Keeper of the Alphas - Complete (2 page)

Instinct told Cami to hold her palms up. Her Louis Vuitton purse fell with a thunk on the porch and she squeaked.

Confusion softened the mountain man’s face and then his shoulders rolled back. “You with the government?” he asked. His voice was like a low storm in the distance.

Cami gaped, half-furious that she could be mistaken for something so
dull
. “Do I
look
like a tax collector?”

His eyes swept over her again, examining her from head to heels. “No.”

Cami’s throat tightened and her eyes flitted briefly over her shoulder, wondering if her cabbie was still within running distance. What was the protocol for dealing with something like this? Instead of the plethora of personal safety tips she’d picked up from watching Dr. Phil, Lifetime movies, and crime dramas religiously, the first thing that came to her mind was a piece of advice her mother had given her when she’d first started venturing into the woods behind her house.

(Don’t run. Stand your ground, hold up your arms, and roar.)

“So drop the
gun
,” she said, trying to put some growl into her voice.

He squinted, hands tightening around the rifle again. “You have ten seconds to tell me what you’re doing on my property.”

“You have ten seconds to tell me what you’re doing on
mine
,” Cami countered. She nodded towards her purse on the ground, but still didn’t dare to reach for it. “My keys are in there. Check it out. Part of my inheritance.”

She could see a shift in his eyes. “Your inheritance,” he repeated, slowly, deeply. Then it clicked. His weapon retreated completely and he lowered it, letting it hang down. “You’re Camilla. Lynn’s daughter.” His eyes dropped to the ground, the older man suddenly hangdog, and he stepped back to let her in. “Come in. Please.”

Thank God
. Out of the line of fire, but a backwash of fresh confusion flooded her skull. She lifted her purse up off the ground and flung it back over her shoulder. “Are you…her boyfriend or something?” Ever since her father had skipped out years ago, Cami thought her mother had run the gamut of boyfriends: Creepy Charlie, Mumbling Mike, Rich Richard. None had put a gun in her face, though, so
that was new
.

His expression blanched. “No…Lynn hasn’t lived here for some time.”

Right
. That place on Meadrow that Adeline mentioned. She made to grab her suitcase, but he beat her to it, gripping the handle. Their fingers brushed and she tried to ignore the warmth that blossomed inside her at even the slightest of his touches.
Damn nerves.

When Cami stepped fully inside, she felt her heart sink straight through her ribcage. “Can’t imagine why,” she murmured. The house had been redecorated since she’d last seen it, but there were still bits and pieces that came back to her, a museum encasing the worst moments of her life. The staircase curved out in front of her like a large tongue, separating the kitchen from the living room. The wooden inside panels were all painted white, accented here and there with deep browns and soft blues.

That banister—she used to slide down it until her foot caught in one of the rungs and she broke a toe. An intricately carved bear’s head was now mounted at the end, mouth opened. That table—the long, beautiful dining room table that Cami and her mom had given up on long ago and turned into Cami’s study desk. Now cleaned, unused. That fireplace—when her mother was out, Cami used to lie down in front of it, slip her hand down her panties, butterflying with teenage hormones, and imagine consummating her love with Prince Charming or Johnny Depp or
whoever
.

The man had an interesting taste in interior design—dry, dustless squares on the walls where family pictures
had once
hung, bowls of pinecones and rust-colored leaves, large leather coats hung from the studs in the wall. The place was definitely devoid of a woman’s touch.

“How do you know Lynn?” Cami asked.
Past tense
, she reminded herself. Somehow, she couldn’t get that
did
to leave her lips.

Generously, he ignored it. The man’s demeanor finally cracked; the corner of his mouth turned up into a smile. “You’re full of questions, Camilla.”

“Cami.”

He extended a hand. “Marcus. Now we know each other.”

She took his hand. He had a strong grip, but he retracted almost immediately, as though fleeing from her touch. His frown returned to his face and he swiped his hand distractedly through his thick hair. “I’ll make you some coffee.”

With that, he stepped away into the kitchen. Cami lingered in the den, stepping gingerly around it like a ghost. There were fresh ashes in the fireplace and she dragged her fingertips over the mantel. There were some new odds and ends on top of it—a little wood carved squirrel, an ornate fishing lure—but one thing caught her eyes. A family photo. Cami couldn’t have been more than nine in the picture, a little terror with an explosion of blond hair and crooked teeth. Her mom stood on one side and Rich Richard stood on the other. Looked almost like a family. Her mom was
young
in the picture, sharp eyes and a practiced smile. Cami felt a sting in her chest and willed it away, clinking another lock into place around her heart. Sometimes, it felt like she needed twice as many ribs to protect it.

“I couldn’t bring myself to take that one down.” The rumbling voice, like thunder, made Cami jump and she fumbled to put the picture back into place.

Marcus stood behind her carrying two mugs, and she took one with a simple “Thanks.”

He sat down onto the couch, hands on his mug. After years as a hairstylist, Cami had gotten pretty good at
reading people
. She was, after all, the unofficial therapist of so many who came to take a load off their head and shoulders. The way he was sitting—shoulders squared off, eyes cast ahead—all screamed a man holding something back. But
what
? What was he hiding?

