Cinder's Wolf: A Shifter Retelling of Cinderella (A BBW Shifter Fairy Tale Retelling Book 2) (5 page)

“
Y
es
, thank you. I’d love to meet over coffee.” Cynthia kept up her drooping smile as she placed one of her minimalist white business cards in the oily palm of yet another investor.

He stared at Boxes & Broom’s logo quizzically for a moment before putting the card in his pocket. “I’ll have to check with my assistant, but I think you’ve got an idea that could really go viral here.” Balding and in his late forties, the man said the word viral like it was a foreign language, but he looked enthusiastic enough.

Cynthia patted his hand and withdrew. “Fantastic. Just call this number whenever you’re ready to talk. I’d love to get started,” she said. She had given this exact same line to at least sixty different men tonight and she was tired of them all.

The man nodded and continued staring at Cynthia’s chest before downing the last dregs of his wine and shambling back to the buffet.

He wasn’t going to call. At least not about investing.

Isn’t anyone here a professional?

The whole thing was more like a fancy frat party than a networking event. The masks, the stench of sex in the air, and most of all, the fact that there were far more women here than men.

I have got to leave before midnight anyway
, Cynthia thought.
That’s when the doormen change shifts. And Harry is, unfortunately, actually conscious when he mans the desk.

Just as she turned to leave, a lick of heat and pain shot up her leg from her ankle straight to her core. Her knee buckled. She peered at her ankle, willing the sensation to end, but it didn’t. Stranger still, the room had fallen quiet, not silent, but hushed, like a show was about to begin.

Cynthia glanced up and realized something very weird.

The show was her.

A man strode toward her with the authority of a ringmaster, and people parted to let him pass. Couples split mid-twirl, laughter fading, and a few really drunk partygoers actually pointed. Some at her, others at the man. It wasn’t until he got close enough that Cynthia put together the hints hidden behind his mask to realize
why
.

A geometrically perfect square jaw, meticulously slicked-back sandy hair, blue eyes that pinned her in place, and a body that even hidden in a tuxedo was clearly well formed, it all added up to one man.

Rex West.

The host of the feral masquerade. The Prince of Wall Street. Or the wolf of it. It depended on which tabloid you asked. His mask, a minimalist face of a wolf in black velvet covering only his eyes and forehead, clearly held with the latter interpretation.

Damn.

With everyone staring at her, running wasn’t an option, and Rex knew it. He slowed to a stroll, never breaking eye contact.

Cynthia bit her tongue, hoping that would stop the red blush from stinging her cheeks. It didn’t matter if he could see it or not. She could feel it, and she knew it wasn’t just from embarrassment.

The crowd closed behind him, and he stopped a few feet in front of her. His shoes were polished enough that they should’ve squeaked on the floor, but he made not a sound. Neither did anyone else. Rex inclined his head, the twinkling of his blue eyes not hiding the command implicit in the gesture.

His silent order tugged at Cynthia in a way she had felt only once before. A man dressed too well to be out hiking, touching her just the way she had always wanted, but could never vocalize.

It’s not the same guy. That would be insane.

Her ankle burned.

Before it could get worse, Cynthia gave him a polite smile that she knew didn’t reach her eyes, nodded, and turned her back on the richest man in Manhattan.

The moment their eye contact broke, Cynthia felt a piece of her soul return to her body. However, her relief was edged by the throbbing of her foot. The ribbons winding up her ankle and the Band-Aid covered her mark, but only just. She hoped it wasn’t suddenly cancerous. She’d make a doctor’s appointment later.

Cynthia nicked a glass of champagne and downed all of it in a single gulp. To her relief the string quartet finally started up again, the minuet melting into a waltz. Christine would’ve known the composer.

Someone tapped her on shoulder.

Oh no.

A strangely familiar shiver arched up her spine as the scent of leather, sage, and something darker, something
richer,
seemed to seep into her very pores.

Velvet lips brushed her ear. “Dance with me.”

H
umans didn’t understand
true beauty. How could they? It was impossible for them to know how hard won feminine grace was when they didn’t have a wild beast clawing at their chest. So human men encouraged women to tan their limbs, stuff their bras, and staple their stomachs until they resembled plastic blow-up dolls designed to appeal to the lowest common denominator of male fantasy. But Rex was no man, so he appreciated every luscious inch of the woman in front of him.

His mate’s face was hidden beneath a wolf’s mask crusted in cubic zirconium, but he could still see the extra pounds softening her features into feminine elegance. A few stray strands of her blonde hair had managed to escape her maze-like updo and brushed against her bare, rounded shoulders. Below that, the promise of her breasts swelled up from the shimmering fabric of her gown.

Gods. Her body made his wolf stand up and take notice. Her mouth-wateringly thick curves had practically been poured into the tight, silvery gown. When she turned from him, her lips set in a charming pout, her dress flashed like a fishing lure.

He wanted to throw her down and rip off her dress with his teeth right on the dance floor. He settled for smiling, careful to conceal his canines. “So?”

