Alphas Unwrapped: 21 New Steamy Paranormal Tales of Shifters, Vampires, Werewolves, Dragons, Witches, Angels, Demons, Fey, and More

by Michele Bardsley

  A very bad feeling sank over him as he, along with everyone else in the room, looked up to find a gay sprig of mistletoe hanging just above him.

  “The nearest lady must kiss him!” crowed Lady Glennington—clearly delighted that her festive plans were coming to fruition—just as Max realized what was about to happen. “And that would be you, Mrs. Stoker. You must bestow the first Christmas kiss upon our wonderful Dr. Melke.”

  FOUR

  ~ Escape ~

  MAX COULDN’T BREATHE. There were too many reasons this couldn’t be happening. But Savina was already moving toward him, a friendly smile on her face and a hint of color in her cheeks. And not the least bit of recognition in her eyes, thank God.

  “Don’t be shy now, Dr. Melke,” urged Lady Glennington. “Surely you don’t mind being kissed by such a lovely young woman.”

  “Of course not,” he said brightly. “As long as her husband doesn’t object.” He gave a nervous laugh that was only partially exaggerated, and the others chuckled as well—including Liam Stoker, the bloody twit.

  But Max still couldn’t breathe, and Savina was right there, moving toward him, her hand touching his arm as she leaned in—and he was the gentleman, he couldn’t just stand there, he had to react somehow, for it simply wasn’t done for a woman to kiss a man in public while he froze like a statue.

  The world slowed, becoming a murky pond that closed in around him, and Max stood there like stone, not daring to breathe or feel or think. She was there, touching him, bringing with her the warmth and scent and presence he’d known so well. His mouth was dry, and he didn’t know whether he could taste her lips, allow them to touch his, without dragging her up against him and taking a hell of a lot more than a quick buss—

  And suddenly it was over. Savina pressed a sweet, loud, but impersonal kiss on his cheek, and then she was gone, and Max was breathing again and everyone was talking and laughing and no one seemed to notice he’d been paralyzed for what seemed like an eternity.

  His cheek burned, his arm felt tingly where she’d touched him, and Max turned and snatched up a glass of champagne from the tray at the door. Even as he downed its contents in a large swallow, he turned to rejoin the remainder of the group and tried to appear interested in the conversation about the rest of Lady Glennington’s plans for the evening. They droned on and on… and all Max wanted to do was make an exit.

  And by God, if he didn’t find a bloody damned vampire or two—preferably a whole tribe of them—and do something to relieve the rage and tension and frustration that simmered inside him, he didn’t know what he was going to do.

  What the hell sort of Venator was he that the mere kiss from a woman was enough to loosen all thoughts from his mind, to cause him to be unable to think or move? What the hell was wrong with him?

  Max tried to tell himself his paralysis had been due to the fear that Savina would recognize him at such close quarters, and by touch, but that mental lecture fell flat. He knew better.

  It was time to get away from all of this.

  He eyed Lady Glennington speculatively. He still needed to play the game with her in the event that he needed access to her chamber—and possibly elsewhere. But he was not going to waste any more time playing Christmas kissing games or any other parlor activities.

  Likely feeling his eyes on her, his hostess looked up at that moment, and Max took the opportunity to wander over.

  “I’m afraid I must excuse myself for the evening,” he murmured, leaning in much closer than he preferred to a woman in whom he had no interest.

  “What do you mean?” She was not pleased and appeared ready to argue.

  Max cut her short. “Not for the night,” he said, holding her gaze meaningfully. “Just for the evening. I think it best if I… well, it would be more discreet if everyone believed I had retired for the evening.” He managed to add more heat and suggestion to his smile, and even went so far as to trail one of his fingers over the back of her gloved hand. “I am always extremely discreet in my… nocturnal affairs.”

  “Very well then, Dr. Melke,” she replied in a normal tone of voice. But the message in her eyes told Max she read him loud and clear. “I do hope you feel better in the morning. We will see you at breakfast.”

  As soon as he escaped the conservatory, its eager hostess, and its bloody damned mistletoe, Max took refuge in his chamber. Though the last thing he wanted to do was be quiet, he climbed in bed in case one of the servants was sent to check on him.