It didn’t help, of course, that he was exactly the type of man she’d envisioned pinning her down on this very rug. He wasn’t the weasely, weak-wristed type she’d been chained to for so long, the kind of guy who had to be coddled and pampered and who would
maybe
reciprocate, but not likely. No, Marcus looked like the kind of man who could
take
what he wanted and leave her satisfied and dripping.

The thought brought back an old, familiar throb. She noticed Marcus inhale sharply and then glance away, rubbing the bridge of his nose as though to ward off a headache. “What’s your story?” she asked, leaning against the mantel.

“My story.” His voice was thick, distracted. “Your…Lynn let me move in here. About four years ago.” He lifted his coffee and took a long sip.

Four years ago
. When Adeline said she’d moved out. “She never mentioned you,” Cami challenged, but even as she said the words, she knew that meant little to nothing. She could count the amount of times she’d spoken to her mother over the past four years on one hand.

“She had plenty to say about you.” His sharp eyes met hers and, for a second, it was like they could see straight through her. Her turn to drop her gaze.

“I’ll bet,” Cami said acidly. “Like, Hey, by the way, I have a bat-shit crazy daughter.”

His expression hardly softened but he said, “I don’t think the words
bat-shit crazy
ever left her mouth, no. She loved you very much.”

Cami let out a frustrated sigh and then said, “Yeah, whatever.” Suddenly feeling incredibly bitter that this stranger was lecturing
her
about her mother. He didn’t live with her for fifteen years. He didn’t know how cold and callous she could be. He didn’t truly
know
her.

(But neither did you, dear.)

She took a swallow of coffee (cream and sugar, just how she liked it), and then set it down on the mantel. She paced over to the stairs and announced, “Look…thanks for the coffee, but I’m like…about to fall over.”

She reached over and lifted her suitcase, but no sooner did she put her foot on the steps than she felt a strong hand grab her arm, holding her back. “You’re not going up there,” he said firmly.

She blinked in surprise and then tried to twist out of his strong grip, to no avail. “Get
off
me,” she snapped, though her body was thinking something quite different. “Christ…what’ve you got up there, dead bodies or something?”

His eyes widened, and then narrowed. “I understand you…grew up here. But this house is mine.”

“
Uh
, no?” Cami said, dropping her suitcase on the floor to gesture. “Do you have a contract? Legal documents? I read her will—your name didn’t come up once.”

His jaw set, eyes sharpening like knives. “She gave it to me.”

“That’s not how the world works. You don’t just
give
people things. You’re hurting me.”

He wasn’t—not on her arm, anyway—but that was enough to get him to let her go. As soon as he did, she bolted upstairs (surprisingly quick on her heels—that was
years
of training for you). Marcus was hot on her heels, but as soon as she made it upstairs, she ducked into her old bedroom and slammed the door in his face.

She could practically
feel
the anger radiating from him when she reappeared a second later with a sign in her hand. “See?” she said, “It’s even got my name on it.”

With that, she patted a sparkly-pink hanging sign against his chest. The word
CAMI
was scribbled across it in silver glitter (a star over the
I
).

Marcus the Mountain Man scowled, unmoved. “I’ll pay for your hotel room,” he said, a last-ditch effort at getting her to change her mind. “It’ll give you a place to stay until the service.”

Cami gestured dramatically around her room. “But where am I going to find a hotel room with
beanbags
?”

The edge of his jaw looked like it could cut glass.

Cami smiled. Sweetly. “And if you could bring up my bags, that’d be great. Mwah.” With that, she shut the door on him.

Marcus couldn’t contain the growl that left his throat when the door swung shut on him. She was
impossible
. Stubborn. Beyond stubborn. Like trying to pry open a door with a toothpick.

He felt a rampage coming on, the beast in him
rising
. It wanted
out
. Wanted to rip through his skin and tear apart the house, floorboard by floorboard. Sink its teeth into the upholstery. Knock everything over. Barrel out through the door into the deep, soothing dark of the woods and the trees and the rivers.

His heart walloped against his rib cage and stirred electric adrenaline through his bloodstream. Marcus went downstairs, slammed his palm into a beaten spot on the wood, and then snatched up the coffee mugs. Blindly, he carried hers to the kitchen, dumped it out in the sink, and flicked on the water. Trying to busy his idle hands. Trying to stay
human
.

The mechanical motions eventually tamed the bear. The hairs on his arms rose, threatening to extend into full-blown fur, but then, impatiently, receded back into his skin. He ground his teeth and felt the rubber discomfort in his gums as his fangs slid back into place.

But it was
nothing
compared to the ferocious ache in his groin.

He could
smell
her. Everywhere. That sweet, honeysuckle scent. It had hit him like a wall the second she’d stepped through the door. He’d know that smell anywhere. She had her mother’s blood in her, all right.
Keeper
. Marcus has known what he was ever since he was a cub. A man of two natures: the human and the bear. A shapeshifter who was cursed with the power to transform into a grizzly bear at will. He adopted both forms easily, ceaselessly, knew how to use them, how to tame them…

But this girl was nothing like him and nothing like Lynn. Camilla didn’t know her own strength. Her own powers. That much was evident from the way she just let her power roll off her in waves, carelessly winding the beast in him up, making him—

—Need
her.