“So what?” she said breathily, still not meeting his gaze and worse, trying to step further away from him. She didn’t recognize him. He wasn’t sure whether to be relieved at the fresh start or angry at being forgotten.

His wolf decided on neither. It wanted her too much to feel any emotion besides hunger.
Take her.
Rex inhaled, the breath so deep it stretched the merino wool of his tux jacket. His wolf’s impatience was foolish. She had only been able to run after their first meeting all those years ago because the bond hadn’t been consummated, but, now, fully a woman, there was no way she’d be able to resist him tonight.

“I asked if you’d like to dance with me.” Rex offered his hand, palm up.

She regarded it with skepticism. “Sorry, I’d love to, but I have to get going. You know how it is. Work.”

“This is work. You’re networking.” His voice dropped a half octave as his inner wolf prowled between his shoulder blades. “With me.”

Her ruby lips pursed. “I haven’t danced in a long time.”

“Anyone can waltz. I’m not worried. We’ll be great together.”

“I…” With her mask on, he couldn’t see her blush, but he did notice her breath catch in her throat. Of course she couldn’t fight her need for him. He was her mate, not to mention the most eligible bachelor in Manhattan for Astrums’s sake. It was for her own good that they needed to complete the bond sooner rather than later.

The string quartet descended into a shimmering scale at triple the previous tempo. “Unless you’re too afraid?” This time when he smiled, he couldn’t conceal his teeth.

His mate tilted her head, as if trying to place him. His inner wolf’s tail curled in anticipation, but Rex made sure to keep the parts of his face not covered from the mask just as hard to read as the ones that were.

Satisfied with her appraisal, she stepped forward, brusque, the sequins on her gown
shhing
behind her like a whisper. Her grip was firm, warm, and sent a jolt straight to his wolf. And his cock. His mate must have felt it too because she gave a small gasp as his hand ran over the sequin-ridged fabric of her back. Up and up.

He stopped just before he reached the hem, knowing if he touched bare skin it would be the end of them both. They had to start moving. Taking three tight steps, he guided her away from the table. She followed slowly, but sure. The toes of his polished shoes would be safe in her care.

After they found a rhythm, he decided it was time to try conversing again. “I’m Rex West.”

“I know who you are,” she said tersely, but then she bit her lip and continued in a flat tone. As if this really were just a networking event. “I’m Cynthia.”

“Cynthia,” he repeated without meaning to. He hadn’t admitted to himself how long he had been waiting for that name, but now that he did, the whole world sang. “Cynthia what?”

“You’ll have to get a second dance for that.” Hints of flirtatiousness slipped through her monotone.

The cellos dragged their bows through the minor melody, and Rex swirled Cynthia through a one-two-three step. Cynthia—gods, he could repeat her name again and again—reacted to his slightest movements, as responsive and impossible to grasp as water.

His wolf hummed low inside of him, urging him on. Rex dipped her. It must’ve taken her by surprise because she arched instinctively, revealing the bare column of her neck. Her eyelashes were pale blonde against her cheeks. He wanted to mark those cheeks, her neck. All of her.

He had never before been tempted to use the power of his werecall, the ability all werewolves had to compel others with their voices, but now he was. Just a simple whisper in her ear, and she’d let go of whatever it was that was holding her back. She’d fuck him right here, for the whole world to see.

No.

He was
not
that beast. He wasn’t sure he could be if he tried. He’d never used his werecall before. He hadn’t needed too.

With a flourish, the violas moved onto the next measure, and he pulled her upright. “You’re a pretty good dancer, for being so reluctant.”

“I said that I hadn’t danced in a while, not that I couldn’t.” She focused straight ahead and held up her elbows in a high, formal posture to prove the point.

“And what about me?” He stroked the edge of one of the sequins in her dress, enjoying the shiver she gave at the contact even through the barrier of the fabric.

“Y-you did have to command me to dance with you, so I think that’s says a lot about your skills right there.”

“You could’ve said no?”

“To the Prince of Wall Street?”

“You do know that title isn’t real, don’t you?”

“Oh, I know.” She smiled, although there was a hint of bitterness to it, as if she was a fortune teller seeing some unpleasant future she knew he wouldn’t want to hear.

Again, the violins erupted into a run. Many of the dancers beside them stumbled or stopped altogether, laughing at the difficulty, but Rex didn’t. Sure-footed, he spun Cynthia outward.

Only their fingertips were touching now, but in just those centimeters of skin, Rex felt heat pulse between them. Then she was gone. Not completely, but gently turning just beyond his reach. Even his wolf fell silent at the sight of her, the sequins of her dress sparkling, blonde hair framing her face like platinum cloud. Her smirk softened to a genuine smile when she thought he couldn’t see.

Fuck, he wanted her.

By the time the next measure came around, she was back in his arms. His hand slid lower to her waist. She was so soft underneath his touch, but underneath her cold, glittering wolf’s mask, her blue eyes were narrow. She moved his hand back up with her own.

“I’m not a bad dancer, Princess.” He gritted his teeth to keep his wolf from growling.

“No, you’re not.” Her lips were parted, her chest heaved in the strapless gown.

