Alphas of Storm Isle (Complete Boxed Set: Books 1-5): Werebear Shifter Menage Romance

by Sophie Chevalier

  “There’s no point,” Hunter explained, firmly but easily. “We’ll be changing back and forth all day.”

  “Changing…?” The hair on the back of her neck stood up.

  “Yup. Bear, human, bear, human. Clothes’ll just get ruined.”

  Changing. “No. I can’t. I’m not—ready.”

  “You are ready, and you can. You did it once already.”

  “And it scared me. I can’t face doing it again. Not yet.”

  “Ginger.” His voice hardened with authority. “It has to be this way. If you try and fight me, you won’t learn what you need to, the way you need to.”

  She swallowed. Glanced down, at the pebbly bottom of the cave, and then, finally, back up again. She knew he was right. “Alright.”

  “Atta girl. Trust me, Ginj—it’s going to be fine. You’ve got this. Ready to head out?”

  “What about… breakfast?”

  “We’re going to go out and get some.”

  “What?!” she asked, startled. “That’s gross. I’m not killing anything this morning or any oth—”

  “We’re going to forage. You can handle it. Now come on, girl. Let’s get a move on, while the morning’s fresh.”

  The bright, salty smell of the wind did pull at her, just like the warm sunshine glinting off the water and greening the trees did.

  A fresh morning. It is.

  And I want to be out there. Maybe it’s the bear in me.

  She shrugged, letting her arms fall away from her chest. “Okay, then. Lead the way.”

  ***

  They walked along their rocky, driftwood-choked beach, listening to the shush and roll of the breaking waves. Across the strait, other islands sparkled in the sun.

  They reached the edge of the forest. “Okay, Ginj. Change now, and follow me.”

  “How?”

  “How?” he repeated, hands on hips. He had hard, muscular hips, narrow, manly… and strong, thick-fingered hands, hairy… deep, unshaven abs… but she couldn’t get distracted admiring him now.

  “How do I change?” she asked, forcing herself back to reality.

  “You know how,” he said in a no-nonsense kind of way.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You do.” His tone left her in no doubt that he thought she was dragging her feet. “It comes as easy as pie, Ginger. I would know. Don’t be afraid of it. Just do it.”

  A cormorant glided by, scanning the water for the flash of fish. Ginger swallowed.

  “But I am afraid of it.”

  “Ginger,” he said more gently, “you can’t be afraid of yourself. Not forever. Just do it. I’m right here.”

  He was right. Again.

  She swallowed for a second time, trying to ignore the way she was breaking out in a light, hot sweat. It was loathsome to her, this changing into a more-than-half-ton wild animal, a big shaggy bear who would trudge through the woods. But it was her life now, and she had no choice but to adapt. Unless—

  “This can’t be reversed, can it?” she asked.

  “No,” he said, holding her eyes. “I’m sorry, Ginj, but it can’t. Now change, and let’s get going. We have a lot of ground to cover.”

  His inflexibility actually helped. It gave her structure, direction—pressure to move forward. So she closed her eyes and fished inside herself and found he was right: changing was easy. It was right up against the surface of her mind, available to her whenever she needed it, natural as drawing breath—and now, supported by him, she accepted the shift.

  It was effortless, and fast. She was a girl, and then she was a bear, heavy and powerful. Her body felt huge and unwieldy; she snorted, then lowed.

  “Good job,” Hunter said, watching her approvingly. It felt strange not to be able to answer him. “Don’t get spooked, now. Hold it for awhile. I’ll join you.”

  And—right before her eyes—he changed. She realized then that she’d never seen him as a bear: he was big, easily as big as Dane, and stacked with raw muscle under a shaggy coat of fur. His hump was enormous: he had to be six feet at the shoulder. Standing up—rearing up—he might be eleven feet tall. The bear part of her approved, in a new, female way.

  He grunted, shaking his head toward the woods—That way—and then started up the rocky slope into the shadow of the trees.

  She followed.

  ***

  She was trying to do what he did, digging at the earth, nosing around the base of the plants’ stems. She was making a mess of it, though, and getting frustrated—the ground was clawed deep, pitted, and mucky.

