Wicked Tales Anthology

by Brandy Slaven

  So unusual in comparison to the trysts of before.

  She didn’t know why, and she couldn’t understand it when they looked to be the perfect marks.

  The clothes alone told her they were rich, as did the Rolexes and Patek Philippe watches the three of them wore. They were interested in her. And they were handsome.

  Could there be a better combination?

  And Miguela was correct. If she played them off against one another, she could find herself in a very pleasing situation.

  But a part of her didn’t want that. She wanted, and she didn’t understand why, to run.

  Swallowing thickly as she managed to drag her attention away from the male in the shirt and jeans—a look that should have been unattractive, but was offset by the thick and brawny forearms he’d revealed. He had stronger brows than the others, not necessarily thicker, just arched differently, by a smidgen of an angle. It made his face seem sterner than his brothers.

  The other had a more relaxed mouth, which gave him a gentler look, and the last one’s nose had been broken at some point, giving it an unusual bump along the patrician line—it was barely there, but she spotted it immediately. From twenty feet away.

  Even as she tore herself from the stern one’s gaze, she found herself trapped in the eyes of the relaxed one’s. And when Miguela grabbed her hand, jolting her to attention, she jerked in surprise, managing to be ensnared by the final triplet’s gaze before her friend physically turned her around.

  “Elena? What the hell is going on? Por Dios, it was like you were in a trance or something.”

  Maybe she had been. “I-I felt like I was.” She reached up, and uncaring of her lipstick, pinched her bottom lip.

  Miguela’s eyes flared wide before she slapped Elena’s wrist. “Your make-up! You’ll spoil it.”

  But for once in her life, she didn’t care.

  The make-up on her face felt like paint. Paint that she…

  God, the need to take it off, all of it off—the paint, the mask, the clothes, the persona—was an urge so strong, her skin felt itchy, like she wanted to scratch herself free of the image she presented to the men before her. Men who shouldn’t see a façade but the woman herself.

  Her lungs chased air as her heartbeat tripled.

  Wincing, she pressed the stinging wrist—Miguela knew how to slap well—between her breasts where she put pressure on her swiftly beating heart.

  “M-Miguela, I need to get out of here.”

  The thickly lined eyes widened at her retort. “You can’t be serious. You just hit pay dirt. Did you see that Patek Philippe?” She whistled under her breath. “Just one gift like that could set us up for the year.”

  The weird thing was, Elena knew her friend was right.

  Ostras!

  Swallowing even as she shook her head, she whispered, “I can’t do it. Something’s off.”

  Miguela scowled, puckering the perfect brow she’d spent an hour making up. “What do you mean?”

  “What do you think I mean?” She huffed and wished she could run a hand through her hair—her head was starting to ache from the taut bun she’d pulled it into.

  “I don’t know,” Miguela snarled. “I wouldn’t have asked if I knew.”

  Biting the inside of her cheek, Elena murmured, “The way they look at me…”

  “Yeah. It’s sexy as hell. They look like they want to eat you up.”

  Elena nodded, disturbed by the too-apt description. “That’s it. They do. I feel like little Red Riding Hood.” La Caperucita roja had probably felt less fear than Elena was experiencing at that moment.

  Sucking in a sharp breath, she shook her head again as she started to detach herself from Miguela’s firm grip. “No, I have to get out of here.”

  “You can’t!” Miguela’s eyes were stark. “We need the money,” she hissed. “You know that. The rent is due next week! And there’s no way you can turn up an offering like this one. Even if they just give you a pretty bracelet, it’s something. You know Joaquin, he’ll take it.”

  Elena’s stomach churned at the thought of their landlord, Joaquin. Not once, but several times, he’d offered to take payment for the rent with one of them in his bed, and though Elena and Miguela did what they did, it was on their terms.

  They weren’t prostitutes.

  They just played the dating game.

  Men used women all the time. Took them out, bought them a meal and a fancy present, then dumped them. Moved on after they got laid. Either returning to a wife or going onto the next hapless female.

