ROMANCE: PARANORMAL ROMANCE: Coveted by the Werewolves (Paranormal MMF Bisexual Menage Romance) (New Adult Shifter Romance Short Stories)

by Hawke, Jessa

  She blew past him before he could get a chance to stop her. Charlotte locked the door to her room and leaned against it, finding herself in tears for the second time that day.

  TWO

  Charlotte woke the next day to find the house empty and a note for her from Douglass.

  Miss Evans,

  I've had an emergency and I am off on a house call. I've dropped Jane off at school early, she will return at two o'clock in the afternoon. Please use this time to get acquainted with the house, and to unpack.

  Charlotte had a feeling that she could have come with the doctor, but that he wanted to give her time to cool off. Secretly, she was glad, but she instinctively wanted to be annoyed at what she felt was a snub.

  She spent the morning sweeping and mopping the sprawling house. She went into Jane's room to find there was nothing to clean. She had a plain powder blue bed spread with the linens tucked around the fat mattress neatly. There were two dolls on a hearth over a small fireplace, filled with books and toys instead of wood. Apparently Jane was not allowed to have her own fire, or else she had a wicked sense of humor.

  Among the books were old medical texts with tiny words scrawled in the margins and next to diagrams. Books about digestion, childbirth, and hysteria. They had the familiar hand of Doctor Owens, and again Charlotte had the feeling that she was privy to something she didn't deserve to be privy to. They had the feeling of books well-loved and read over over and over. The spines were barely holding themselves together, and many a page was slipping out of the binding. Inscribed on the inside cover of one was a dedication: to Janey on her 10th birthday. One day your stitches will be straighter than mine!

  Her heartbeat seemed slow and thick as she turned slowly in the room. There were faded drawings done in fat wax crayon of a short girl with stringy hair holding the stick hand of a man with funny headband and a long coat. His face was clean shaven and he had shorter hair, but the figure was unmistakable. There were newer drawings in fine charcoal of the same girl, now grown and with long hair curling around her waist. She was standing next to the same man, now with painstakingly rendered beards of varying thickness and lengths. In some drawings they were standing with dogs or next to ferris wheels, but they were always together. One lone drawing depicted Jane with a woman that had long, dark hair and piercing blue eyes---the only color in any of the charcoal drawings. It was placed above the hearth, and Charlotte stood looking at it for a long time.

  She left the room with a lump in her throat. She wanted badly to know more about Jane's mother---if she was alive, if she'd ever come to visit,and even (she hated herself for this last) if Douglass still loved her. They weren't together anymore, this was clear, and Charlotte didn't want to be involved with a man who couldn't be upfront with her. But the love between Jane and Douglas was unmistakable, and he seemed too lost and hurt. There was pain here that needed to heal, and Charlotte wasn't helping with her icy silences and sharp judgement.

  She walked to the end of the hall and looked at Douglass' bare door and sighed, wondering if she should go in for cleaning. He didn't tell her to stay out of his room, but she felt like it was common sense to wait for permission. Charlotte never liked to think of herself as submissive or spineless, but she thought it was respectful to go into another adult's room only with prior authorization. She placed her hand against the cool wood hesitantly, then reeled back when the door opened unexpectedly to reveal Douglass.

  He was as shocked as her, although he recovered more quickly.

  "I was just going to clean," Charlotte said, holding up the broom she'd been carrying from room to room. Douglass smiled.

  "I've taken care of everything in here, but thank you."

  She stepped back to let him pass her in the hall, but he stopped in front of her instead.

  "I hope you don't mind me leaving you alone." He was wearing his white coat over a plain brown suit, and there were a few spots of blood around his abdomen. "Had a premature birthing to attend to. I was just about to head back out."

  "I didn't hear you come in," Charlotte admitted, her face blushing. She'd been snooping the whole time, and snooped through his arrival.

  If Douglass had seen her, he didn't make it known. "You have some nursing skills, correct?" Charlotte nodded. "How about you come with me to my office, and help me with a few patients? Then we can see if we'll have a place for you."

