by S. A. Ravel
He stepped into his father’s office and slammed the door behind him. “Couldn’t it wait? Wouldn’t want to shirk my sparring duties.”
If luck was on Dirk’s side, Cyrus would only want to give him a rundown of VIPs he was expected to entertain that night. If not, he’d somehow managed to screw up the few courtesy e-mails he’d sent to the more prominent guests.
Dirk was never lucky.
“Have a seat,” Cyrus said. “You smell like blood.” There wasn’t the slightest hint of concern in Cyrus’s voice.
No pleasantries. With anyone else, Dirk would have assumed he was in trouble. But Cyrus despised small talk, a quality that Dirk appreciated.
“Yeah, Louis has a better reach than I remember.”
Dirk didn’t have many possessions, only a room in his parents’ lavish house that served as his bedroom and office. It was large enough to serve both purposes, or so he reminded himself whenever he felt cramped. He rarely took business meetings in person. And when he did, it was easier to drive to the city. He had more than enough money of his own to move out, but as second son, he was expected to stay in the main house until his brother took charge or he took a mate. By tradition, the youngest son became second-in-command when his older brother became Alpha. The second child stayed close, but the eldest was king of the castle. Dirk was the younger of the Greenwood boys, he was never meant to rule. With Maddock gone, the succession of the Greenwood Clan Alpha was in crisis, and it had been the topic of conversation at every social event he’d yawned his way through that year.
Would Dirk ascend to the Alpha position? Had a tragic flaw made Maddock unsuitable to lead? Was Cyrus grooming his younger son for greatness? Hell no, and he wasn’t the least bit bitter about it. An Alpha was always on call. Always balancing between advancing his clan and keeping the peace. Sometimes one had to be sacrificed for the other. Either way, an Alpha’s wants and plans were almost never a consideration. Not if they were fit to rule.
Maddock hadn’t done a damned thing to earn exile, except maybe be a little too selfish to rule. But that had been enough for Cyrus. And Cyrus sure as hell wasn’t grooming Dirk to take his place. Nothing in the house had changed at all, except for Maddock’s empty room which Dirk still couldn’t bring himself to look at.
“There’s been a change of plans,” Cyrus said. “Some offers have come in that I have to move on.”
Dirk raised an eyebrow in mock surprise. They weren’t supposed to discuss business on the day of Callisto’s Masquerade. Miranda instituted the rule after Cyrus missed the opening ceremony one year thanks to feverish negotiations on a real estate deal. Cyrus never stuck to the rule. Dirk didn’t either.
“Offers for what?”
“I’ve just heard from Sam Crimmons. He’s looking to marry off his youngest daughter.”
“Never heard of him.”
“You wouldn’t have. He’s got a small clan in the unclaimed territories. Texas, I think. They’re a young group, but the men are decent fighters.”
“They’d have to be to survive out in that dump.” Dirk slouched in the chair and tried to ignore the itching and tingling that had replaced the pain where Louis had clawed him.
Cyrus had a way of equating fighting prowess with strength, but Dirk had learned the hard way that things weren’t always so clear. Maddock was a decent fighter--more than decent-- but nobody in the family had heard from him in months. Technically, Maddock still had a high position in the clan system, high enough to command some respect even in his exile. But not all rogues respected the clans, and even those that did might figure they could disappear before the powers-that-be figured out who killed their exiled brethren. Dirk knew his brother was in danger, but he couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge it for too long. No, Maddock was alive. Dirk could feel it. Maddock just needed space to cope. There was no way a rogue got the best of him.
“Given the circumstances, you could do worse.” Cyrus said.
“Does Sam Crimmons think his daughter could do worse?” Dirk asked.
“He’s not in a position to complain, is he? A mate for his daughter with ties to the most powerful clan on the West Coast? He’d be a fool to reject it.”
“Even if the mate can’t shift?”