  She didn’t even know what she was trying to get out of the ground; it smelled good—starchy—but that was all she could tell. Irritated, she hissed and snuffled.

  Hunter shifted back into a man, so he could talk to her. “You’re doing fine. It’ll take you some time to get used to using the paws, but you’re well on your way. Keep digging.”

  She flowed back into a girl, abandoning bear shape to speak. “Oh, what would you know about it, Hunter? You were born this way. Not to quote Lady Gaga.”

  “Yeah, I was, but I’ve known turned bears before,” he said, without missing a beat. “I know it’s an adjustment and I know it’ll take you some time to feel fully at home in that body. But it’s your body, Ginger, and you need to learn to use it, and what to feed it. Change back and keep at it.”

  “What even is this stuff?” she asked, scrunching her nose. As a human, she couldn’t smell anything except disturbed soil.

  “Sweet-vetch bulbs. Next we’ll go for some dandelions and devil’s club—and grass, if we can find any that’s good.”

  “I thought bears were carnivores,” she said sourly.

  “Omnivores,” he corrected, unmoved. “Wild bears eat mostly plants, Ginj. So you will too, in bear form. Now change back and dig up those bulbs.”

  She sighed, but dropped to all fours and shifted back into a sow. It was getting easier—less frightening—to turn. If Hunter kept her changing and unchanging and changing again, all day, every day, soon it would be normal. And she’d have to be thankful for that. She’d never been afraid of herself before and it was more than she could live with, more than she could stand.

  “After this we’ll try fish.”

  Bear Ginger snorted.

  “I’m serious. Fish and clams.”

  Bear Ginger chuffed. Sarcastic laughter. Fishing was not her thing—never had been.

  “You can catch one, believe me. It’ll be instinct now.” He paused, running a hand over his mouth thoughtfully. “But I might offer a reward if you do it. An incentive.”

  Her ears pricked up.

  “Yeah. Maybe. But keep digging, for now. You—there you go!”

  She’d dislodged a large tussock of sweet-vetch, and with it came the dirty, hairy bulbs. They smelled good; edible. She lowered her head and bit one, crunching it in half. Its taste—half potato, half pea—flooded her mouth.

  She let out a triumphant bark. Hunter put his hand on her big, flat head.

  “Good girl. Now dig out the rest.”

  ***

  She’d followed Hunter’s big, high-shouldered bear-bulk through the forest, both of them traveling at a sedate pace due to their size. She was trying to fully inhabit her bear form: listening to the bird calls, which were so much crisper this way; smelling the woods, which were alive with musky and fibrous scents; accepting the enormous, head-spinning strength coursing through her stocky limbs.

  He’d brought them up to a stream, a broad, shallow one dappled with the moving shadows of the pines. He’d growled at her—Watch me—and waded into the fast-running water, staring down at the current.

  She watched as he picked a place in the middle of the stream and waited. She got bored with the waiting and settled down heavily on the ground, muzzle on her paw. Waxwings trilled in the spruce overhead.

  Then, suddenly, there was a splash—and he had a steelhead. Striding out of the stream, he ambled up onto the bank and dropped it by her paw.

/>   She shifted into a girl.

  “How did you do that?”

  He turned into a man again, a wet one. “You always want a shallow run of water, Ginger. Get me? It makes it easier to see the fish, and get them—you can see them kind of”—he weaved his hand in the air illustratively—“struggling over the pebble-bottom. Sometimes, if there’s a side pool off the course, they’ll hover in there, too, to rest—easy pickings.”

  “Right.” She glanced at the rushing stream. “My turn, I take it?”

  “Damn right. Get in there and give it a go. Every grizzly needs to know how to catch a fish, Ginj.”

  I’m not a grizzly, she almost said.

  But she was.

  So she morphed back into a bear—a big, shuffling, brown-and-gold-eyed bear—and stepped off the bank, into the water. She could barely feel the cold of it through her dense fur and fat layer.

  She strode to the spot he’d chosen, and braced herself against the fast, clear water. She stared at the bottom of the stream and waited.