  She was surprised, and her face must have shown it.

  "You didn't think I'd hide from you forever, did you?" Douglass smiled gently, but his voice betrayed the bitterness and sadness he felt. He turned to walk to the front porch before she could reply. I'll be waiting in the coach outside, please gather your things."

  She watched his broad shoulders brush through the door frame as he left, wondering if she'd made the right choice.

  Ten minutes later, they were in a clean, cozy office just inside his main examining room. He was only about five miles from the hospital, he was on the southern edge of town. He'd given her a white smock to put over her long blue dress, and a white cap to tie around her hair. He had a huge radio in his waiting room surrounded by ten chairs, and a large mahogany desk where a boy from the high school sat to monitor intake and take payment. The boy had greeted Charlotte shyly but hadn't met her eyes.

  When Douglass first led Charlotte to the room to give her the uniform and brief her, he dropped his voice quietly and looked to make sure Edward wasn't in hearing distance.

  "I haven't told anyone we're to be married, in case you change your mind."

  Charlotte remained silent, turning the pronouncement over in her mind and readying herself to react.

  "What do you mean?" She asked finally, anger beginning to creep under her skin. "Do you think I'm going to run out on you, even after I've promised to stay!"

  "No!" Douglass looked stricken. "I only meant...I know you're staying for Jane, and I don't mean to make you marry me if you're only looking to mother her. Charlotte," he pleaded suddenly, his voice urgent. "I really would like a chance to make this right. You deserve to be happy, and I believe I can help with that. I'll explain everything soon, but for now I just need you to trust me. I don't deserve it," He said hurriedly, seeing the look on her face. "I know. But if you're staying, I'd like to make it right."

  "How am I supposed to trust you after you hid Jane from me?" Charlotte said angrily. "And how am I supposed to know you'll tell me everything? Just what is there to tell? What else have you done that you feel you need to hide from?"

  Douglass looked ashamed. "I've made a lot of mistakes," he said quietly. "But Jane ain't one of them. A long time ago, somebody young and dumb knocked up her young, fiery mother, and I couldn't let her keep the baby. Not with the crowd she runs with." His eyes looked haunted, pained. "I promised myself I wouldn't let Jane end up like her. But her mother's got people who are looking for her, and for me. They want her back, so I try to advertise her whereabouts as little as possible. She goes to a private tutor to be schooled. She doesn't have friends. We moved across the country and I even keep a beard now so I'm not as recognizable."

  Charlotte was stunned, and afraid. All of this was much deeper and more complicated than she thought, and the weight of it all showed clearly on his handsome face. The fissure in her heart deepened and she felt like weeping for Douglass. He was troubled, and that was all the reason more not to get involved. But she couldn't stop herself from taking one of his large, warm hands in both of hers and pressing it suddenly to her lips.

  His eyes widened and were still, watching her carefully as though he were afraid of scaring her away.

  Her heart was beating like jackrabbit's, and she felt twice as jumpy. Heat spread through her body, and she cursed the reaction she had to him.

  "I can't promise you I'm going to love you," she said carefully. He leaned forward to hear her better, and their faces were inches apart. "But I'm staying, and I'm going to help you as best as I can." She could smell his aftershave and fought the urge to press her lips
to his neck, where stubble was already sprouting.

  His blue eyes were full of emotion. "Thank you."

  She gave his hand a squeeze, and he squeezed back, tugging her closer to him until he could wrap both arms around her shoulders. She stood still, surprised, before relaxing into the hug and allowing her face to rest against his chest. She felt the steady pounding of his heartbeat, a little too fast for just standing around. Her senses were so heightened she thought she felt the blood rushing through the muscles in his beefy arms. Charlotte's stomach slowly filled with butterflies.

  Too soon the embrace was over, and Charlotte was stepping away from his grasp. He touched his eyes briefly, and Charlotte turned away politely as he gathered himself. She busied herself with her apron.

  A bell tinkled from the front room, and they both jumped. He met her eyes and walked into the front room without a word, leaving Charlotte to ponder their embrace, and the burning in his eyes when he left the room.

