Alphas of Summer: A collection of shifter romances

by Lia Davis

  “Oh, she’s not in trouble, is she?” the tattooed man said. “We were just having fun.”

  “She’s not in trouble,” Violet said. “I’m sure you didn’t mean any harm, but I need you to keep your hands off of her.”

  “Then why don’t you join us instead?” he said. He reached out and grabbed her wrist lightly. His touch was so cold she recoiled in surprise. It was like he’d been gripping ice. His eyes narrowed as she pulled her hand free.

  “Same applies to me,” she said. “You can come in and have your fun, but I’ll ask you to be respectful.”

  “Just one beer,” pleaded the guy who’d grabbed Bonnie.

  “No,” Violet said flatly. “If you boys are set, I’ll be back to check on you in a while.” Her heart pounded against her ribs as she turned to walk away. Cold fingers brushed against the small of her back and got a handful of her leather belt, then yanked her back hard enough to throw her off balance. The wood bench bit into the back of her thighs. A knot of anger and fear twisted together in her belly.

  The tattooed man leaned in. “Don’t be rude,” he said. “Join us.”

  Violet turned to square her shoulders. “You get one more warning,” she said. “If you decide you want to keep showing out, you’re going to leave my bar.”

  “Your bar?”

  “This is my place,” she said. “And I choose who gets to stay and drink.”

  The tattooed man scowled at her. His pupils dilated, huge and black against gray irises, as he stared at her. “We’re not causing any trouble. Let us stay. Sit with us a while.”

  A strange, rubbery sensation washed over her, as if she’d drank too much too fast and the rush of alcohol was hitting her all at once. They really weren’t bothering anyone, were they? Bonnie was fine, and Violet was just overreacting. Wasn’t she? “Fine. You can stay.”

  The tattooed man rested his large hand on her thigh and slipped it upward. Even through her jeans, his fingers felt like ice as they grazed her thigh and settled between her legs. Dimly, she knew she should resist, but that strange warm feeling was still clinging to her, and she simply couldn’t work up the motivation to break away. “That’s what I thought,” he said. With his other hand, he brushed the hair away from her neck and kissed the side of her throat with dry, cold lips.

  As soon as his lips made contact with her bare skin, the rubbery sensation evaporated, and Violet jolted back to her senses. Revulsion shook her as she wondered, What the hell?

  She twisted away from him, then planted her hand on the back of his head. With her fingers digging into his short hair to palm the bony curve of his skull, she shoved his head forward as hard as she could. If he’d been prepared for it, it would have never worked, but he wasn’t expecting the quick move. His forehead slammed into the table, rattling the glasses and knocking over the half-drunk beer Bonnie had abandoned. He shouted something in a foreign language. She didn’t know the word, but she recognized the sheer rage that permeated what was clearly a curse. Violet launched herself out of the booth to get out of range before he started swinging. When she was safely away from the table, she pointed toward the door. “Get the hell out,” she seethed. Her skin crawled from the uninvited kiss on her neck.

  The tattooed man glared at her. Blood trickled from his nose. He muttered under his breath. “You don’t tell me when to leave.”

  Someone tapped her shoulder. Violet glanced back to see Bonnie holding out the baseball bat. Her glossy red lips were pressed together in a grim expression that betrayed no hint of her usual smile. Violet accepted the bat and rested the business end on her toes. “You can leave on your own, or you can wait for my large friend to come here and bounce your skull off the pavement a few times before I call the police. Your choice.”

  The guy who had grabbed Bonnie snapped something at the tattooed one, and they argued back and forth for a while in another language. She hoped they were agreeing to leave, rather than agreeing on a signal to jump her and do their worst.

  Anxiety gripped her chest in a choking vise as they finished their conversation and looked at her. All three of the men glared at her as they slid out of their seats. On his way out of his seat, the tattooed man swept his arm across the table, knocking the pitcher over and pouring the dark beer across her table. The pint glasses shattered on the floor as beer splattered onto Violet’s shoes. Bonnie gasped.

