioned me," she smirked, tugging at the ruby choker around her thin, elegant neck. "My name is Melissa Sinclair. I am Ryan's mate."

  TO BE CONTINUED

  Art of the Hunt

  A Crookshollow Foxes story, PART II

  Steffanie Holmes

  This is a work of fiction. Any resem
blances to real persons, living or dead, found within are purely coincidental. All characters are consenting adults above the age of 18.

  All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Copyright 2015 Steffanie Holmes

  http://steffanieholmes.com

  Want to be informed when the next Steffanie Holmes paranormal romance story goes live? Sign up for the mailing list: http://eepurl.com/ZrowD

  Created with Vellum

  A Taste Of What's To Come

  My brush scraped against the canvas, and, bit by bit, the world I’d seen from the heavens came to life before me. I shaded in the dappled light hitting the edge of the window pane and added leaves of deep red and burnt umber. All the while, I could feel Ryan’s eyes on me, on my brush. I let out the breath I was holding. This was OK. In fact, it was better than OK, it was incredible, maybe even the most amazing experience of my life. Ryan didn’t criticise, he didn’t take the brush from me, and he didn’t suggest improvements. He just watched, falling into the image with me. He noticed me. He thought my artwork mattered. He thought it had value. He thought I had value.

  My strokes grew longer, more free-flowing, more confident. The flush in my cheeks softened as I basked in the glow of his attention. I added the branches in the corner, great, sweeping swirls that seemed to shift in an invisible breeze. As I switched to a lighter brown to shade the bricks on the wall of the house, I felt Ryan’s hand move up my thigh, the touch of his fingers lightly dancing between my legs, across my sex.

  My heart pounded against my chest, but I kept the vision in my head as his fingers moved across the fabric, sending shivers of desire through my body. It took all my self-control to pretend to ignore him, to keep my eyes on the canvas and away from his handsome face.

  Ryan rubbed harder, and my body began to ache with desire for him. I finished the bricks in the corner and moved to add another colour. Ryan reached across and took the brush from me. He swirled it around in the red paint. Before I knew it, he’d touched the brush to my cheek, drawing a few deft lines across my face.

  1

  I’m his mate.

  The woman’s words pounded against my skull. I stared down at Ryan’s peaceful, sleeping face, his red curls flopped over his eyes, his chest slowly rising and falling with each breath. I shut my eyes, but all I could see was Ryan tumbling over the sheets, his hands on my breasts, his lips pressed against mine. It was amazing, and it had meant so much to me, but now ...

  I clutched my stomach. I felt sick, as though I’d swallowed something bad, which I supposed in a way, I had. I’d swallowed a fuckload of bullshit, and my body couldn’t process it.

  I’m his mate.

  The woman stared at me quizzically. “Are you alright, sugar?”

  “Yes,” I whispered, sliding out of the bed, pulling one of the silken sheets behind me. I found the pair of jeans and the t-shirt I’d chosen from the wardrobe the night before. Ryan had torn up my underwear, so I'd have to do without for now. Turning my back from the woman, I threw the sheet over my head and changed quickly, using the screwed-up pyjama top to wipe away the tears pooling in my eyes. I took a deep breath, and let the sheet fall to the ground.

  I started picking through the discarded clothing on the floor, searching for my bag, my car keys. The bite mark Ryan had left on my neck throbbed angrily. I pulled my hair down to cover it. Where are my keys? They must be here somewhere …

  The truth hit me like a hammer. I remembered where my keys were. They were in my car, which was halfway down a bank on the edge of Crookshollow forest. Along with my bag, my wallet, my cellphone, and my Halt Institute security card.

  It’s OK, I told myself, trying to push down the panic that threatened to overwhelm me. You’ll be fine. Get out of this room. Find Simon. He’ll have a phone you can use. Call Kylie. She doesn’t have a shift on Saturday. She’ll come and pick you up, make sure you get to the gallery on time. You can call a tow company for your car, and Matthew will get your card replaced. It’s no big deal.

  “Are you sure?” The emerald-eyed woman had moved into the room. She stood over Ryan’s sleeping figure, her red-tipped fingers caressing his naked shoulders. He stirred, but didn’t wake. “You look white as a ghost.”

  “I’m fine,” I said through gritted teeth. She took a few steps towards me, blocking my path to the door. She looked as if she was going to say more, but I cut her off. “Please let me through.”

  She stepped aside, a shapely arm extending itself like an actress embellishing a soliloquy, gesturing to the open door. Her emerald eyes burned into mine, and my spirit fell as I saw she registered my swollen, tear-filled eyes.

  “Don’t feel bad,” she said. “He’s not anyone’s knight in shining armour.”