Dirk hadn’t managed to shift since Maddock left. A bear that couldn’t shift couldn’t fight, couldn’t protect what was his. A generation or two ago that would have been a death sentence for Dirk. Any rogue shifter looking to prove a point or low-ranking shifter looking to rack up an easy kill would have ended him long ago. Now, diplomacy and negotiation kept clans in line. Strong clan ties kept the rogues at bay.
“We’ll make the announcement during the Masquerade.”
Dirk struggled to control his breathing as a wave of fury ripped through him. He should have expected his father to have already worked out the deal. Somehow, he always underestimated his father’s schemes. Everyone served the Greenwood Clan, even if it was by their absence.
“Will she be moving in after the ceremony?” A little humor might calm his anger. “Mama will be thrilled to have someone to dote on. As long as she doesn’t try to change anything.”
“You’ll be moving there.”
The room tilted in Dirk’s vision. “You’re sending me to the unclaimed territories?”
“To a safe enclave within it. Daniella has brothers that Sam assures me are capable fighters. Your position there won’t be any different from here.”
Dirk’s stomach roiled. Visions of his future flashed in his eyes, and they weren’t pretty. He would be the low man on the totem pole, with rabid rogues on his doorstep to boot. The unclaimed territories was a war zone. There was plenty of land to go around, but rogues staked claim to most of it. Every now and then, a lowborn son set up a clan there in desperation to have territory to call his own. It always ended bloody.
“You’re exiling me.”
“Nobody who matters will see it that way.”
There was only one silver lining that Dirk could see. A small group like the Crimmons Clan would be hurting for capable fighters, maybe enough to let Maddock join the fold. If Dirk could find him.
“You said there were other offers?”
“One,” Cyrus said. “Marlow Tenwick is still searching for a mate for Alex.”
Dirk groaned. “That woman is a bitch on wheels.”
Alexandra Tenwick was Marlow’s second-born child, his only daughter. He was a member of the most powerful clan on the East Coast. The two clans never got along well. The Greenwoods tried to stay close to nature. They built their clan compound in forests just north of Los Angeles. The Tenwicks didn’t even pretend to enjoy nature. They preferred the concrete jungles of Manhattan.
Sam Crimmons might save Maddock from exile after Dirk sired a cub or two to secure the line. Not Marlow Tenwick. Marlow didn’t need bodies; he needed to bolster his clan’s status. His grandson ascending to Alpha of the Greenwoods was a fine way to do that. Bringing the disgraced heir apparent into the fold was not.
Either match would secure Cyrus an heir of decent stock. Either match would be hell for Dirk.
“If I don’t want either of them?”
Cyrus’s expression hardened. “You can choose one of the mates I’ve selected for you, or you can join your brother.”
A bride or banishment. Marriage or death.
“How long do I have?”
“I’m making an announcement during the mid-ceremony address. You have until then to decide which announcement I make.”
Dirk didn’t remember the walk to his bedroom being so long. He hadn’t dared to hope he would ever find his true mate. Fated matches were a rare thing in the clans, where political alliances depended on mate selections. His parents weren’t fated mates, and their marriage was strong. But he had hoped to have more of a say in who he married.
He should have been grateful. A second son was never guaranteed the right to mate or have cubs. It was the Alpha’s decision, usually rooted in politics. Dirk kne
w that.
Only one person would understand what it was like to be blindsided by Cyrus Greenwood. Only one person would care.
Dirk reached for his cell phone and fired off a single text message. Maybe this time, Maddock would answer.
Where are you? We need to talk.
* * *
Rachel slid the door of the van shut. She scowled at the peeling logo and blew at a stubborn speck of dust, but a few flecks of paint blew away instead. With the balance the client, Cyrus Greenwood, owed, she may have enough extra money to have the logo scraped and repainted.
Callisto’s Masquerade was a gig for which any caterer with an ounce of ambition would kill. It didn’t pay as well as it should have, but it offered exposure to the sort of people who loved to throw money around on events and parties. If people liked their pastries, she’d be set for the next party season, maybe the next year. If they didn’t, it was back to Seattle and bail bonds with the rest of her family.