  Miguela and Elena did that to the guys before it could be done to them.

  They didn’t sleep with anyone they didn’t want. In fact, only two in ten times did Elena actually have sex with one of the men she and Miguela called their ‘marks.’

  Why?

  Not because they paid her or enticed her between the sheets with gifts or promises of more. But because she wanted them, and her body’s urges might have been weak in contrast to a full-blooded Lyken, but even half-Lykens had to let their urges run true.

  If her unformed She-Wolf needed sex, wanted it with a particular male, then there was no way Elena could avoid that.

  But Joaquin was different.

  He made both her and Miguela’s unformed She-Wolves growl. There was no way the beasts would ever let the bastard near the females, not without tearing the horrible man’s throat out.

  They might be weaker than their full-blooded brethren, but in comparison to human males? They were the Terminator.

  Twice, she’d broken Joaquin’s fingers after he got too close to one of them. And the only reason he hadn’t thrown them out was because, and it was sick and twisted, he seemed to find their strength attractive. It seemed like he thought they were playing with him, teasing and enticing him, when they were doing anything but.

  Even as nauseating as the idea of them playing some weird hard-to-get game with Joaquin was, and even as she loathed the prospect of asking him for another week to pay their rent, she knew she couldn’t approach the triplets.

  Something about them…

  The nausea ceased swirling but it was replaced with butterflies.

  Nervousness made her skin prickle and the hairs at her nape stand to attention. She saw the fear in Miguela’s eyes at having to deal with Joaquin—fear because they knew what the spirit of their She-Wolves were capable of. The mayhem they could cause, and knew that he had more than broken fingers in his future if he tried anything else—but she couldn’t stop herself from needing to run. To get away before they caught her.

  But it was too late.

  Even as she pulled at Miguela’s grip, she felt them. And then she saw the satisfaction and relief in her best friend’s eyes.

  She didn’t even have it in her to be mad.

  Miguela was frightened—they both knew, that of the two of them, Elena was the one who’d tear Joaquin’s throat out if he did anything inappropriate.

  Her best friend was scared they’d be separated. Pulled apart by the Guardia Civil as they incarcerated Elena for a murder the two women didn’t have the funds to disappear from.

  Throat tight, she turned her head and saw the three of them standing there.

  Hostia, they were intimidating, and yet, it wasn’t an intimidation that affected her. Not really. The front they presented was terrifying, she’d be a fool not to see that. But it was more like she saw the aggression in them, and rather than fear it, she responded to it.

  Reacted to it like a flower unfurled its petals as it basked in the sunlight.

  She shivered the second her eyes connected with the one in chinos.

  “Hablas inglés?”

  She blinked, heard the American accent, then narrowed her eyes. “Yes. I speak English.” Thanks to her tía, her British aunt.

  That was the only thing her father had ever done for her.

  Brought her aunty into her life.

  They nodded, and she saw the relief on their faces which meant that
their Spanish consisted of, “Hablas inglés?”

  Despite the nerves fluttering through her system, she had to smile at that.

  “My name is Elena,” she informed him, and her accent was a little stilted, a lot formal. Mostly because the Queen’s English was the only kind she knew.

  Her tía was blue-blooded, after all. An aristocrat to her bones.

  The stern one murmured, “I’m Luca. That’s Adam.” He pointed to the one with the broken nose. Then jerked his thumb at the one with the gentle mouth, “He’s Damien.”

  She gnawed at her bottom lip, hating how she had to be wrecking her make-up in the face of such masculine beauty, but her nervousness had to manifest in some way.

  “Encantada,” she said with a tight smile.

  Then, they did the damnedest thing.

  They bowed.

  She cut Miguela a look, and saw from her wide-eyed absorption that she was as bemused as Elena.

  The fact that she was surrounded by three handsome men who were literally bent over at the waist, for a good ten seconds, before they stood tall again, drew the attention of a few onlookers before they began to dance once more—cheering as a spooky cackle sounded over the speakers followed by la dimension desconocida—Twilight Zone—theme music.

