My Curse to Bear: Standalone BBW Bear Shifter Paranormal Romance (The Everson Brothers Book 1)

by Alana Hart

  Contents

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  New Releases

  My Curse to Bear

  A Hallowed Love Romance

  By

  Alana Hart & Olivia Arran

  Copyright © 2015 Alana Hart & Olivia Arran

  All rights reserved worldwide. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locals or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Please note that this work is intended only for adults over the age of 18 and all characters represented as 18 or over.

  Published by Hartfelt Books

  Cover Design by Resplendent Media

  Editing by S.A.M Author Services

  ***

  Sneak Peak!

  A witch without power… a bear without a mate… a dark secret that could end it all.

  “You! What do you want?” he demanded, his voice suddenly clipped and bitter.

  Huh? He must really like his baked goods.

  “I quite fancied one of those maple pecans, but the bear claws looked good, too…” I said, trailing off as his face started to turn a funny shade of purple.

  “Bear claw?” He seemed to growl the words as he towered over me, leaning closer until we were nose to nose. “I don’t know how you got here, or how you are even still around. But do you think you are being funny?” The last came out a menacing hiss.

  Even turned a funny purple shade and hissing at me, he was still goddamn hot. Sexy as hell. The kind of rough and ready that made a witch want to lick and bite. To rub and…

  “Craig?” The young guy behind the counter, all of sixteen, croaked nervously.

  “Craig?” I repeated, loving the way the word rolled off my tongue.

  “Don’t pretend like you don’t know, Meridith.”

  “How do you know my name?” My full name, too. It was my turn to be shocked. We hadn’t met before — I would have remembered him for sure.

  “After all you did to me, you play games now?” He snorted, a derisive sound before taking a deep breath, probably to growl at me again. His eyes widened a fraction, his skin paling under his tan.

  An improvement on purple, I decided, wondering what the hell was wrong with him. Mentally unstable? What a waste of a good-looking man.

  Out of nowhere, he twisted, pinning me against the counter, caging me with his arms. Effectively trapping me, he brushed my thick mane of hair away from my neck and gripped it in his hand, and tilting my head to the side, he exposed my neck. With a growl, he leaned forward, seeming to nuzzle at my throat, his breath hot against my sensitive skin, and the stubble on his chin scratching, tickling.

  Wow. I was being mauled in the bakery. By a hot — yet obviously unstable — guy. My breathing dissolved to panting as he leaned against me, firmly fitting his body to mine. Sweet Mother! The length of him, thick and hard, dug into my stomach as he pressed me harder against the cool glass counter. A whimper escaped my throat, one of needy want.

  Answering my unvoiced plea, he ground himself against me, sending shivers of pleasure skittering down my spine and sparking a throbbing deep in my core. His tongue, moist and hot, licked the side of my throat as he nibbled and bit down gently.

  My hands gripped his shirt, traveling down his broad back, before coming to rest on a deliciously firm, denim-clad behind. Moaning into his ear, thoughts of where we were, who we were — scattered, gone.

  Kissing his way to my mouth he stopped, pinning me with his gaze.

  “You’re her…but you’re not…” he whispered, his voice hoarse with passion, and then angling his head, he brought his lips firmly down on mine. I gasped as he nipped my bottom lip, a sharp sting that he immediately laved with his tongue, before angling the kiss even deeper, his tongue seeking my own, his lips gliding against mine.

  ***

  Alana Hart’s newsletter is the absolute best way to stay up to date with new releases, free books and special offers from Alana Hart.

  Sign up here – http://eepurl.com/bwJayz

  Would you like to receive Alana Hart’s new releases for FREE, in exchange for an honest review of 20 or more words?

  Sign up here for Alana Hart’s Review Team – http://eepurl.com/bwMfI5

  Sign up here if you’d like to be notified of Olivia Arran’s new releases and special offers – www.arranwrites.com

  Would like to receive a FREE copy of Olivia’s next book before it’s released, in exchange for an honest review of 20 or more words?

  Sign up here for Olivia Arran’s ARC Team - http://eepurl.com/byh9iv

  CHAPTER ONE

  Craig

  87 years ago…

  “I love you, Craig,” she whispered quietly.

  My acute shifter hearing picked up the soft words from the other side of the room and I flinched, cursing inside.

  Shit. Here we go again.

  “Meridith…” I started to say, turning to face her. This part was never easy.

  Let her down easy, it’s not her fault.

  “…I think we need to talk.”

  Worry lines creased her brow, marring her elfin features.

  “Talk? About what? We’re good — aren’t we?”

  Double shit.

  “Well, there are a lot of things you don’t know about me. We don’t really know each other that well…and sure, we’ve had a good time…” My voice trailed off, as I desperately searched for the right words.

  “Good time? Don’t know each other that well?” She parroted, her disbelief evident from her tone. “What I do know is that you are a shifter…”

  “How the hell?”

  “Oh, I’ve always known. I was just waiting for you to tell me, to share your secret with me.”

  She knew. She’d known all along. Did that mean she would understand?