  Violet just stared at them, tightening her grip on the bat. “Don’t come back,” she warned them. Her heart pounded as they closed the short distance between her and the booth. It was eerily quiet. John, the karaoke DJ, was still holding the microphone like he was trying to figure out what to do with it. Eyes all over the room were pinned on her and her rowdy clientele.

  The last thing she needed was for these three assholes to show out. Bar fights were satisfying on TV, at least to people who didn’t have years of their lives invested into a bar. Where most people saw excitement and great stories to tell around the water cooler the next day, she saw property damage and lost customers.

  The three men brushed past her. Forcing herself to wait several seconds before turning around, she took a deep breath. Then she turned to watch them leave. Once they had cleared the door, she let out a sigh of relief. Her breath hitched on the exhale, and she realized her hands were shaking from fear.

  Violet whirled on her heel and waved her hand at the DJ, then twirled her finger in a come on motion. Shaking himself from his gaping stare, John started the music. As if the computerized synthesizer track was all they needed to signal that all was well, the rest of the bar resumed their normal activities.

  “Jesus,” Bonnie breathed. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she said. “Did you already call Sonny?”

  “He’s on the way,” Bonnie said. “You want me to tell him not to come now?”

  “Let him come,” Violet said. “Just in case they decide to come back.”

  Chapter 5

  It had taken two full days to not feel ice biting through his veins when he moved, but Pahlin finally felt like himself again. He’d spent the better part of two days in bed, only leaving long enough to use the bathroom and drink a glass of water. That afternoon, he’d finally gotten up after receiving three consecutive calls from Imani. He’d tried to ignore the irritating, high-pitched ring, but once he was awake, he couldn’t tune it out.

  “I’m in your driveway,” she said when he answered. “Come let me in.”

  He groaned and sat up. “Just a moment.”

  After giving himself a sniff to make sure he didn’t smell too awful, he made a quick stop in the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth. Imani was always impeccably dressed and surrounded in a floral-smelling cloud that inexplicably made him think of home. Not wanting to appear too unkempt for the distinguished woman, he splashed water under his arms and hurried into his bedroom. He had just found a clean black t-shirt when the front door creaked open.

  “I’m coming in, Pahlin,” Imani called. “Are you presentable?”

  He yanked the shirt over his chest and emerged from the bedroom. Imani was standing in his living room, peering at the dim room. A discarded water glass was overturned next to the couch, which looked rumpled and dented after two days of sleeping on it. As usual, Imani looked sharp. Her dark blue dress was of human make, but she wore silver jewelry with huge yellow stones and an elaborate hairstyle that was still fashionable back home. And while her body was quite attractive, he was drawn to the large glass dish tucked under her arm. She had a cup of coffee in the other hand, which she sipped from before saying, “You look awful. Have you eaten?”

  The mention of food made Pahlin’s stomach growl, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since before the losing fight. “No.”

  “I made you ashka vehl,” she said, gesturing with her hip to show him the glass container. “It’s not exactly the same, but it’s very close to the way we made it back in Arvelor. The closest you’ll find without going further north, I guarantee.”
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br />   The familiar smell of smoky spices drifted to his nostrils. “Bless you, divine woman.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I apologize, for waking you. Go take a proper shower, and I’ll make you a plate.” Clearly his attempts to spruce up had failed.

  With the homemade meal as motivation, he showered quickly and shaved the two-day stubble from his jaw. Turning slowly to inspect himself in the mirror, he found the angry red handprints from Fidhur’s glacial touch marking his torso. He sighed at the reminder of his abject failure in the arena, then pulled a shirt on to cover it.

  When he emerged from the bathroom, Imani was already sitting at the small kitchen table. A white plate was heaped with rice and shredded meat coated in the dark reddish sauce. The smell of ashka vehl was a memory in itself—a savory, familiar dish that he had grown up eating.