Rachel pushed the worries to the back of her mind. Callisto’s Masquerade was also the classiest event in Los Angeles, at least the classiest event that someone like her could get into: a genuine masquerade ball. The idea of it excited her more than she cared to admit. Once she finished setting up she planned to find a corner to spy on the attendees and their glamorous costumes. Then she had a warm lavender bath and a hot cup of coffee waiting for her at home. With her luck, someone would shoo her away before she got a good look at anyone. She’d made herself presentable. But Rachel’s version of presentable was a pair of black slacks, a nice blouse, and sensible heels, not exactly proper for sneaking into a costume ball.
It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy getting done up. Fancy parties in Los Angeles meant rooms full of people calculating what they could get from everyone else in the room. Appearance was a big part of the calculation, and Rachel couldn’t afford to splurge.
Rachel made her way toward the kitchen with the last tray of apple blossoms. Even the service hallway had its charms. The sterile white walls and tiles looked brand new. If the owners spent that much money on upkeep for the parts people didn’t see, she could only imagine how nice everything else would be.
She’d only told one person about catering the ball, her roommate Megan. When her ex-boyfriend, Michael, had left her a blubbering and homeless mess, Megan had taken her in without question. And Megan was still the only person Rachel could bring herself to share her hopes with.
“You should stay at the Masquerade after you finish setting up,” Megan had said. “Find a hot guy to dance with.”
“How will I know if they’re hot? It’s a masked ball.”
“Puh-lease, you can tell if man is hot without seeing his face. It’s all in the shoulders.”
Rachel chuckled to herself as she set the serving trays onto a nearby table. A man in glasses carrying a black leather binder came up to her. His hair was slicked back. He wore a waistcoat, breeches, and shoes so shiny that Rachel could see her reflection in them.
“I’m looking for Miss Simmons?”
Rachel looked over her shoulder and nodded. “I’m Rachel Simmons.”
“I’m Louis, Mr. Greenwood’s assistant.” He looked her up and down and frowned. “No, no. Your outfit won’t do at all. It’s far too plain.”
Rachel looked down at herself and frowned. “For setting out trays?”
Louis pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “For serving, Miss Simmons. Everyone has to be in costume, even the service staff.”
“It’s Rachel. And I’m not service staff. Just the caterer.”
“Yes, and your contract clearly states that you are to provide and serve the agreed upon pastries.” He looked over the tray and frowned again. “Is this all of them?”
Rachel’s mouth fell open before she could cover her shock. “There must be some mistake.”
Louis squared his shoulders and tugged at the ends of his elaborate vest. “Miss Simmons, we discussed all of this, at length, when I brought the contracts to your office.”
“Now I know there’s been a mistake. We’ve never met.”
“It’s all right here, Miss Simmons.” He opened the leather binder and held it out for Rachel to see.
There were two signatures, hers and Michael’s. Sure enough, there was a clause saying they were to attend in costumes or formal attire and serve the guests.
Rachel rubbed her forehead in frustration. She would never agree to a contract that required her to serve. Flour, eggs, and sugar she could handle, but she was horrible with demanding customers. It must have been another little detail Michael forgot to share with her. Like their empty checking account or the lease that only had his name on it.
Her mind whirled. There wasn’t time to call in a favor from anyone she knew, and she couldn’t afford to hire a server for the night. Any hope she had of seeing the ball vanished as did her hopes for having the van repainted. She’d just handed Louis an easy way not to pay what he owed, but keep all her product.
“You’ll have to go downstairs to costuming. They’ll have something that fits you. And best do it quickly, Miss Simmons. The service staff is expected to attend the opening ceremony with the guests.”
With that, Louis clapped the binder closed and scampered off in the opposite direction.
Rachel took a moment to calm her ragged nerves. “Bastard could have warned me that it wasn’t a standard contract.”