  “You’re not my mate,” I blurted, bracing myself for an onslaught of tears and anger. There. I had done it. I hated this part. I had been a fool this time, letting her get too close — to expect too much. But, there had been something about her. Something that had made me think, made me try to convince my bear that he was wrong — that she was the one. But, though he had wavered, he had eventually point blank refused. She wasn’t my mate. Time to move on — again.

  “And?” she asked.

  Okay. She obviously didn’t understand. I wracked my brain, trying to think of how to explain.

  “Every shifter has a true mate. The other half of his, or her, soul. Different shifters have different beliefs, but we bears…”

  “So, that’s what you are,” she said, chuckling softly. “I was guessing at either bear or horse.”

  I stopped in my tracks. Horse? Really?

  “Horse?” I echoed my thoughts, temporarily sidetracked, and not sure whether to feel a little insulted.

  Her eyes flicked down, fixing on my crotch area, one delicate brow arched in amusement.

  Oh. Right. Compliment,
then.

  “Definitely bear,” I replied, my voice a little strangled. This was not going the way I had planned. At all. Wrestling my mind back on track, I plowed ahead.

  “The long and short of it is — my bear can recognize his true mate. While the human half of me could possibly be okay, maybe happy, with someone who is not my mate, my bear cannot.”

  And then he gets grumpy. And whiny. And sullen. And unbearable. I stifled a snort. Man, I was killing myself.

  I’m doing this for you, mopey furball. I hope you appreciate it!

  A near deafening yawn reverberated through my skull. Get on with it, my bear grumbled deep inside my head.

  “He can’t accept me? Because I’m not his mate? So, you’re a two for one package?” Meridith’s voice rose with every question, until it was a shrill shriek.

  “Ah, yup. That sounds about right.” Now she got it.

  “And you didn’t think that, maybe, you should have told me this? Warned me? After all the time we’ve spent together? Before I let myself fall in lo…” Her face crumpled and her wide eyes, green like a bushel of freshly picked apples, glittered with unshed tears.

  Slowly moving around the solid oak kitchen counter toward her — conceding my last line of defense — I waved my hands at her helplessly. I hated it when a woman cried. I never knew what to do.

  “Don’t come near me,” she spat, edging back toward the front door. Her red hair flamed around her head, curling and spiraling around her shoulders. Throwing up a small hand she begged me to stop.

  I had always been intrigued by the fragility of her, how small she was compared to my 6’5” frame. Even though she was not small for a human woman — not by their standards — by mine, she was delicate, exquisite. My heart ached at the unfairness.

  Why couldn’t she have been the one?

  “I’m sorry…” It was all I had. But by the Mother of All, I meant it.

  Visibly, she pulled herself together, her face shuttering as she swiped ineffectually at the wetness marking her cheeks.

  “Well, I think I might be able to help you with your little problem…the one on which you and your bear can’t seem to agree…” her voice trailed off, still raw with hurt but starting to vibrate with anger.

  “What?”

  Holding me with her gaze, she stalked toward me, laying a hand on my chest.

  “You don’t know everything about me, either.” Pressing firmly against the rough cotton of my shirt, she mumbled under her breath, whimsical words of nonsense. Her hand burned hot through the fabric as I stood frozen in confusion, straining, even with my shifter hearing, to make sense of her words.

  Then she stopped.

  And pain ripped through me, tearing and burrowing deep into my soul. Back arching in agony as the burning sensation lingered, I tried helplessly to pull away, to break the connection.

  Stretching onto her tiptoes, she reached up and laid a gentle kiss on my lips.

  “I curse you, Craig Everson. To be as one with your bear, to only mate when he is ready. You are bound to the same destiny, human half and bear half.” Backing away, she turned, opening the door.

  “See you in the next life, lover,” she whispered over her shoulder.

  I stood rooted to the spot, the agony fading but still unable to move, watching her walk away.

  What the hell had just happened? I rubbed my chest, feeling inexplicably…empty. And what did she mean?

  ***

  Merrie

  Ding. The chime of the bell above the shop door sounded above the blare of the radio, which just happened to be playing some of my favorite 80’s hits. I swiftly shoved the stock I had been sorting out back onto the shelves in, what I hoped looked like an enticing display.

  Customers! Please, please, please let them buy something, I chanted to myself while rising from my stooped crouch, frantically brushing the dust from my tunic-style dress.

  Crowding into my small, eclectic shop, were a multitude of middle-aged tourists, wearing fanny-packs and loud tour-company emblazoned T-shirts. They were — to me — beautiful. Clearing my throat of nervousness, I pasted on a wide smile.

  “Hello, and welcome to my shop, Magical Gifts. My name is Merrie, and I’m happy to help if you have any questions.”

  The group acknowledged my spiel with a quick glance, before turning back to look over my stock, picking up and discarding the many trinkets and knick-knacks.

  Tourists were my bread and butter, I reminded myself, forcing the smile to remain on my face. They were why I filled the front of the shop with general baubles and things that they would like, and put up with them swarming into my shop, using their purchases as an excuse to stare. At me. The witch. Cue spooky music and flying broomsticks.