  THREE

  The mystery if his intensity only deepened over the next few months. Eventually, Jane started to open up, too. They often cooked dinner together, and Jane asked her shyly about her studies as a nurse. She had very keen mind, and already knew all the bones in the body. Jane let Charlotte brush and braid her long, wavy black hair, and Charlotte's heart broke to see how childish the sullen girl still could be. She had so much mysterious heartache surrounding her, but she loved singing games and eagerly showed off drawings of animals, stagecoaches, and eventually even Charlotte. Jane grew fond of falling asleep on one of the fat couches next to Charlotte as she sewed or wrote to her parents. Douglass' eyes clouded over in a complicated mixture of emotions whenever he saw the two coloring in their nightgowns or giggling over potatoes, and Charlotte longed to kiss away the confusion. Instead, she threw herself into her work, and being as supportive of Douglass as she could.

  Charlotte, it happened, was very handy with patients. Her innocent air and pretty face put patients at ease, and she had slim, nimble fingers that could go many places the doctor's couldn't. She helped him suture a wound on the first day, and soon was setting bones and lancing boils under his supervision. She was witty and skilled, and the new nurse in town quickly drew in more check ups and new patients than the handsome Doctor Owens ever could by himself. When patients would ask, Charlotte told them she had just moved and was staying a guest room in Doctor Owen's house. This seemed to be a satisfactory explanation for most, and almost everyone assumed Charlotte was open to being courted.

  "If I were thirty years younger," leered an old man complaining of earache one afternoon. "Boy, they'd have to lock me up!" Then he'd swatted at Charlotte playfully.

  Not all of her would-be suitors were as harmless as him, however. A drunk in his thirties kept coming to the office over the course of a month with a list of baffling symptoms, only to spend the whole time asking Charlotte intrusive questions, making suggestive comments, or "accidentally" brushing his hands across parts of her body. One night, he waited outside the office, unaware that Charlotte wasn't leaving by herself. Douglass' truck was parked out back, but Charlotte needed to lock the door from the outside. After doing so, she turned and ran directly into Richard, who had already taken several large gulps from his flash since his appointment an hour before.

  Charlotte backed into the door as he stood in front of her, grinning. He didn't seem to want to move. Charlotte looked around him for anyone on the street---or, better yet, Douglass. She thought about screaming for help, but the drunk saw her think about and shook his head. He moved his dingy suit jacket to show a knife in a leather holster on his hip.

  "Let's talk a walk, honey," he said. "Wanna see what's under that dress." He reached out to run a hand from her waist to her hip, and finally to her backside. Charlotte whimpered, her mind racing. When his lips moved to brush against hers, Charlotte let out a screech and swung her head forward.

  Her forehead connected with her nose at the same moment Douglass came tearing out of nowhere to tackle Richard. Blood blossomed and ran down his mouth as Douglass shoved him into the dirt and fell on top of him. His fists started to rain down on him and the drunk screamed piteously.

  "Douglass, no!" Charlotte hurried over to pull Douglass back. He was shaking Richard, and the drunk man's head was flopping around bonelessly. When he felt Charlotte tug him, he threw the man back on the ground.

  "Never come back here," Douglass growled. The man scampered to his feet and ran away, limping and clutching his sides with both hands. Douglass watched him with fury in his eyes until the man crested a small hill and dipped below the horizon.

  Charlotte watched Douglass, his body rigid with tension. She was afraid of him, and in the two months she'd been there so far, no one had been aggressive or anything less than friendly. And Douglass had never been so violent. He was silent now, and seemed to have forgotten she was there.

  Finally he turned to her and pulled her to him, cradling her face between his hands. "Did he hurt you?" He demanded. Charlotte could only shake her head and look at the blood now staining his collar. He released her face and guided her toward the back with one hand on her shoulder. He looked troubled and deep in thought. He hitched his horses to the coach, loaded his trunk, and got them on the road all without saying anything. He didn't speak until they rolled to a stop in front of the house and its pleasant garden.