Even as she said it, part of her was glad he hadn’t. She’d have blown her budget on a server, or refused the contract if she’d known ahead of time. Her bank account couldn’t afford either. Her little business wouldn’t survive if word got around that she’d blown a contract for Callisto’s Masquerade.
Rachel made sure the plastic wrap on the trays was secure and made her way down to costuming. At least she’d get to see the costumes. The rest just wasn’t meant to be.
Read more of Dirk and Rachel’s story in Alpha Unmasked.
Curvy single mom in trouble + elite alien warrior = a chance at the forever kind of love.
Three strikes and he's out. Zoriah's rebellious teenage son is in trouble again- this time, on purpose. She'll do anything to prevent her family breaking up, even allow her children to train for the alien Yadeshi army.
Why raise your sword if you have no mate or family? Elite alien warrior Benyon spends his time on Earth training humans in martial arts. He's come to love the three human children with warrior-spirits, and will do anything to prevent their unhappiness- even if it means going toe-to-toe with their mother- a woman who entices him with her fierce temper, lush beauty and strength of will to raise her children alone.
But she doesn't have to be alone- he won't allow it, not when he's made up his mind she should be his. All he has to do is convince her that alien warriors do it bigger, harder and badder. And when their family is threatened by a spurned would-be lover, Benyon seizes the opportunity to prove his worth. After all, there's more to him than just his big, blue... tattoo.
This is a steamy hot, science fiction romance for readers who love BBW and alpha male alien warriors. Perfect for your lunch break read.
CHAPTER ONE
“I’m afraid I must refer him to Social Intervention,” the school counselor said.
Zoriah stared at Ms. Beckett, employing the only useful technique she’d learned during her teenage years from the government parenting programs.
One breath, two. Three breaths, four. Think before you speak. Acts of aggression equaled weeks of remediation- more time under the watchful eye of an overburdened case worker. More opportunities for them to tear her family apart like children pulling wings from a trapped butterfly.
“This would be the third referral,” Zoriah said.
Her precious teenage son said nothing, arms folded, staring out of the window with every appearance of boredom. What was he looking at, besides his future dribbling down a drain? She wanted to smack him.
“Yes,” the counselor said, voice soft.
“If he’
s taken from my care, will my housing allotment be reduced?” Zoriah asked, knowing the answer. She knew what a third intervention meant. They all did. Focusing on practical matters helped prevent her from breaking down.
“That’s possible.”
They’d lucked out with the neighborhood they lived in now, one of the few remaining family sections where four-bedroom homes were still relatively new, the parks updated. With one less minor in her custody, her and the girls would be moved to a three bedroom, and three bedroom homes in low-tier sections in Omaha were... infamous.
Khalid stirred. “Ma. It’s all right, I’m not going to get referred.”
She struggled to remember the self-soothing visualization techniques. Ocean waves, the sun beating on her neck and the scent of brine and grilling fish. Peace and tranquility.
“Do you know something we don’t, Khalid?”
They had to teach low-tier women visualization techniques because the government wasn’t ever going to allow them the opportunity to improve their lives. Once a low-tier, always a low-tier. Someone had to do the cooking and cleaning for the rich- real human staff being a sign of their wealth. Everyone could afford a bot these days.
“I did it on purpose.”
Ocean waves morphed into a tsunami. “You what?”
He turned in the seat, faced her fully. “Look. I’m sixteen. Technically, I can drop out if I register for either a-”
“What have I told you about government sponsored trade school programs! It’s indentured servitude.”
His mouth tightened. “Stop yelling, Ma. Just listen, alright? I haven’t been skipping school to jack off.”
Zoriah winced. Did her son understand the... alternative... meanings of that phrase? She’d taken away his internet devices years ago to prevent learning such things.
“I’ve been training with the Yadeshi. At YETI.” He paused. “Yadeshi Earth Training-”
Really? “I’m not stupid.”
He shrugged, snapping his mouth closed.
And she’d thought registering for a state run trade school was the worst thing he could do, besides run afoul of a street organization.