  Kadirai families in Arvelor would gather for large, shared dinners cooked over massive pots. Arvelor was the massive capital of the Stormflight lands. Unlike the spread out town where he lived now, home was dense and crowded. Kadirai who were not royalty lived in the farzira—massive, spiraled stone towers that surrounded the queen’s home of Thunderhold. Within the towers, multiple families shared common spaces, bathing areas, and kitchens. Someone was always cooking in the huge, open-air kitchens. It didn’t matter if one was a blood relative or a neighbor, all were welcome. As a boy, he’d often been sent down to the market for spices, and as he grew older, he joined hunting parties from the farzira to hunt for fresh meat for a huge shared meal. This dish wasn’t just a familiar smell and taste; it was home and all of the comforts that came with it.

  Imani sipped her coffee, then gestured to the seat. “Sit.”

  He eagerly grabbed the fork, then hesitated as he eyed her. He’d had his hand slapped by his mother or one of the other matriarchs for the mistake of eating before the one who had prepared dinner had given permission. “You’re not eating?”

  “I have dinner plans,” she said, smiling. “It is my pleasure to cook for you. Please eat.”

  He speared a hunk of meat and took a big bite. The flavors of home exploded on his tongue. The heat of the spices warmed his face, even as the familiar taste evoked a swell of emotion in his chest. The familiar taste reminded him of the distance from all that he knew. “Sweet Skymother, this is good,” he said around a mouthful. “How?”

  “A lot of experimentation,” Imani said. “Most of our spices have an equivalent, or something that’s close enough here in this world. The tricky ones are voqua and er-tahm. I have those imported. Very expensive, but worth it. The wildlife is different here, but well-marinated chicken thighs seem to work quite well.” After watching him eat for a moment, she said, “Ariv thinks you’re having trouble adjusting. Or rather, that you feel you are.”

  Pahlin tilted his head and swallowed a massive bite before speaking. “Ariv should mind his own business.”

  Imani laughed. “He does talk quite freely, but he cares for you as a brother,” she said. “I only mean to tell you that this sense of being lost is quite normal. You will find your way here. And if you decide that you wish to return to Arvelor, there is no shame.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know yet.”

  “Why did you come here?”

  “Just wanted to see what else there was,” he said. But that wasn’t his only reason. With four older siblings, he would never gain any sort of power within their society. Like his brother Agdin, he would join the Storm Legion, protecting his homeland of Adrahl against the constant attacks from the neighboring nation of Agni, and that would be his life. It wasn’t a bad life, but it was rather frightening to be only forty-nine and to know what the next several centuries would look like, with little hope for something different.

  “Hm,” Imani said mildly. “Well, you’ll find there’s quite a lot more to this world. And you won’t find all of it at the Pinnacle. Some Kadirai find bloodsport enjoyable and lucrative. Others do not, and there is no shame in deciding one would rather pursue other options than being beaten bloody every night. No offense, but if all you wish to do is act as a punching bag, you could do so at home among your own kind.”

  His cheeks flushed, not entirely from the heat of the dish he was shoveling down. “What other options?”

  She flashed him a knowing smile. “I did my own share of menial work when I came here,” she said. “Not fighting, but nothing of consequence either. I own hundreds of rental homes now. I am what they call an entrepreneur.” He frowned at the unfamiliar word in English. “I made a business for myself. I don’t just rent houses to wandering Kadirai like you. I have a company of my own. We build homes and other buildings. Some for Kadirai, some for humans. I don’t discriminate; their money all spends the same. If you decide to change your mind, I’ll give you a job. You’ll work hard, and I must warn you that even the long summers in Arvelor did not prepare you for the heat of a Georgia summer. But it’s good work, and you’ll be among your own kind as much as you like.”

  He nodded slowly. “Why have you been so kind to me?”

  She smiled. “That is who I am. I think this is who I have always been, but I could not be that person in Ascavar,” she said. “And you have come here to understand who you are. Maybe that understanding will take you back home, and perhaps staying here will allow you to become who you truly are. And maybe this all sounds insane to you. I imagine it will eventually make sense.” She glanced at her phone. “I should go. Give me a call next week if you’d like to work for me. I have several new jobs starting, and I need a few more hands.” She stood up, and he quickly stood to follow. She waved him off. “Sit, eat. It makes me happy to see you enjoying it. I can let myself out.” She left the dish with him, which would feed him for another few meals if he didn’t make a glutton of himself.