“But I didn’t come here to dance.”

“What do you want then?” He was more than tempted to taste those lips. In fact, Rex was tempted to push his tongue in between her thighs until she screamed his name.

“I want,” she breathed, leaning into him, a flush creeping up her pale neck before disappearing beneath her mask. She was close enough to kiss.

The waltz was nearing its end. The strings swirled upward into one last dizzying series of scales barely tethered to the time signature. The few couples brave enough to keep dancing swayed while Rex and Cynthia remained still.
She looked down, smiled ruefully, and pulled back. “You said anyone can waltz.”

“Yes.” As the rest of the dancers began to disperse and the quartet tuned their instruments, he kept her close.

“I don’t want to be just anyone. I came here to become somebody. To make my company something.” Her hands knotted, the motion of her shoulder jostling the strap of her white purse. “If that doesn’t work, which it looks like it didn’t, what I need to be doing is working. At home. Figuring out how to get investors some other way.”

Gently, he untangled her fingers from each other. His skin pricked on contact, and his matemark on his ankle sent a low pulse of need straight toward his cock. “As far as I can tell, you’re already somebody right now, Cynthia.”

He couldn’t resist tucking a strand of her escaped blonde hair behind her ear and lingering to caress the side of her face. “But if you’re looking for funding, you do know I own one of the biggest venture capital firms in the city. I’d be delighted to hear your pitch.”

The second time she tried she succeeded in jerking out of his hold. She shook her head, untucking the piece of hair from her ear and folding it up back neatly into her updo. “That’s not why I agreed to dance with you.”

“I didn’t say it was,” Rex said coolly. His inner wolf was growling at him to use his werecall and to yank her back into his arms where she belonged. The dumb beast. As if he were so weak to have to force her.

“I appreciate your time, I really do. It’s just, as I said, I’ve got to get going.” She bowed her head, and then began to turn. As she did, he caught her in profile. For all her softness, there was a stubbornness to the set of her shoulders and the way she moved. A hunger.

It reminded him of himself. All that control. And just underneath…

“Wait.” The word came out louder than he meant it, and a few couples turned to look at them both. They were surprised to see the great Prince of Wall Street begging. Let them watch. Shame wasn’t a word in his vocabulary.

She stopped.

“Walk with me?” He held out his hand again. This time, his fingers were supple, his wrist not as tense and formal. “Let me take you to the street. I’ll get one of my drivers to take you home.”

She adjusted the shoulder strap of her purse, fidgeting with it, then nodded once to herself. Turning the rest of the way around, she looked him in the eye and said, “Okay.”

Rex didn’t give her another moment to reconsider, but laced her arm in his, whisking her off the dance floor. The crowd parted before them as they made their way to the exit. Cynthia twitched, her bare skin brushing against the fabric of his suit.

When they finally stepped into the plushly carpeted foyer, Rex avoided the path to the lobby that went through the more secluded alcoves. If he was alone with her, he wasn’t sure what his wolf would do. Soon carpet gave way to the marble floors of the lobby, and Rex was leaning across the front desk about to issue a soft order to the concierge to call his driver. He’d get her address from the driver after he took her home, of course. But his damned wolf wouldn’t let him get the words out, and instead, Rex found himself lobbing one last try over his shoulder. “You know, there’s a beautiful penthouse at the top of the Plaza. I could show you if you like, before you go.”

“Oh?” Even though she was freed from his arm, Cynthia couldn’t quite escape his orbit. She hovered next to him, back to the desk, as she kept watch over the lobby. “You have access to the penthouse?”

Rex chuckled darkly at her dig. He leaned over and whispered in her ear. “I own the penthouse, Princess.”

She shivered, but didn’t pull away. Rex shut his eyes, relishing how potent her scent was this close. The delicate notes of citrus were almost completely consumed by the headier scent of her need for him. He gripped the lip of the front desk to keep from grabbing her by the waist and pushing her up against it. She’d probably moan his name. He knew that if she got just an inch closer to him, he’d be moaning hers.

The concierge looked up from the computer and gave a discreet nod to Rex. The driver was on his way.

“Damn,” Cynthia swore under her breath.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Slipping a hundred from his pocket to the concierge, Rex shifted his posture to follow Cynthia’s gaze. An older woman in a horrible, floral-patterned gown near the exit was having an animated conversation with a bell boy. Her voice was shrill, although her botoxed face minimized her expressions. Cynthia probably couldn’t make out what she was saying, but Rex could.

“Her name is Christine. Not Christina. She said she’d meet me here wearing a blue gown and a white wolf’s mask.”

“Ma’am, most guests of Mr. West are inside the ballroom right now. I’d recommend you check—”

“My daughter has severe social anxiety. Trust me when I say she’s not going into the ballroom without me. Now tell me—” The woman stopped, her hands freezing in a claw-like gesture. She began to turn toward Rex and Cynthia. “Hold on…”

Cynthia grabbed at his elbow, her fingers so tense they bunched the fabric of his jacket. “You know what? I’d love to see the penthouse.”