  "Charlotte," he said, although she was already looking at him.

  "Yes?" She said, her heart in her throat.

  "It's time for me to tell you something." Douglass looked at the house, where Jane would be readying dinner for their arrival. "That man, Richard, is a friend of a man I know named Zeke Price. He's Jane's father."

  Charlotte gasped. "You're not Jane's father?"

  Douglass hung his head and took a deep breath. "I'm not even her stepfather. I'm her brother."

  If Charlotte hadn't been sitting, she would have swooned. "How do you mean?"

  "My mother had me young, and had Jane when she met her last husband. Zeke is wild. He gets drunk, and he smokes opiates. He hurts women, including my mother, when she's with him. But I won't let them get Jane. She's bright and happy and deserves a chance, and she'll never have it if my mother finds her."

  "So what does Richard have to do with this?"

  "I go by my middle name here. My first name is Charles. I took care to dress differently and even keep a beard so there's less chance of someone recognizing me. I went to medical school away from my hometown, and I even learned to walk different. “He looked at his hands, bloodied from punching the drunk. “But my temper did used to get me in trouble. I saw Richard recognize me. I saw the knowledge in his eyes. He's gonna call Zeke, and let him know where I am, and if they're close, they could already be coming for us." He looked at her fearfully. "I shouldn't have brought you into this."

  Charlotte felt her heart swell in her chest. "I'm to be your wife, aren't I?" She said carefully. She opened the door to her coach and hopped out. "I'm still staying."

  Douglass scrambled out after her and pulled her into another frustratingly intimate hug. His body was trembling, but his eyes were dry and hard. She breathed in his scent, distracted momentarily by his warmth and heady aroma. He squeezed her a little longer this time, then she surprised him by kissing his cheek tenderly.

  He released her, but kept his hands on her waist. Her hands were around his shoulders, and she peered up into his sky blue gaze, trying to untangle the jumble of heat, panic, and determination. He was looking at her mouth, and without thinking she glanced at his in time to see him lick his lips. A thrill of desire ran through her body, and then a frisson of fear: now that she knew he was truly unattached, there was nothing stopping her from unlocking the chest of emotion where she had been storing her growing fondness and embarrassingly strong lust. She inched forward, and his arms pulled her tighter, gently, as if she would break. Then, almost as gently, he pressed his lips to hers. It turned passionate and intense as quickly as it began, and Charlot
te pressed her body against his front, plunging her fingers through his thick, wavy hair and drawing desperate sounds of passion from him. He was pressing her against the coach now, hands running up and down her sides, and she leaned into the kiss, finally feeding the nerve endings that had been clamoring for his touch since she arrived.

  A blood curdling scream ripped them apart, and they turned toward the house, where the back door was slamming and hurried footsteps could be heard rushing around the back. They looked at each other in terror.

  "Jane!"

  Douglass tore into the house at top speed toward the sound of sister's shriek.

  Charlotte followed him when the feeling returned to his legs, intending to follow him out the back. Then she spied her hunting rifle on top of the main fireplace and snatched it, grabbing a handful of shells to put into one of her apron's pockets. She propelled herself out the backdoor in time to see Douglass fighting with a short, stocky man with big heavy fists like hams. Jane was slumped next to a tree behind them, and Charlotte started to make a beeline for the girl.

  When she was about fifty feet away, a woman stepped from behind the tree, and Charlotte stopped in her tracks. She was wearing a black riding habit much like the one Charlotte had seen her in before, and her thick black hair was pulled back into an elegant knot. Her face was jarring, a composite of cruel beauty and piercing blue eyes like a cloudless sky. Charlotte saw now that the woman from the train station---the woman she had bitterly used as a stand in for Douglass' imaginary wife in her fantasies---was about fifteen years older than Douglass himself. Only her eyes betrayed this; her skin and hair were vibrant, her general air youthful.

  The woman smiled and eyed the rifle Charlotte carried. "Are you going to use that?" She taunted. "I won't give you another chance." She pulled a pistol from her coat's pocket and pointed it Charlotte before she could move or speak.