Wild: A Savage Alpha Shifters Romance

by DD Prince

  I see a man at the end of the aisle, but he’s about five foot seven and maybe a hundred and twenty pounds. He breezes past us. I mouth ‘help’ anyway. Maybe he’ll go tell someone. Maybe he’ll call the police.

  I don’t think he caught it.

  Tyson leans forward and glares at me, so I return the dirty look and reach out and grab a random bag of cookies from my right and toss them into the cart.

  Oh. Milanos. The good ones. I grab another bag and drop them. And then another bag. Oreos. He makes a face at me and grabs my left hand and lifts it. I wince. Audibly. He’s looking at the purple bracelet bruise he gave me.

  Yep. My wrist is already turning purple from where he grabbed it in the truck. His eyes are filled with horror as his thumb grazes my wrist. His eyes move to meet mine and a swallow works down his throat. His face has fallen and gone is all the anger. All I see is remorse. His mouth touches my wrist and he closes his eyes. His other hand grabs the back of my head and I squeak as he pulls me to his body.

  He’s sorry. He didn’t mean to hurt me.

  I’m about to cry. His mouth touches my forehead and I’m trembling, overcome with all sorts of feelings. Weird feelings. God. What the heck?

  I’m angry, suddenly, and pulling away from him. I look up with accusation in my eyes.

  His eyes are soft and just so… filled with remorse.

  I turn away and oddly begin filling the shopping cart with food.

  Four boxes of cereal. Coffee. Pancake mix. Peanut butter and grape jelly. Marmalade. A bunch of spices. Sugar, flour, and other baking things. Three bags of chocolate chips. Some barbeque sauce and a huge jar of mayo. I move forward and then double back and get strawberry jam and honey too. We’re then at the back wall that’s full of meat and he’s stuffing all sorts of meat in the cart. Giant steaks. Roasts. Pork chops. Chicken.

  So. Much. Meat.

  Yeah. Duh. Carnivore. I continue this throughout the store, angry-shopping and doing it mostly to not have to interact with or look at him.

  By the time we get to the last aisle, the cart is full. But I’ve got a bag of frozen peas across my wrist and it’s helping with the pain.

  I grab an abandoned empty cart that’s off to the side and walk fast, feeling him hot on my heels as I pick four types of ice cream and motor back through the first two lanes again to grab stuff we didn’t get. Like fruits and vegetables mostly.

  I’m like a shopping maniac or something, because there’s enough food to feed a large family for weeks. And I’ve picked lots of fruit because he said he liked fruit. What the fuck is wrong with my brain?

  He’s saying nothing. Nothing at all. He’s eyeing me warily and his gaze keeps landing on the half-thawed pea bag that’s draped over my wrist.

  Does he even have the money for all this stuff? He’s a werewolf living in a dusty house that looks like no one has set foot in it for years.

  We get to the checkout and I begin unloading the food onto the conveyer belt, mostly with my right hand because my left wrist is pretty dang sore.

  “I’ll do it,” he says and starts lifting the rest of the stuff out of the second cart. I’m still holding the peas over my wrist. The cashier glances at them so I flip them over to ensure she can get the bar code. She picks up on the signal and lifts her handheld scanner and scans my wrist.

  I feel his eyes on me, so I do my best to simply stare at the cashier’s screen, watching the rising total.

  I picked everything I’d usually pick doing a full shopping, plus everything I’d pick if I were on my period as well as having a big honkin’ party. All he did was drop in some meat.

  I’m suddenly embarrassed by the two shopping carts of food.

  “My purse is in the truck,” I whisper. “I’ll get my credit card.”

  “No,” he says. “I have money.”

  He loads the rest of the stuff onto the belt. The cashier is eyeing him with absolute lust in her eyes.

  Yeah. I know. He’s massive and gorgeous.

  “You scanned that twice,” I say, and her eyes bounce to the screen and she does a void, saying nothing.

  And it dawns that I was about to go get my card and come back to pay for the groceries he forced me to choose. Not run away.