  As I flounced past her, I ripped Clara’s protective spell pouch from the door handle, snapping the leather cord. Now that I was on my own, I was going to need it. Stuffing the pouch into the pocket of my jeans, I jogged down the hall, away from Ryan, and his lies, and his beautiful eyes, and his one true mate.

  I thought I was his mate. I thought that’s what last night meant. I thought ...

  The tears spilled over, running down my face in rivers of pain. I wiped them away angrily. It would not do to cry about it now. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me in pain. First, I’d get out of Raynard Hall … somehow … and then, I could wallow at home with chocolate and gin and reality TV and cuddles with Miss Havisham. In the drawing room, I found a telephone in a rolltop desk. I punched in the number of the flat.

  “Hello?” said Kylie, her voice hoarse. I’d probably woken her up.

  “Kylie, it’s me.” I tried to keep my voice steady. “Listen, I was in a car accident last night, and I need you to come pick me up.”

  “Jeez, Alex. Are you OK? Are you in the hospital?”

  “I’m fine. I’m not hurt, apart from a small scrape on my shoulder. I’m at Raynard Hall, and–”

  “Ooooh,” Kylie whistled. “Have you been there all night?”

  “Don’t do that,” I snapped. “Listen to me. There are shifters surrounding the house, and I need to get out. There are at least five foxes, and a big wolf, some ravens, and I don’t know what else. These are dangerous shifters, and they will probably try to attack me when I leave.”

  “This sounds really bad, Alex. How are you going to get out? Are you sure you should be leaving?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. And I have a plan, sort of. When you get here, drive to the side entrance on King George Drive, and wait in the car. Take Ray’s sword with you, and maybe a knife. I’m going to try and get the gate open from the house, and then make a run for the car. Whatever happens, I want you to stay in the car and keep yourself safe. Can you do that?”

  “Of course. I’ll see you in ten minutes.”

  “Thanks, Kylie. I owe you.”

  I hung up the phone, and hurried through the drawing room. I couldn’t hear anything in the hallway behind me. Ryan and his mate were probably snuggled up in bed, my presence already forgotten. I pushed open the drawing room door, noticing a smear of dried blood on the frame from where Ryan had passed through the previous night. A trail of dried blood on the tiles led down the hall … leading me through the rabbit warren of a house to the back door.

  I stepped out into the hall, letting the door to Ryan’s private rooms slam shut behind me. My veins coursed with cold, hard resolve. Fuck Ryan Raynard. I didn’t need him to protect me. I could protect myself.

  My resolve lasted until I was standing to one side of the great oak door, staring at the sprawling back garden through the small window on the side. Somewhere out there was a pack of bloodthirsty shifters, including Isengrim – a wolf who was as dangerous as he was powerful. And according to Ryan, they probably want to kill me or torture me in order to get to him. Delightful. How wou
ld I stop them from ripping me to pieces as soon as I stepped outside?

  I thought back to what Ryan had told me about the fox Marcus, and how he wanted to steal me for himself. While Isengrim would happily kill me in order to gain leverage over Ryan, Marcus wanted me alive so that he could mate with me – repairing his own damaged lineage with my Fauntelroy blood. While the prospect was disgusting, now that I didn’t have Ryan to protect me anymore, perhaps I could trade on this other fox’s need of me.

  But how would I find him? I thought back to everything Ryan had said about vulpines and mutts. I remembered the first time I’d seen Marcus – standing in my kitchen chomping down on a raw chicken leg – and an idea popped into my head. It sounded dumb, even inside my head, but from the dumbest ideas came inventions like spandex and perforated toilet paper, both of which are actually pretty awesome, yes?

  I searched around the frame of the door and found a panel with a series of switches, some lit up with tiny red lights. One was labelled “West Gate”. Bingo. I tapped the button and watched through the window as the wrought-iron gate on the side of the garden began to swing slowly inward. I saw a red shadow emerge from the bushes beside the fence and sniff the gate, then quickly retreat again. So they were guarding the exits.

  I didn’t really want to leave my place by the door and venture back into the depths of the house – in case Ryan had woken up and tried to come after me – but I didn’t have a choice. I remembered passing what I thought was a kitchen. I raced back down the hall. Sure enough, down a short corridor I found a large, open kitchen, the marble countertops pristine and gleaming. Designer bakeware hung from a metal frame suspended over a large butcher’s block, and nowhere could I see so much as a crumb or an unwashed teaspoon. A whiteboard on the wall detailed a shopping list and a calendar with a meal plan and various social functions Simon planned to attend. The date of the art exhibition opening was scrawled in big, red lettering.