Cinder's Wolf: A Shifter Retelling of Cinderella (A BBW Shifter Fairy Tale Retelling Book 2) (9 page)

Oh, God. What have I done?

Rex curled in behind her, his hard, unyieldingly chest more terrifying than a turn on at this point. His body was so different from hers.
He
was so different from her, and she had just let him do whatever he wanted.

“Princess?” He stroked her spine, managing to find her bones under her flesh.

“Mmm.” 

“I…” His finger stopped on the third vertebrae up from her neck. “Are you all right? What we did was intense.” 

Desperately, Cynthia’s hand reached out and squeezed the one not touching her back. “I’m fine.” 

His hand relaxed in hers. “Good.” He nuzzled into the small of her neck, smelling her more than kissing her. She sighed in response as his rich leathery scent sank into her skin. His body fit around hers perfectly. 

Too perfectly. The way he had fucked her was the best sex of her life, but it also didn’t feel real somehow. As if he had tried to make love to her the way he should, the way he
had
to
, instead of the way he wanted to. She may have let go, but he, she was absolutely certain, hadn’t.

 Eventually, after a little more cuddling, he fell asleep. She wasn’t sure how long she lay there next to him, only that she counted the tolls of a faraway grandfather clock twice and he didn’t rouse either time. With every deep, even breath he took, his grip on her became looser and looser, until finally, she felt calm enough to scoot toward the edge of the bed. She looked over her shoulder at him.

He was a beautiful sleeper. His geometrically square jaw was made more human by the softness of sleep, his forehead unwrinkled. She wanted to touch the sensual bow of his lips, but that would wake him up.

All he asked you to do was stay. 

For tonight. But how could she trust him when it seemed like he didn’t trust himself? He was so tightly wound. Eventually, that kind of tension had to release. Explode. Or worse, what if it didn’t? What if he unraveled slowly, consumed by the obsessive desire to work? Or what if he found another woman, someone could get him to let go?

No, better to leave now. If she did, she could keep the memory of this safe inside of her, unchanged. Perfect. Clean. Simple. So Cynthia smiled ruefully and brought two fingers to her lips, blowing him a silent kiss. Then, slipping back into her dress, she tiptoed out of his apartment, holding her heels tightly in her hand.

R
ex West couldn’t remember
the last time he had a good night’s sleep.

Like any werewolf who had found their mate, but not completed their bond, Rex had the luxury of replaying the same nightmare over and over again—the moment his mate ran away. It didn’t matter how many pills he took, his immune system was resistant to human medicine, and sleep was something no amount of money could buy.

But that morning, Rex woke up slowly. With his eyes still closed, he smiled. No, grinned like an fool. Last night, he’d had his first dreamless sleep in twelve years, and his whole body hummed with energy. Especially his cock.

The citrus scent of his mate and their mating filled his sheets and lingered on his skin. Rex opened his eyes and rolled over, ready to gather Cynthia close to him where she belonged.

But she wasn’t there.

Rex catapulted to the side of the bed, his heart pounding at speeds that would’ve killed a human. The is maroon duvet was pulled back to reveal cream-colored sheets and only an indent, an impression, of Cynthia’s curvy body. He ran his fingers over it.

There was no need to panic. Cynthia was probably showering or out on the terrace. The fact that her dress was gone from the floor was only a sign of her fastidious personality. She had no doubt packed it up somewhere and was wearing one of his shirts. Rex made the bed with a tug, tucking his sheets into the mattress with more force than was necessary. But he wouldn’t storm the house looking for her.

That would mean that he was worried. He wasn’t.

Not bothering to put on clothes, Rex strolled from the expansive comfort of his bedroom into his master bath. The room was free of steam, although Rex still opened up the glass double doors that led to his three-headed shower. She wasn’t there.

His smooth, dark stone counters were bare of even a toothbrush or water stain, and the place smelled of the lemony disinfectant his maid used. Not her.

Next, he checked the kitchen. Equally as empty. Cynthia hadn’t decided to make herself breakfast, but she had put away the dishes before she left; the bottle of wine sat corked on the counter next to his smart refrigerator.

He picked up the bottle, plucked out the cork, and sniffed. A hint of his mate’s scent mingled with the now slightly oxidized aroma of the pinot noir, but not enough to track her.

“Fuck,” he hissed.

His hand clenched around the neck of the bottle, and it was a testament to his control that it didn’t shatter. He set it down in his granite sink. The rejuvenation Rex had felt from finally getting rest was beginning to fade, and it wasn’t just panic and anger that was replacing it. Pain came too.

The throbbing started in his matemark on his ankle. Like all werebeasts, he had the patch of fur since birth, where his mate had grown hers only after their first meeting. The pain radiating up his hamstring was almost unnoticeable now, but it wouldn’t stay that way for long. It would get worse the more time they spent apart in the early days of the bond. The longer she was gone.