  Though his mind was racing and his muscles were tense with frustration and pent-up adrenaline, Max forced himself to be still, relax, and even to close his eyes.

  If he happened to sleep for a while, that wouldn’t be a bad thing. The servants were still about, cleaning up and closing things down for the evening, and so were his fellow dinner companions. Perhaps in an hour or two, he’d be able to slip through the house unnoticed and track down whatever undead were in the vicinity… or, barring that, find his way to Lady Glennington’s bedchamber. That option held little appeal for him but remaining in his chamber held even less.

  If he rested now, that would allow him to leave his room when Mr. and Mrs. Stoker returned to theirs… which he’d discovered was exactly across the hall from his. He didn’t want to hear them coming to bed, and he certainly didn’t want to hear anything that might go on inside their chamber.

  Max must have relaxed enough to sleep, for all at once, he became aware of his surroundings… and that someone had just opened his door.

  It was dark, and he could see only a hint of shadow… the barest shape of a person as he—no, she—moved toward his bed.

  In the split second before she spoke, he saw the glint of metal in the moonlight.

  Savina was there… and she was pointing a gun at him.

  FIVE

  ~ Crossroads ~

  “WHAT IN THE HELL are you doing here?” Savina hissed. She had a two-handed, solid grip on the pistol, and her stance didn’t waver as she pointed the barrel at the man she was pretty much ready to murder.

  Of course, the weapon wasn’t actually loaded, but he didn’t have to know that.

  No, Max Denton—the slimy, cowardly idiot—could have a few moments of terror and self-examination while she decided the best way to flay the skin from his body.

  She pushed the light switch and a soft glow came from a lamp on the fireplace mantel. Savina wanted to see the expression on his face… and she wanted him to see hers as well.

  His was blank, which was no surprise. The damned man gave nothing away, ever.

  Hardly ever. There had been a time when she thought he loved her… when he’d begun to soften and open himself up to caring about her. But that hadn’t lasted long. And after all, here was the man who’d refused contact with his daughter for more than thirteen years.

  Too damned bad she’d loved him more than he ever loved her. Too damned bad it had come to this—where all she wanted to do was tear him into pieces and scatter them in the Thames—or whatever body of water was nearby. Or hang him by his feet and peel the flesh from his body.

  “I beg your pardon,” replied Max. His voice and expression—what she could see from behind his disguise—gave nothing away. “What are you doing in my chamber?”

  Savina moved closer to the bed and appreciated the way his gaze grew more wary as he tracked the pistol pointed at him. She wanted him to sweat. Oh, she did.

  “Did you really think you could fool me?” she said from between gritted teeth. “That I wouldn’t recognize you the moment I set eyes on you?” Actually, she’d wondered if Dr. Melke was Max before she even met him. That’s what happened when you knew someone well enough to truly love them—you knew how they thought. Her throat burned, and she focused on her hatred and fury instead of her loss.

  Max’s eyes flickered. “I don’t think your husband would appreciate you sneaking into another man’s bedchamber, Mrs. Stoker. Perhaps you should leave.” He shifted warily, pulling himself upright against the
pillows behind him.

  Savina’s fury grew when she saw his broad shoulders and bare chest revealed by sagging sheets and a stab of lust and longing shot through her. His muscled arms were so sleek and powerful, and his hands—

  “Damn you,” she hissed. “Damn you to hell, Max Denton. I thought you were dead.” To her horror, her hands began to tremble and furious tears stung her eyes. “I ought to put a bullet into you right now, but I don’t think even that would make up for—for everything.”

  “I repeat,” he said in a stilted voice that might have shaken a trifle, “perhaps you should leave.” Behind the graying mustache and triangular beard, the odd shape to his face, and the white streaks in his hair, there was still Max. But his eyes were dark and cold, and tension vibrated from his body. “You are a married woman, after all.”

  “So is Lady Glennington,” she snapped. “I didn’t see you turning down her advances. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, you were eagerly inviting her here.”

  He shrugged, those beautiful shoulders shifting and moving deliciously. Damn him. “Then perhaps you ought to make your exit before she arrives. Surely your husband is wondering where you are.”