  Pahlin finished eating, then checked his phone to find a text from Ariv. It took him a minute to read it and respond in kind. The spoken word was one thing, but he still had difficulty using the English alphabet regularly. Through a series of stilted messages, they made plans to go out for a drink that evening. When Ariv confirmed that they would go back to the same bar as the other night, a nervous thrill settled into Pahlin’s belly.

  Perhaps the attractive bartender would be there again. He could only hope that she had forgotten his embarrassing intoxication from the other night.

  Pahlin felt underdressed as he and Ariv walked into the bar. He hadn’t quite gotten used to the plain trousers and t-shirts of the human world. They were comfortable, but he was used to the formal dress of his people. Ariv had assured him that he looked presentable, even without a set of hammered silver bracers and a sharp ornamental knife on each hip.

  The Back Porch was considerably busier than when they’d visited earlier in the week. Loud music blared, reaching them even from the parking lot. A crowd enveloped them as they passed through the doors. Pahlin’s eyes instantly went to the bar, searching for the dark-haired beauty. Sure enough, she was there, pouring drinks for an older man at the bar. Her eyes crinkled as she laughed. There was that joyful smile again, the all-encompassing gesture that made him intensely jealous that he wasn’t on the receiving end of it.

  After she passed the man his drink and swiped the bar with a wet cloth, she looked up and scanned the room. Her eyes fell on him, and her face went through a rapid sequence of expressions. Her cheeks twitched, and her eyebrows lifted. Then her lips curled into a lazy smile, and she raised a hand in greeting. It wasn’t the wide-open smile he’d seen before, but it still sent a warm flush to his cheeks.

  Ariv bumped his shoulder. “Go talk to her,” he said. “I’ll try to find a table.”

  Pahlin’s heart thumped as he approached the bar. As if the Skymother was smiling down on him, two women vacated their stools right as he walked up, leaving two empty seats right in front of Violet. He pulled one out and sat in it, leaning across the bar. “Hello again,” he said.

  She smiled. The soft pink color painted on her lips distracted him, drawing h
is eye to the full curve of her lower lip. “Been in any fights lately?”

  He laughed. “Not in a few days.”

  “Your face looks much better,” she said. “What are you drinking?”

  He paused. “Not whatever you gave me the other night. I was very ill.”

  “You were sick?”

  “A headache,” he said. What was the word Ariv had used? “I was hungover.”

  She grinned. “To be fair, you drank a lot of it. That much of anything will give you a hangover. Give me a minute.” She spun around, sending her glossy hair flying. As she reached for bottles on the backlit shelves, he had a fine view of her figure. There was a lovely curve to her shape. It awakened an almost compulsive desire to run his hand from her waist to her thigh, exploring that sweeping curve of hip as he buried his face in the smooth warmth of her neck. She turned back to him and caught him staring. “You still here?”

  He shook himself. “I was thinking,” he said, hoping his cheeks weren’t red. He watched intently as she poured streams from two bottles into a glass of ice. Her teeth tugged at her lower lip as she dumped the contents of the glass into a silver container, shook it vigorously, then dumped it back into the glass. After adding a wedge of lemon to the edge and dropping a cherry into the glass, she pushed it across the bar to him. “What’s this?”

  “This is a Tom Collins,” she said. “It’s a solid drink. You’ll like it. If not, we’ll keep trying.”

  He accepted it. “What do I owe you?”

  “It’s on the house,” she said.

  “Why?”

  She propped a hand on her hip. “If the bartender gives you free drinks, you don’t ask why. You smile and say thank you.” Her tone was teasing, not angry.

  Emboldened by her coy smile, he leaned closer. Her eyes were mesmerizing, a shade of green with a hint of gold that made him think of leaves just about to turn. “Then I will simply say thank you. The bartender has my highest regards.” He sipped the drink, wincing slightly in anticipation of the fiery kick. Instead, he got a refreshing, slightly sweet taste with only the slightest hint of alcohol.