Gone
.

The single word shattered Rex’s denial, sending him tearing through the rest of the house. His library, his guest room, the dining room, even the secret room located behind a bookshelf, Rex sprinted through them all. His breath felt tight in his chest. Such a trip normally shouldn’t have winded him, but his wolf scratched at his skin.

Finally, Rex burst out onto the terrace. The sounds of car horns and other human chatter assaulted his wolf’s ears, and he braced himself against the balcony, completely naked and not caring, staring down at the streets. The air tasted of gasoline, hot dog vendors, and humans. So many humans. Below him, tiny dots swirled around each other like the worthless, meaningless ants they were.

None of them was her.

He raked his hands through his hair and whirled to pace back inside to his front door. His keen wolf’s eyesight caught the indentation of her heels on his oriental carpet.

How the hell had she escaped? Their mate bond should’ve made it painful for her to leave. More than that. She shouldn’t have wanted to. Not after last night. He knew he hadn’t.

He reached the handle, turned it, and was unsurprised to find it opened with ease. He hadn’t locked the door behind him because he had never counted on the need to keep someone in. Rex’s inner wolf howled, and before Rex could stop himself, he kicked his door with his full werebeast force. It popped off its hinges like it was the tab on a can of soda.

Still, his wolf wasn’t satisfied. There were too many city smells to track his mate through, so instead, it wanted to destroy everything. The entire damn island if need be. Rex groaned in pain as his spine shifted against his will. The change was coming. He had to do something. He’d end up ruining his entire apartment, or worse.

Doubled over in agony, half from trying to contain his wolf, and the other half from the loss of Cynthia, Rex stumbled back to his room and plucked his phone from the charger. He hit the second number on his speed dial. It was his assistant Rose’s cell phone. She picked up on the eighth ring.

“Hi, Mr. West. Hi,” she said, her voice raspy with sleep. It was ten, so she should’ve been at work, but she had a bad habit of coming in late on Sundays. Every day really. She also was known to fall asleep at her desk. Unfortunately, she was the only secretary he had ever hired who was actually able to find typos in his emails and knew the art of a good expresso.

“Rose, I need you to text me the phone number and address of everyone on last night’s guest list.”

“There are quite a few, sir.”

“Now,” Rex snapped, his wolf growling that he should fire her for being so slow.

“O-okay. Just give me a mom—”

Rex hung up before she could find another excuse for her obscene incompetence. Dropping his phone, he turned and slammed his fist into the wall. Compared to the burning of his matemark, it didn’t even hurt.

When Rex withdrew his fist, there was a claw where his pinky finger had been. He stared at it and the hole he had punched in horror. His pinky shrunk back into a finger.

What the hell was he turning into?

Maybe he should’ve told Samson the truth long ago. That he had lost his mate. That he couldn’t, no wouldn’t shift to find her. But just as Rex contemplated calling his brother, his phone pinged.

It was a number and a name, the very first one on the list in fact.

No, he could do this. Just a few moments longer.

Reagan, Christine & Lucille Miller, 1-517-392-1092

E
ven in a ball gown
, Cynthia felt surprisingly inconspicuous as she tapped her phone’s screen to bring up the spinning wheel logo for her favorite ride-sharing app. Seconds later a black, unmarked car slid up next to the empty valet stand of the Plaza hotel. Plenty of cars were around, and at six in the morning in Manhattan, she wasn’t the only person doing a walk of shame in black-tie attire. As she opened the door herself, she risked one last glance back at the hotel’s red-carpeted steps.

Rex wasn’t there.

“You didn’t put in an address,” a deep voice with an English accent drawled from the front seat.

Cynthia flinched at the sound.

The man in the driver’s seat was not the usual cabbie. For one, he was dressed in a tuxedo. For another, he looked vaguely familiar, with his swarthy skin and black, burning gaze. Cynthia would’ve said something, except she had long ago learned that ride-sharing was a whole new game. One time her driver had been a dancer at Julliard, still in her leotard.

Cynthia sighed and shut the door behind her. “81st and 2nd, please.”

“Not far, not far,” the driver murmured in baritone singsong, not bothering to enter the address as he pulled into traffic. His voice was undeniably sensual, although it made the hairs on the back of Cynthia’s neck stand up on end. Or maybe that was just her impending hangover.

Cynthia pressed her head into her hands, trying to soothe the throbbing at her temples. “Shit.”

“Difficult night, princess?”

“What?” Cynthia started at the nickname, eyes wide.

“I asked if you were all right.”

Cynthia slunk back down into the leather seat. “Yeah, fine.”

Sighing, she put her open palm against the window. The glass was cool on her fingertips, a welcome respite from the feverish pain running up her leg. She really did have to go the doctor to get that mark checked out.

“Seems like you came from a rather fancy party? Didn’t go as planned?”