  I stifled a laugh. I caught a woman giving my dress a sideways once over, a disappointed look on her face. Ah yes, I drew the line at playing dress-up.

  “Ahem, excuse me, Miss…Merrie. Where are the spell books?” asked an older woman sporting a short bottle-blonde perm and the mandatory fanny-pack. Her T-shirt looked painted on, stretching over her generous chest and straining around her voluminous hips. Her eyes round, she waited anxiously for my answer. I had to remember to thank the tourbus guide, Gemma. She always waxed lyrical about me before bringing them here, piling on the mystery, and sprinkling her tales with half-truths for effect.

  Time to put on a show.

  “They’re just over here,” I replied, gesturing toward the back half of the shop. “I don’t keep them at the front because…” I leaned forward, lowering my voice for effect, “…well, you know, they contain powerful spells. Wrong hands and all that…”

  “Yes, yes, I understand. Of course…” the woman replied, eagerly making a beeline toward the rack I had indicated.

  Of course, it didn’t matter if they contained powerful spells or recipes for cream cakes. If you weren’t born a witch then nothing would work anyway. Mentally, I patted myself on the back. Another satisfied customer meant I could stay afloat — for a little longer anyway.

  Witchcraft was a difficult product to market in a small town like Craggstone. It didn’t help that you could only sell the tools of the craft, not the craft itself. I had been brought up to believe that the Mother of All had blessed me with a gift, and that it was my duty to use it to help people. It was definitely a pro bono gig. I just had to find a way to support myself while carrying out her work. Ergo - my shop. Full of a wonderful mix of tourist nonsense and bona fide craft supplies. Occasionally, another witch came shopping, but I was so far away from the big cities that I was more likely to be mauled by a wild animal than bump into another witch.

  The phone rang in the back — my personal line. Swiftly locking the cash register I glanced around the room, checking that my sign — Those who steal will be cursed — was in place. At a dash, I ran to grab it before the caller hang up.

  “Hello?” I gasped, out of breath.

  “Merrie! How are you? How’s your darling little shop doing?” my sister’s voice piped out of the phone. Cassie. Big Sis. Miss Perfect.

  Grinding my teeth, I replied, “Hi, Cassie. I’m fine, the shop’s doing great. In fact — I have a ton of customers here at the moment. Can I call you back?”

  “Sure, sure,” she replied, sounding distracted. “I just wanted to let you know that I’m coming over for a visit! But call me later and I’ll…”

  “Visit? When?”

  “Don’t sound so shocked, Merrie!” Her tinkle of laughter echoed down the line and my teeth started to hurt. Wiggling my jaw back and forth, I wound the old fashioned cord around my finger, fighting to push back the old anxiety that threatened to rear its head.

  “I’ve got time. When are you coming? And why?” She hadn’t visited before. None of my family had. And I’d been open over two years now. Since I’d been old enough to escape home and start out on my own.

  “I’ll be there tomorrow. It’ll take me that long to pack and drive down. Why, for the Mother, did you move all the
way down there to that Podunk town?”

  I ignored the dig and focused on the ‘tomorrow’. I figured I’d find out the ‘why’ soon enough. Too soon.

  “Okay, tomorrow. What time shall I expect you?” More like, how long have I got to bury my head in the sand?

  “Oh, early. 9-ish? That okay with you?” she carried on, either oblivious or deliberately ignoring my lack of enthusiasm.

  No. “Yes,” I gritted out, my heart sinking as I mentally started to list the things I now had to get done by tomorrow morning.

  “Great! See you tomorrow!” she sang cheerfully before hanging up, leaving me listening to the dial tone.

  Replacing the receiver, I leaned my forehead against the cool, painted wall. My sister was coming to visit. Tomorrow. Shit.

  “Oooooo, Miss Merrie…” a customer called from the shop.

  Right. Customers. I pushed my sister to the back of my mind. Straightening my back and squaring my shoulders, I painted a smile on my face, walking back out to the front. Get them served, get them out. I visualized my empty fridge upstairs in my apartment. I had some food shopping to do before Craggstone closed for the day.

  ***

  Merrie

  Heaving a sigh of relief, I waved goodbye to my last customers, watching from the doorway as they loaded back up onto the tour bus. Flipping the sign in the window to ‘Closed’, I grabbed my bag from behind the counter and locking the door behind me, hustled down the street toward the main part of town.

  Bread, milk, something for dinner, dessert…Desert. The bakery.

  Swerving, I changed direction, heading across to the bakery, the only one in town. Pie. Everyone likes pie, I was pretty sure Carrie did, too.

  Pushing the door open, I entered the bakery and was immersed in the comforting smell of warm freshly baked bread, spiced sweet with cinnamon, and honey cut with the tartness of lemon. Taking a deep breath, I dragged the enticing scents deep into my lungs, my mouth watering in anticipation and hunger. I’d forgotten to have lunch, so maybe I could pick up a little treat for now? Having convinced myself, I moved up to the counter to eye the frosted and baked delights.