  I’ve lost it.

  I really have.

  “Hi,” I say to the cashier.

  Her eyes bounce to me and then back to him.

  “Hi,” she squeaks.

  I should blurt, “I need help. He’s kidnapped me.”

  I should. But all I’m thinking is, yeah, I know he’s ridiculously hot and he likes me. Like… a lot. Me. So get your eyes off him.

  Yep, I’ve gone crazy.

  A man comes into my vision to start bagging. He reaches for one of our carts, pulling it closer so he can put the bagged-up items in it, and Tyson grabs my non-injured hand and roughly pulls me to him, eyeing the guy. The guy is about five foot six and twenty years older than me. He couldn’t help me if Tyson got physical; he’d get hurt.

  My back is plastered against Tyson’s front and then he caresses the bite marks on my neck while he makes a low growling sound behind me. I twist to look at him, feeling like it’s highly inappropriate for him to touch me there. It doesn’t feel like he’s near my collarbone. It feels illicit. Like he’s being dirty in public.

  “Tyson,” I whisper, looking over my shoulder.

  He’s eying the man bagging the groceries. He stops growling and stares at me. And it dawns that if I ask for help, someone could get hurt. Right? Is that why I’m not saying anything?

  The clerk now looks like he’s trying to avoid Tyson’s eyes. I mean, I guess most men wouldn’t want to get into something with a guy that’s about six foot four and built like a professional athlete. Not to mention the growling part. Why is Tyson looking at him like he’s worried he’s about to steal me from him?

  Because he knows I’m thinking about crying out that this guy has kidnapped me?

  I should say something. I really should.

  Tyson stares at the pile of food still being bagged and then the cashier who is still scanning and has decreased her pace, trying to give the bagger time to catch up. He lets out a huff of impatience.

  I’m about to start helping bag the groceries when a late teens or early twenties girl comes over and shoots us a smile as she starts helping.

  And now she’s eyeing Tyson lustfully.

  I stare at the screen and the rising dollar value.

  Finally, it’s at the end.

  “Three hundred and seventy-seven dollars and sixty-three cents,” our cashier says.

  Tyson pulls a wad of cash from his jeans and drops bills on the conveyor belt. He drops too many of them and looks confused for a second, but then shoves the stack of bills at her. She gives him some change and he pockets it.

  I’m biting my lip, pondering my next move. His eyes hit mine and he’s looking at me with an intensity that makes me tremble.

  The spell is broken when the cashier holds out the long receipt. Tyson doesn’t take it, so I do. I stuff it into one of the bags.

  “Thank you,” I say to her, but she’s busy staring at Tyson and doesn’t notice. “And thank you,” I add, to the clerks who are bagging up our last bag. The man acknowledges me with a nod as he sets the final bag into cart number two and he’s studiously avoiding making eye contact. The girl has flipped her hair and sashayed away, obviously looking to get Tyson’s attention. She looks back at him and deflates that he’s not looking at her.

  I grab one cart. Tyson grabs the other and shoots the man a dirty look as he passes. I follow him back to his truck and heft some bags into the bed of the pickup truck.

  “Into the truck, Ivy,” he orders and opens the door.

  “I’ll –” I gesture to the cart.

  “Now,” he snaps.

  I climb in.

  He slams the door.

  And then I think, wait... what? Am I going along with this? Why did I listen to him? Why didn’t I ask for hel
p in there? Why didn’t I scream my head off?

  I get back out. He’s got half the bags in and he stops and looks at me and he points at the spot I just vacated.

  “Pff,” is the sound I make.

  I grab my handbag and sling it over my shoulder while I walk away from him, still holding the bag of peas.

  Screw this. Why did I even let him get me into his truck? I should’ve kept going. I should’ve – oof! He’s lifted me over his shoulder and he’s carrying me back to his truck. People are driving by and ignoring us. How come? How can they ignore this? A man pushes a cart while talking on his phone and glances at us but with what looks like irritation and keeps going.