  The bite from his words resonated through her, and she lost the last bit of her control. “It’s been two years, Max. Two damned years and I haven’t heard a thing from you. You left me. You ran away. I thought you were dead.”

  “I had work to do,” he snapped, his voice still low. “I had to do it alone. Wayren knew—”

  “No word for two years, Max. I don’t call that work. I call that simple bloody cowardice. You couldn’t even let me know you were alive?” Then a shaft of horror plunged through her and she caught her breath. What if she’d been wrong? What if he hadn’t left her because he loved her… but because he didn’t love her? Because he didn’t want to be with her, and—

  “Savina,” he said, and damned if she didn’t feel a quiver at the sound of her name in his pained, rumbly voice.

  “Just be quiet,” she said. Now her throat really burned and her insides were churning violently.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Probably the same thing you are—oh wait, maybe not. I have no interest in an affair with a married woman.”

  “Yet here you are, a married woman yourself, in my bedchamber.”

  “With a gun pointed at you, don’t forget. Even you couldn’t imagine I have any amorous thoughts when I’ve got a gun pointed at you.”

  “It’s not even loaded,” he replied.

  “Is that what you think?” Now Savina was even more furious. Damn the man. How could he know that? “Try me, Max. Just try—”

  “All right, all right,” he said, holding up a hand. “Maybe it is. But you still haven’t answered my question—what are you doing here?”

  “Here at Knotwood? Probably the same—”

  “Here in my bloody bedroom.” He was clearly having difficulty keeping his voice low.

  Savina let the gun fall to her side. He really didn’t get it, did he? The man goes missing for two years and she finally learns he’s alive, and he doesn’t understand why I’m upset? She gritted her teeth and forced herself to be calm. “Since I suspect you’re at Knotwood Abbey for the same reason I am—”

  “And your husband as well,” he added snarkily.

  “Yes, and my husband as well,” she replied, deciding right then and there that maybe she would marry Liam Stoker—if she didn’t get put away for murdering her former lover. “Since we’re here for the same reason, I thought it best if we rendezvoused to compare notes.”

  “All right. Here are my notes: leave. Leave my chamber, leave this house, leave this to me. Done.” In one great, smooth movement, Max flung the bedcovers away and erupted from the bed.

  She saw a flash of bare thigh, broad foot, and sleek, ridged belly before he stalked across the room and grabbed a shirt, his back to her. Thank God he was wearing trunks. Whatever he’d been wearing for padding around his waist was clearly gone, for all she could see was smooth, tanned skin, hair, and muscle. Her mouth was so dry she could hardly swallow.

  “I’m not leaving,” she said.

  “Of course you aren’t,” he said wearily, turning as he buttoned up the rest of his shirt. “You might as well tell me what you have planned—and how you and Stoker got here in the first place.”

  There was a definite sneer when he said “Stoker,” and Savina felt a stab of satisfaction. Maybe he did care a little. Or maybe it was just that Liam was younger and less experienced than Max—who’d spent his whole adult life doing the right thing.

  “I saw a photograph of Lady Glennington—your latest mistress, I presume?” she added just to be irritating. She was rewarded when his glower darkened. “It was in the Society pages, and she was wearing a brooch that I recognized as Rasputin’s amulet. I even had the photo blown up to make certain.”

  “How do you even know about the amulet—oh.” Did his cheeks grow a bit ruddy?

  “Yes, you told me about it. I suppose that’s what happens when one sleeps with the Summas Gardella,” she said archly. “They call it pillow talk for a reason.”

  “And so you decided to come here and steal the amulet.”

  “You make it sound so simple. And you know it wasn’t that easy—but aren’t you at Knotwood Abbey for the same reason? Surely you aren’t here simply for the pleasure of Lady Glennington’s company.” She didn’t think that was the case, but after all, who knew. It had been two years.

  Max snarled something under his breath but didn’t deign to respond directly to her verbal poke. Instead, he looked up at her, suddenly pinning her with his eyes. “You knew it was me. How? Was it the—mistletoe?”

  Ha. He wasn’t even willing to say the word “kiss.”