  It took a while, but a fish finally came, another trout. She bit for it—but not fast enough. It shot away, wrigglingly, over the rocks.

  The same thing happened with the second fish. She just wasn’t fast enough, and her strike wasn’t clean enough: big, messy splashes kept exploding and blinding her when her mouth or paw hit the water.

  After she failed on the fifth fish, she lost her patience. She changed back into a girl—and shrieked. The stream was icy cold. She went hopping back to the bank, and jumped out.

  “What’s feeding this stream?” she huffed, clutching her chest. “A glacier? On Mars?”

  Hunter didn’t answer her. He was lying down in bear form. In fact, he hardly looked at her.

  “Come on. Talk to me.”

  He woofed shortly.

  “I’ll never catch a fish. It’s just not going to happen, and it’s fucking stupid, anyway. If we want fish, there’s a grocery store on Saltspring. And there’s tackle on your boat.”

  He rolled his eyes up to look at her—she could tell it was a dry, unamused look.

  “Well… it’s true,” she faltered lamely. “I mean, you’re a fisherman by trade. Right? So you know this is inefficient. It’s fucking ridiculous!”

  He exhaled, a kind of bear-sigh—and then shifted back into a man and sat up.

  “Listen, Ginger,” he said, and his voice was serious. “Part of the reason you learn to forage, and fish, and hunt is to help with your urges. The wild part of you needs to do those things, strictly necessary or not. Got me? If you don’t feed your instincts, they’ll fester, and that can make you dangerous. Will you try to understand that?”

  “I don’t want to,” she said softly. “What you’re saying scares me.”

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of, as long as you know yourself and do what you have to.” He put a steadying hand on her shoulder. “Now, the other half of the reasoning behind this exercise is the fact that bears spend a lot of time in the wilderness, where there are no convenience stores. Oh, yeah. I guarantee even you will need the wild sometime, Ginger. We all do. We’re animals, it’s just how it goes. I don’t want you to starve to death in the Canadian backwoods because no one ever taught you how to feed yourself.”

  She stared down at the bank.

  “So get back in there and catch a fish. I’ll fry it for us—how ’bout that? I won’t even make you eat it raw today.”

  “What if I just… can’t?” I wish I was home.

  “Don’t be like that. You’re better than that.” He gripped her chin and tilted her head up to look at him. The warm, rich caramel color of his eyes, with their band of pure gold, made her stomach drop. “Be the girl who didn’t think it was impossible to paddle back to Vancouver, alone, at night. Be the girl who impressed MacAlister over and over—and me. Be the girl who tried to fight Gunnar, as a girl, not as a bear. Be that girl. Get that fish.”

  “I’ll try.” She sighed.

  “Fine, Ginger. If you’re gonna be stubborn, then I’ll just have to sweeten the pot.” His fingers tightened on her jaw. “Catch a fish and I’ll eat you out.”

  His words shot like lightning down to her cunt. Her clit twitched greedily. “You’ll—eat me out?”

  “Sure, and I’ll eat that soft pussy like it’s never been eaten.” His eyes glowed; she believed him. “But first—bring me some trout. Go on, baby. Do it. All bears can fish, and you’re no exception. Get back in the ring.”

  She nodded, then turned to face the stream. Shifting into a bear, she lumbered out into the current, watching the water rush past. Settling herself in the middle of the course, she waited.

  The first two attempts were bust. Don’t use your claws, he said. She needed to stop trying to scoop up the trout—these weren’t hands, but big, blunt, clumsy claws. They had no thumbs, no grip. Use your mouth!

  The next fish got away, but she was starting to get a feel for how she should bite for them. The fish after that also wiggled past—but the fish after that—

  She caught it! There was a welter of water—a sun-dotted splash—and she yanked up her head, and—her mouth was full of flapping steelhead!

  “Yeah!” Hunter shouted from the bank. He pumped his fist, laughing. “That’s my girl! I told you you could do it!”