  “I’m crazy. But you’re crazier if you think I’m cuckoo enough to keep going along with this. I’m out of here.”

  “Out of here? We’re out of here. We’re going home.”

  “I’m leaving.”

  “Not alone, you’re not,” he retorts.

  “I’ll scream my head off,” I warn. “You made me lose my peas!”

  “Do it,” he dares. “It makes no difference.”

  “You go to your home and I’ll go to mine,” I snap.

  “My home is wherever you are,” he announces and deposits me into the truck seat before leaning close to me. “Move again,” he warns, “and I’ll make you submit to me right here in this parking lot. You want that?”

  I don’t know what ‘that’ means but I shake my head.

  His voice goes lower. “I’m sorry I hurt your wrist, Ivy. I am more sorry than I can say. I didn’t realize… but if you think you’re running away from me, I’ll do what I must do to make you submit. Understand?”

  “What does that mean?” I ask, voice barely a whisper.

  “Misbehave again and you’ll find out,” he warns me.

  He quickly lifts the rest of the bags in one scooping motion and dumps them all into the back of the truck, uncaring. Something shatters back there.

  My eyes track his movements until he’s back in the driver’s seat and pulling out. He hands me the half-thawed bag of peas that he must’ve fetched from the pavement.

  “You didn’t even put the carts back,” I mutter.

  One rolls into the side of an old minivan. I doubt it damaged it, but still…

  He grinds his teeth and I actually hear them squeak.

  He then grabs my face and glares in my eyes.

  I’m suddenly terrified.

  I reach for the handle, not caring that the vehicle is moving, and his hand hooks around the back of my neck and holds on a second as he accelerates.

  “Behave or I’ll stop the truck and make you submit,” he tells me, eyes moving to the road.

  “You’re scaring me, Tyson.”

  “If that makes you behave, good. You’ve been very naughty, my little mate.”

  I blink.

  “And when I get you home…” His eyes bounce to me briefly and he shakes his head.

  Oh my God. What? What does that mean? I’m trembling all over.

  He speeds up.

  I swallow hard and hold the peas over my wrist.

  ***

  Abruptly, he stops the truck. I look around. We’ve been riding in silence up until now. We can’t be far from his place judging by all the trees and little else around.

  “Stay here, Ivy,” he demands.

  “Huh?”

  “If you make me hunt you down in these woods, I’ll fuck you in the dirt.” His eyes then rove over me and he looks, for a second, like that’s precisely what he’d like to do. Fuck me. In the dirt.

  Why is that spot on my neck tingling?

  He leaves the vehicle, taking the keys with him (shooting me a dirty look as he pockets them as if he just thwarted my plan) and then he rounds the front and heads down the hill. Oh. That hill.

  I roll the window down and stretch my neck to look out. I see my car down there. My poor little car! It looks small and damaged and… sad.

  I’ve only had this car six months. I love my little car.

  A minute later, he’s back with my packet of birth control pills, my very old Blockbuster membership (why did I even have that in my wallet still?), three random business cards that’d been stuffed in my wallet, my coffee club card (with all the stamps needed to get my freebie except two), and a lip gloss. He passes them through the window to me before he rounds the truck hood and climbs back in.

  16

  Tyson

  I don’t like that she’s frightened of me. At all. The scent of her fear sickens me, especially knowing she’s afraid of me, but I’m having trouble keeping myself calm. She’s trying to leave me! I can’t allow it. I won’t.

  And that I hurt her? I’m disgusted with myself for it. The mark on her wrist makes me want to rip my own innards out.

  She should be settling; she should know she’s mine. I’ve mounted her and knotted inside her. I’ve given her my mark. Why is she trying to leave me?

  And she came in contact with him. A wolf shifter who could be a real threat. And those he was with. I ran after her, unable to keep up with the speed of the truck, but knew she’d come back around because that road led to nothing and then when I caught the scent of Riley Savage with others that I knew were shifters, one scent that I recognized with a sickness inside me that I haven’t been able to shake, dots have been connecting in my brain ever since. It doesn’t feel good.