  And that kiss… it had been one of the most difficult things Savina’d ever done, because she’d been torn between killing the man and grabbing him and kissing his brains out… sliding up against his body, devouring him—

  Good grief. Get a grip on yourself, Savina.

  “I told you, Max. I knew it was you immediately—before I even saw you, I suspected. A Dutch physician from Amsterdam? Just like van Helsing. You may not have read Pride & Prejudice, but I know you’ve read Dracula, since it was written to confuse anyone who’d read The Venators. It was a nice little jest—I just hope no one else figured out that you really are a vampire hunter. Plus the name—Melke.” She spread her hands and tried very hard to keep from tearing up again. “Your favorite groom’s name from when you were growing up. The one who taught you how to jump.”

  “Savina.” His voice sounded different. Lower, strained, rough. “I think you should leave now.” He wasn’t looking at her; he was busy pulling on a vest over his shirt.

  “Fine. I will. But I just want to know one thing. Why? Why did you just… disappear, with no word, no contact, nothing? If it was over between us, why didn’t you just tell me? I’m a grown woman. I’ve had break-ups before—I could handle it. After all, I… “ Her voice cracked and her throat burned, but she forced out the words, “I handled it when I learned the truth about my father.”

  He was taking a long time to button his vest. At last he looked up, and when their eyes met, the contact was so intense she lost her breath. This. This is what I’m missing.

  Max.

  Her heart broke then. After two years of trying to keep it intact, her heart shattered.

  “I handled it poorly,” Max said, his words hard and low. “It was only for a while, and then I meant to send word… but then I didn’t, and time went on, and it was… easier. I acted inexcusably.”

  Easier. What the hell did that mean?

  Easier to forget her? To put her out of his mind?

  Or easier not to have to worry about her as he had done for his wife Felicia—who was destroyed by the vampires—and his daughter Macey, whom he’d ignored for more than a decade.

  Easier how?

  Before Savina could speak, Max froze and hel
d up his hand, pivoting toward the door. Someone was there.

  All at once, the door opened and Liam slipped inside. He paused and looked between them. “Och, now—am I interrupting something?”

  SIX

  ~ Exposure ~

  “NO,” MAX SNARLED even as he fought the urge to dodge as far from Savina as possible—like a man caught in the act of something unsavory. “Your wife was just leaving. And so am I.”

  Stoker looked between the two of them as if he didn’t know what to believe, and Max felt a pang of guilt curdle his belly. Nothing had happened, of course, but that was because he’d been afraid to breathe or move for fear he’d betray himself… and then something damn well would have happened.

  His insides felt raw and twisted, and his head pounded. God, he’d missed her. He hadn’t realized how far down he’d packed those feelings until today.

  “Don’t we need a plan?” Stoker was saying—which indicated he, too, knew Max’s real identity. And Stoker made no sign of leaving.

  Bloody damned hell. Who had made his bedchamber Union Station?

  “I have a plan. And it doesn’t include her,” Max said calmly. “Now that you’ve realized I’m here, why don’t you two just slip off into the night and let me handle things. No offense,” he forced himself to say sincerely, “but I’m better equipped to handle this since I can at least sense a vampire when they’re in the vicinity.”

  Stoker, the damned bloke, didn’t seem to take offense—though none was meant anyway. “Brilliant, because I’ve been tinkering with this wee device,” he said as he pulled a box the size of a cigarette case from his inside coat pocket. Wires trailed from it, leading up through the sleeve of his coat. “It’s designed to be able to sense the presence of an undead—”

  Even though he didn’t need that sort of assistance, Max was interested in spite of himself. “How is it supposed to do that?”

  “It measures the temperature emanating from a person. Vampires have a lower body temperature than mortals, ye ken, and all we have to do is measure it.” Max opened his mouth to speak, but Stoker was already answering his question. “One way is to kiss an undead, for one lip is always cold and the other is always hot—but that’s not always practical.” He chuckled, somehow finding that much more amusing than Max, who had, in fact, kissed vampires during his line of work. “Thus I created these gloves. The fabric is verra thin on the palms and fingertips—right where it would come into contact with the skin of someone whose hand I’m shaking. There are wee sensors built into the inside of the glove, and they’re attached to these wires that run up my sleeve and to the box.”