  She was so happy, she ran in a heavy, drenching circle in the middle of the stream—that only made Hunter laugh louder. When she clambered back up on the bank, she dropped the bloody, flopping fish on the ground, and shifted into a girl. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand; her tongue tingled with the taste and abrasion of raw, scaly fish.

  “I think you owe me something?”

  He rose a brow. “Now?”

  She arched a brow back. “I’m not gonna accept an IOU. I got us dinner.” She toed the fish. “Do the decent thing.”

  “I’m proud of you,” he said, surprisingly serious. She flushed. “I’ll go down on you, swear, and I’ll relish it. But wait until we’re back at the cave. It’ll be better.” He winked.

  “Okay. Fine,” she said slowly, charmed. “You said something about foraging the beach?”

  “For clams, yeah. But first”—he put a hand on her shoulder and turned her around—“get another fish.”

  ***

  They’d taken a long way back to their cave, Hunter showing her how to nose through the silt at low tide for razor clams. They had a deliciously salty, chalky crunch to them, with cold meaty centers—as a bear, she could eat them whole, and did.

  It was a cold purple evening, with clouds lowering over the islands across the strait. They gathered dry driftwood, and Hunter showed her how to build a fire in the cave—how to stack the wood, how to get it lit, how to blow on it just right. She watched and listened attentively, and asked him if she could skewer the fish on the roasting stick herself. He let her, and showed her how to position it.

  “Bet you’ve never had fish without butter or pepper or anything,” he said as the steelhead changed color from the heat. “It’s good. Kind of a pure taste.”

  She threaded her hands around her knees, which were drawn up against her chest. It was surprising how good and how natural it felt to be naked—with a man; My man?—in a beach cave on a remote, fir-forested island. It felt… right.

  But how could that be? Nothing about this was right. My life has totally changed. It’s in pieces. How can I feel right?

  “Tomorrow we’ll forage again,” Hunter was saying, “and fish. I want to make sure you get the hang of it, completely.”

  “Yeah,” she answered, a little vaguely. “I’ll do my best.”

  “I know you will.” She could feel him looking at her curiously. “You alright?”

  “Just… confused, I guess.” She glanced at him. “But thanks. Thanks for teaching me all of this.”

  He gazed at her; she saw the gold ring brighten. “You know you can trust me, Ginger. I won’t walk away from you.”

  “Do I know that?” she asked, frowning slig
htly. “I barely know anything about you, Hunter.”

  The surprise was obvious on his face. “About me?”

  She nodded. “Just that you’re a fisherman who spends his free time eating grass as a bear.”

  He laughed. “You make it sound so respectable.”

  “Seriously, though.” She wriggled closer to him insistently. “I want to know more.”

  His look sharpened, intensified. “Do you? Shit, Ginger, I guess I do keep that kind of stuff close.” He sighed. “What do you want to know?”

  “You’ll just tell me?”

  “Yeah.” He meant it, although there was a heaviness in his expression.

  She put a hand on his thigh, squeezed the hard, warm muscle. “I’m not trying to… force you, or—”

  “Ginger. It’s okay. Hell, I’m glad you want to know me better. I am. Maybe it means you’re softening on me.”

  She saw no point in lying. Not here, not now, not anymore. She’d never been this vulnerable, or at such a dramatic crossroads, and she needed him. Needed him and liked him, and they were alone together in the middle of the Gulf Islands’ wilderness.

  “I might be.” Her palm ran up his abs; she pressed the tip of her thumb, briefly, in the hard divot of his navel—and then she drew back. “Let’s start with basic stuff. How old are you, exactly?”

  He half-smiled. “Thirty.”

  “And where were you born?” The fish—and the fire—smelled good, sweet like sea charcoal.

  “Near Prince Rupert.”

  “Where is that?”

  “Northern BC.” He was looking over her face like he’d never get tired of it, like every feature was a priceless work of art. It intoxicated her.

  But she went on, refusing to be distracted. “So you’re Canadian. For real.”

  “Of course I’m Canadian for real. French Canadian. What did you think?”

  She shrugged. “You’ve got no accent. And you work on the sea, so… I don’t know. You could be from anywhere. I thought maybe you were American.”