  She cleared her throat, and about to speak, was interrupted by Luca’s hand sweeping forward for hers. The minute her skin touched his, her knees gave out.

  She almost screeched in surprise as she was hauled against Luca’s chest. The scent of him overwhelmed her senses and she felt his essence swim through her body, taking her over in a way she’d never experienced before. Rubbing her forehead as the sensation of intoxication started to gnaw at her nerves, and with her knees still shaky, she tried to escape from Luca’s hold as she murmured, “Miguela, my friend, and I were just thinking of leaving.”

  Luca tilted his head to the side, and the change of the angle, enabled her to see his eyes.

  They were a teal blue, but as she looked, truly looked deeply into them, she saw the flash.

  The flicker.

  Her gut churned again as she whispered, “Lyken.”

  His eyes flashed again, that strange color that spoke of a strong male who battled an even stronger Wolf flaring to life in the sea-blue orbs. “Aye.”

  She blinked at the old-world phrasing. “How old are you?”

  “That’s a rather rude question, don’t you think?” It was Damien who spoke, Damien who teased. That gentle mouth of his quirking into a smiling pout that about stole her breath.

  Inwardly she froze, only to melt seconds later. “I-I need some air,” she whispered, feeling the panic flooding her system like a bad adrenaline crash.

  She tried to run off, started tugging at the hold Luca had on her but he soon stopped her. Holding her close once more, he murmured, “Together.”

  Terror crawled down her spine. “W-Why?”

  His smile was harder, more resolute and loaded with a satisfaction she didn’t know how to quench. “You know,” he said, and she felt confusion well.

  “No. I don’t,” she snapped.

  Por Dios, she hated men sometimes. Why would she say she didn’t know if she knew?

  Maybe some women played those games, but if he was a Lyken, then he’d be able to discern from her scent that she wasn’t speaking a word of a lie.

  Irritated, she made to pull away but one of them stepped behind her, invading her space completely. She felt the heat of him sear her back, and she shuddered. God, it was so beyond difficult not to rest her forehead against Luca’s strong chest, not to press her nose into his pec and scent him.

  She shivered as she fought the natural-as-breathing instinct, and then Luca’s hand came up to rest against the back of her neck. He pressed, gently but inexorably, and she ceased resisting. Any desire she had not to touch him, to be separate from him as he plied the tense muscles at her nape, disappeared as quickly as air soughed from her lungs.

  “Leave us.” It was Adam’s voice. He was brisker than the others, and she knew then that Damien was behind her, and that Adam had been the one who’d just dismissed Miguela.

  When she heard the clatter of her friend’s crappy heels against the floor, she knew Miguela had obeyed.

  For a second, she was stunned at being abandoned, then Damien hummed and pressed his chin to her shoulder. “Adam made her submit. She is still under his domination,” he informed her, the tone as suave as the way in which he settled his hands at her hips.

  She felt taut, pinched deep inside, but relieved that Miguela hadn’t just left her with three strangers out of cruelty. Or, worse, avarice. “Why would he do that?” she managed to choke out.

  “Because she is surplus to requirements,” Luca, the hard one, stated, and coolly, so coolly she wanted to scream, began to rub the back of her neck once more—digging deeper this time in an attempt to take the tension inside her away.

  Perhaps he wanted to soothe, but his will was so strong, it made her tense up more. She knew he wanted her to relax, but conversely, because he wanted it so much, she didn’t. Couldn’t.

  She tried to pull away, then Damien’s voice whispered into her ear again, “Hush, Elena. All will be well.”

  “I don’t understand,” she whispered back, hearing the fear in her tone and hating it. Hating so much about this moment, but loving it too.

  How could it feel so right to be pressed up against these strangers? How could it…? She tried to shake off the thoughts, but it was impossible. She wanted to rub herself against these men, wanted to dive into their kisses. She needed to explore them and have them explore her.

  And for a woman who’d been labeled the reina de hielo, or Ice Queen, by too many of her partners over the years, that was saying something.