“Nope, this was the plan.” Cynthia shrugged blankly and stared at the edges of Central Park as they sped up 5th Avenue. In the purple light of dawn, the trees seemed taller, more twisted, tiny green sprouts just beginning to pop from their mahogany bark. The touristy souvenir carts were just rolling up.

She was tempted to tell the driver to turn around so she could run back into Rex’s arms. He was such a heavy sleeper that he hadn’t noticed her leave. He probably wouldn’t notice if she came back either.

But no.

Rex was dangerous.

Cynthia knew she was only one step away from everything spiraling into out-of-control drama land against her will, like it had for every guy she had ever dated, from the camp counselor she lost her virginity to all the way to Daniel Hawthorne. And Rex wasn’t the kind of guy who would spiral with her.

Cynthia reached down and undid the ribbon-like strap on her shoe. Her fingers moved to the mark of fur there, and she sighed as she applied pressure to it. It felt like a wound even though there was no blood.

But the pain, both emotional and physical, only proved her point. If she went back to Rex, she’d never be able to leave again. She’d turn into one of those simpering, stupid trophy girlfriends. Or worse. She’d give him her heart and then he’d tell her to leave. That was what happened when you loved people.

The cab glided to a halt in front of her building. Thankfully, Harry, the alert doorman in stepmother’s pocket had changed shifts with Donald, who was too busy eating a bear claw to notice her arrival, let alone report it to Lucille.

“Your stop,” the driver said, his voice the same low purr as the engine of his strangely fancy car. Was it a Lexus?

Cynthia double checked the ride-sharing app to make sure she hadn’t accidentally hired one of the higher-end services by accident, but the fare was reasonable. She opened the door to get out.

“Wait, Cynthia.”

“How do you—?”

“It’s in the app.” He held up a hand. “Would you mind if I offered you a piece of advice?”

“About what?”

“You seem to be running away from something.”

“And you’re what—going to tell me to face my fears? Based on the thirty seconds you’ve spent with me in a cab?” Cynthia’s thumb stalled over the generous tip she was about to give him, one high-heeled foot already on the curb.

“Actually, just the opposite.” He shook his head. “My advice is to keep going. The rich and powerful play dangerous games, and while I’m sure a capable young woman such as yourself could win, eventually. I’m not sure it would be worth the price.”

“Well, thanks for that,” Cynthia said with flat sarcasm as she jumped out of the cab and shut the door. He wasn’t getting a tip.
Nosy
. And who was he to say
she
wasn’t one of the powerful? He was a cab driver. She was in fancy dress.

But as the cab pulled away, her ankle buckled from a sudden burst of pain and she wobbled. And then fell. The pure white fabric of her gown made contact with the grimy concrete, and the hem ended up soaked in a dirt-clouded puddle.

“Shit!” Her voice echoed throughout the just-waking street harshly, and she cringed. But she didn’t get up.

“I’m not sure it would be worth the price.”

Cynthia wiped her hands at the corners of her eyes, surprised to find they were wet too. She was crying. Sobbing actually. Although she didn’t feel sad so much as exhausted.
I’ll just sit here a second
, she thought. She did move her dress and feet out of the puddle at least, brushing at the stain with her hand. She’d scrub it later tonight.

Wiping away the hot tear from her cheek, Cynthia hiccupped. But each sob was quieter and less dramatic than the last.

It will get easier. Being alone always does. It’s not like I have any right to feel sorry for myself. I’m the one running away.

A solitary leaf floated down the puddle, twisting and turning as if there were whole tides in that single splotch of water. A sad smile tugged at her lips. Humming “My Favorite Things” to herself, she reached out and nudged the little leaf forward, where it promptly capsized.

Just like me. Running in circles. Getting distracted. I’ve got to clean up my life first, before I risk messing it up even further.

Quickly and with practical ease, she unlaced the ribbon keeping her shoe up. Even just bringing down the friction between the strap and her mark of fur eased the pain a little.

She stared at the shoe. With its three-inch heel and fragile-looking web of straps and ribbons, it was a symbol of everything she had once wanted. A life as a high-profile fashion designer, jet-setting from summerhouse to ski resort. Most of it, if she was honest now, probably on her father’s dime.

I’m not a princess though. Not anymore.

Cynthia sighed, and then before she could think too much on it, she lunged backward and hurled her shoe as hard as she could into Central Park. It flew long and far. Farther than she ever would’ve thought. Something twinged between her ribs as she realized that she wouldn’t be able to find it again. But the real weight on her chest was from the realization that she didn’t want to.

She was done with that. Done with Rex. Done with everything but the solace of finally getting her company working. With or without the help of investors.

Cynthia stood up, brushed off her dress, and pulled the hem up, staring at it with a wrinkled nose. Then, taking off the other shoe, she walked barefoot toward the back entrance to her stepmother’s basement.

“My advice is to keep going.”