  I found speed I’ve never had and got to her as soon as she was fleeing from them. And then this ridiculous game in the food store and the parking lot and I’m infuriated with my little Ivy.

  More than infuriated, I’m confused. Why isn’t she settling? Am I doing something wrong?

  She’s going to learn that she’s not to leave me, ever, and I’ve decided she’s going to begin learning that through submission.

  Now that we have supplies, I can give her my full attention. I want to bond with her. I want her sweet and cooing under me. If it takes some lessons and punishments to get there first, so be it.

  When I think of what could have happened if they’d captured her?

  I’m seeing blood in my mind, their blood. If they try to come near her again I should rip them all to ribbons. But there’s also this uncertainty about them that has me way off kilter.

  She pops a pill out of the packet I’d fetched for her into her mouth and swallows. I want to ask her what the pills are for. I don’t like that she has to take them. It makes something sick bubble and rise in the very back of my throat.

  I swallow it down, thinking it’s best to ask my questions later. Right now, I’m anxious to get her home.

  17

  Ivy

  Far too soon, we’re back on his property. I’ve paid attention to the route, too, so that even if I’m on foot, I’m semi-confident I know which way to go to get to my car. It’s not close and there were a few twists and turns on top of the fact that Tyson’s road isn’t marked, but I’ve done my best to commit some landmarks to memory.

  He’s stopped and is out of the truck quickly, slamming the door angrily. I hesitate before I take my seatbelt off, watching him round the front to come to my side.

  The look of sheer anger on his face is frightening. I engage the lock just as he gets his hand to the handle. His eyes go fiery.

  “Open it!” he demands.

  I’m terrified of the look on his face.

  “Ivy!” He shouts.

  I shake my head.

  He looks at me with astonishment.

  His keys are in the ignition, still. His bad. I bite my lip.

  “Do not even think about trying to leave me again,” he warns, but his eyes suddenly look afraid and that does something to me.

  I look away. If I don’t look at him, I don’t have to feel whatever this feeling is.

  He steps around to go to the driver’s side, and I scoot over and lock the door before he gets there.

  He sighs and closes his eyes.

  “Come out.”

  I shake my head.
>
  “Ivy.”

  I shake it some more and close my eyes as I turn the ignition.

  I feel the vehicle bounce a little. He’s jumped into the back of the pickup, with the groceries.

  Fuzz. If I leave, he’s coming with me.

  Damnit.

  The ice cream we got is gonna melt.

  What a stupid thought.

  What a stupid, stupid thought.

  I look back and he’s got his face in the back window. He lifts an eyebrow and my adrenalin spikes.

  “Come out. Now,” he commands in a deep and menacing voice.

  I’m frozen, locked in a fiery green gaze, and it’s as if my mouth is suddenly filled with cotton. I turn the truck off and unlock the door with a sigh. I’ll have to figure something out later.

  He’s already hopped over the side of the truck bed and is catching me as I’m exiting the truck by scooping me into his arms.

  “You don’t need to carry me,” I protest but my words are ignored as he marches to the house, evidently not wanting to take chances. He opens the door and storms directly to that bedroom I’d been in before, dropping me on the bed.

  “Wait here. Don’t move.”

  I spring to my feet and in an instant, he’s pushed me back down, flipped me to my belly, and is pinning me with a hand in the center of my back.

  “Tyson,” I protest.

  His teeth are then on the back of my neck, not biting hard, but I feel them. He’s growling at me. His torso is warm, bordering on hot, over my back.

  Holy fuck. He’s holding me down. With. His. Teeth.

  I squirm.

  He growls and his teeth tighten ever so slightly, so I stop squirming.

  After an eternity, he releases.

  “Stay. Here,” he bites off and then he’s gone.

  I hear the creak of the door followed by slams three times as he’s obviously bringing the food in. I hear the refrigerator open and the rustling of bags. At least the beast has the sense to put the perishable food away.

  I’m still on my belly on the unmade bed.