  But the need to touch and be touched by them was enough to scare the bejeezus out of her. Her She-Wolf was there, always, but like a shadow. Now? With the need bubbling through her veins?

  No.

  The creature was no shadow.

  Elena felt like the damn thing could tear through her skin, even if that was impossible.

  “There’s nothing to understand.” It was Adam now, he pressed into her side, and the three of them shuffled until she realized she was in the center of their tight circle.

  There would be no playing one against the other here, she realized, wondering what the hell she’d fallen into.

  These three were touching her as if she belonged to each of them. But that was stupid, wasn’t it? Or was it more stupid that she felt sure she belonged to them as much as they belonged to her?

  “I’m scared,” she mumbled.

  Luca hummed under his breath and the gentle vibration brushed over her temple before he nuzzled her there. He scented of the woods, musk, and sandalwood. There was some male sweat there too. Nothing strong or disgusting, just from being in the close quarters of a nightclub that was sweltering, but the combination rattled her will.

  She hated it, hated that, but something in them called to something in her.

  It was the only justification, and in her opinion, it was no justification at all.

  She’d spent all her life avoiding entanglements. Having seen what a man had done to her mother—getting her pregnant, leaving her when he found out, and letting her raise the child—her— by herself.

  What kind of a man did that?

  And then, her stepfather. He’d come along with his horrible sons, and Elena’s madre had looked at him with shining, hope-filled eyes that were brighter than a new peseta. She’d let him beat her, had let him tread on her spirit out of gratitude for taking on a single mother with a child who never seemed to be able to behave.

  No, no man should make her spirit crumble, not when she knew what they could do.

  But these weren’t men, were they?

  She closed her eyes as she allowed Luca’s scent to comfort her. She needed it. Just for that moment.

  She needed the fortitude to pull free, to move away, because here l
ay danger and she had enough of that in her life.

  Then, just as she was building up the courage to move away, Adam asked, “Is your mother or father Lyken?”

  “Mother.”

  He knew she was half-Lyken?

  She knew nothing about Lyken culture, nothing save for what her mother had shared over the years, and that had always left her feeling more miserable than anything else.

  When she’d been thrown out of the Pack for bringing shame onto her family—the Alpha of the Pack was her father, Elena’s Grandfather—she’d had no desire to reminisce. For most of Elena’s youth she’d been too busy working, making ends meet.

  Then, she’d met Carlos, and they’d had to merge so fully into the human world, that any information Elena could pry from her mother had been done so when she was a little tipsy after one or two tinto de veranos on the hot summer nights of a local fiesta.

  They were few and far between.

  She’d learned more from Miguela. Miguela was like her. A half-Lyken. One human parent and one Lyken parent. An aberration. A miracle, really. A Lyken couldn’t usually beget a child from a coupling with a human, not unless they were mated…

  Mated.

  Wait a second.

  Is that what Adam had meant? Elena asked herself, her insides freezing as rapid-fire thoughts bombarded her brain as well as the cigarette smoke in the air bombarded her lungs.

  When he’d said there was nothing to understand, was that why?

  Like they sensed her thoughts, they hummed and shushed her under their breath. They soothed her, damnit. And por Dios, she hated how it worked.

  She wasn’t five years old. She wasn’t in desperate need of being calmed by a mother who wasn’t there. Who had left her by herself in their apartment because she couldn’t afford childcare and had no one to call on to watch over a tiny Elena while she was at work.

  She was a grown woman.

  She could take care of herself.

  “That’s why her She-Wolf is stronger,” one of them said, and she thought it was Damien.

  The DJ had taken that exact moment to pump up the volume, and she staggered as her overwrought senses seemed to vibrate with the sharp increase in pitch.

  Sensing her distress, Luca began to shuffle her out. Past the bar where the bartender eyed them warily, past the crowded dance floor where a circle had gathered around one of the dangling skeletons. As they approached the exit, the floor grew sticky, and it felt like the club itself was telling her to stay put.