He wiped his hand on the back of his pants and reached around to try to adjust himself, maybe ease up some of the tension straining against the seam of pants. He just felt swollen, hard, needy, aching for a release. He squeezed, heard himself groan, vibrating with unspent tension…

Damn her!
He stole his hand back quickly and tried to regain control of his muddled, lust-hazed brain. It wasn’t her fault. Not technically. He knew that. She didn’t
know
what she was doing. If she did, she would’ve learned how to manage it better, least she enthrall the wrong beast.

And Marcus was far from the
right
beast. He was dangerous around her when she was like this. When he was like this, too.

Her mother—Lynn—had been a Keeper. A bridge between the two worlds—the human and the supernatural. A necessary force in Tyburn, Oregon, where wolves and bears and all varieties of shifters thrived in the woods bordering the small, sleepy town. The sexual attraction was a defense mechanism. A way to keep the animals at bay. That was what Lynn had told him, anyway. But she’d mastered her powers and knew how to
contain
her magnetism. She’d known when to keep her power to herself and when to let it leak.

(If you can’t fight the beast, you have to tame it. Make it submissive.)

And Marcus was going to be damned if he was going to submit to some spoiled, temper-tantrum-throwing little girl.

Besides. He had bigger concerns on his mind than his demanding cock.

He lifted his eyes from the sink, ignoring the sound of rushing water, and instead looked through the window and deep into the woods. The past few nights, he’d seen the telltale orange-red glow of animal eyes. He’d smelled the other bear. Waiting. It was only a matter of time before it picked up Camilla’s unprotected scent.

Heavy purpose locked in place inside of him. He’d protect her. Tonight. It was far too dangerous for her to stay here. For a myriad of reasons. Lynn must have been out of her mind to leave the girl the house. Hadn’t she known the danger she was in?

Of course she had. Lynn had always known the danger of walking the tightrope between two worlds. Lynn had had an answer for everything, it seemed. She’d know what to do now; she’d know how to calm the girl and fix the growing problem in the woods. She always had the answers.

But she was quiet, now. Her silence was deafening. The thought of her tightened a knot in his throat and made the backs of his eyes sting.

Purpose
. He had a job to do.

He finished washing the mugs and set them on a dishtowel by the sink to dry. Then he stepped into the living room, where he barred the door with a double lock. His rifle (loaded) still lay across the foyer table and he lifted it up and set it beside the couch. He would sleep downstairs tonight; it was the only secure way to protect Camilla from the beast outside and the beast
inside
. No way he was going to be able to sleep in the bedroom beside hers, not with the raw sexual energy that was pouring off of her.

Her scent still lingered around the luggage standing by the stairs. Here, he could slowly warm himself to her scent, bit by bit, getting accustomed to it so it wouldn’t overwhelm him. She smelled like summer and youth—strawberries, body lotion, burnt plastic electronics, spring water. Unlike her mother, who always smelled like winter and maturity—dark earth, dusty coal, sharp night chill, elderberries.

Marcus’s fingers toyed with her luggage tags.
One-way ticket from New York City
. If he had to, he’d buy her a plane ticket back himself as soon as the service was over. Make sure she made it home in one piece. It was what Lynn would’ve wanted. Anything to keep the girl from getting sucked into the darkness that was crawling fast through Tyburn.

They had ruled Lynn’s death as a hiking accident. Marcus
knew better
.

There were no accidents in the woods. Only malice. And something powerful and dark with hungry, orange eyes.

He gripped the heavy bags and carried them upstairs with ease, setting them down outside her door.

Marcus steeled himself,
willing
his own self-control into action, and knocked on the door. “Camilla,” he growled.

The door swung open on its hinges.

Wide-eyed, pink, bubble-gum innocence that made his mouth water.

“What do you want?” There it was. That bitter insolence that curved the line of his mouth sharply downward.
Someone had to teach this girl a lesson
.

Someone
. But not him. She wasn’t his. He flexed his fingers.

“Oh!” She looked past him, spotted her bags, and then grabbed the handle, rolling them inside. Her demeanor constantly flipflopped from grumpy-young-woman to excitable-little-girl. “You brought up my bags—thanks. They’re hella heavy.”

Hella
. He winced.

“I’ll be downstairs if you need anything,” he told her.

Her head bobbed as she nodded. “Cool. Thanks.”

An awkward silence lapsed in the air between them. That honeysuckle smell got under his nose again and he felt the sudden urge to drop to his knees, tug down her panties, and drink it from her until her legs buckled around his head.

“Do you need anything?” he asked, feeling his sanity on a thin thread.

“I could use some water—”

“There’s a sink in your bathroom. Goodnight.”

Marcus turned and left, abruptly. He went downstairs in a haze and flopped down unceremoniously in the armchair. He caught his breath, tried to cool the burning in his blood, and set his rifle down beside him, within arm’s reach. His eyes locked on the door. More than ready to blow away any beast that burst through it, all the while trying to tame that one that thrummed inside his own heart.