Lycan Alpha Claim (#1): (BBW Shifter Romance) (Brief-Bites Novelette) (2 page)

I yank the blinds shut, releasing the cord
with a flip. The plastic knobs at the end of the cord slap against
the dark walnut-colored faux wood slats.

The knot on my head begins to throb in time
with my dumb teeth.

Shit
.

I slide out my new pulse, and place my thumb
on the dock pad. It's the approximate size of the old credit cards
before everything allowed a thumb swipe as payment.

Green characters swirl on the dark screen as
though moving to the surface of inky water.

The time glows softly. 7:40 PM.

“
Shit,” I repeat softly and
with feeling.
Can't I just ever get out of here on
time?

Clearly not.

I grab my gear bag and move through the
office door, locking it behind me.

I swing my keys (eschewing the locksmith his
five hundred credits for revamping my security bolt to pulse) and
dump them in my handbag.

I trot up the concrete stairs, vaguely
thinking it's time for a power wash. Slimy mildew is getting a
foothold.

I reach the top, grabbing a lungful of fresh
midwestern air. Heat, farm and the vague smells of prairie without
the blood vats of the nearby meat plant assail me in the comfort of
having always lived here in Sioux Falls. My comfort scent combo
lasts for the blink of an eye.

My ears perk.

Not for noise, but for the quiet. The
throbbing of my teeth and head—the funky squawk of my joints—recede
as I scan my surroundings.

I don't admit I'm searching for blue
eyes.

The small hairs at my nape lift.

I see nothing, but remain disquieted.
Finally, I walk out into a day that is fast losing its claim to
night.

My footsteps take me the mile to the gym. My
thoughts stay in the office and with the revelations Bea
shared.

Blue eyes haunt me.

Merck

I watch the change, enjoying her wariness as
her soft gray eyes pierce the shadows, searching out my presence.
Her slightly reflective irises don't make me out in the gloom.

She's old for a hybrid. It's a mystery to me
why a rare female would change so late.

My nostrils flare.

I smell a small wound and a recent injury.
An involuntary low growl seeps from between the tight line of my
lips.

Did someone cause the injury?

No
, I immediately
soothe my beast. Probably that tumble she took over the
couch.

I chuckle. Wasn't sure if I'd have to wade
in there, and save her from herself before it was too late. I had
been a little sloppy with my presence. But Talyn Phisher is very
practical. She's probably already talked herself right out of very
good instincts.

Talyn walks off, and I take a second to lust
after her.

The practice of coveting the changes is
strictly forbidden, of course.

Our job's now doubly hard. Vamps and Turners
have been outed, and now they're cruising the same hunting grounds
we do.

The Lanarre, as the Lycan royalty is named,
doesn't want a vulnerable hybrid Lycan running into a vamp that
likes their tasty werewolf blood.

Nor do the Lycan want a war. But a war they
shall have, if they fuck with our females.

This one especially.

My eyes follow her rounded backside. A more
scrumptious ass I have never beheld. Oh for the days when a little
extra flesh was considered a mark of wealth, health and
attractiveness.

I like my women with ass cheeks that
overflow the hands—tits as well. A waist I can span with my
hands.

I lick my lips, turning away from the
enticing sight.

Women are fine for carnal pleasures, but
that's not the job of a Changer—Lycan warriors—who seek female
hybrids hiding among humans. Like their vampire counterparts,
hybrid females will die without a strong male to see them through
their transition to full Lycan.

Unlike the vampires and their blood
exchange, the Lycan must sex it out of the hybrids.

I smirk. I can't say I hate the process.

Though that is all that is allowed. A
transition, and then Changers find the next target for
transitioning. Any Lycan should be proud to change a female.

I find it lonely. Tasting of their lush
bodies, only to never share in their lives. It's a form of torture.
But the Lanarre is deaf to their own warriors.

It's a numbers game.

And
the possibility of
a human female of royal lycan blood hiding in plain
sight.

I roll my eyes at the unlikelihood of that.
It's a wonderful bit of werewolf lore. But I don't know that I've
ever met a Changer who has encountered a hybrid with that unique
Lanarre component.

I've been watching Talyn Phisher for two
months. I know where she's going. I don't even need to follow.

But I do.

Just being thorough.

Or at least—that's the line of bullshit I
feed myself every day.

*

Talyn puts herself through the same
laborious paces five days per week. The mile-long walk to get to
the gym.

The elliptical.

The hand weights.

It's the squats that get my full attention.
Her ass cheeks splitting like twin goodness as she gracefully drops
into a deep plunge then comes up to repeat.

I watch every repetition.

She moves like the Lycan she'll become. I
randomly wonder if she's ever noticed she's faster and stronger
than other females. That her sense of smell is almost painfully
acute.

My eyes narrow as a human male approaches
her.

Growling begins from deep inside me, humming
through my chest like my very own motor.

Then a vibration begins inside my pocket so
high only dogs, and a few other fine-hearing creatures can hear the
buzz. I slip my pulse device out of my pocket without looking.

I watch the mundane human try
to put the moves on Talyn. One of our future
females
.

Move on, douche.

I tap my pulse to
activate
with my thumb.

Charles:
status.

Status?
Status is:
Talyn is not changing. She smells like a sweet piece of fruit
that's just on the cusp of ripening.

But not yet.

Me:
negative. Still under surveillance.

Charles:
maybe too old—past her prime. Possibly a false
read?

No!
I calm my shit, and
prepare to
think
my response. But
first, I set my pulse to
low emotive
transference
.

Yeah. Don't need Alpha Lycan Boss to get
that I'm sort of wrung out over this change.

Fuck
no
.

Me:
possibly, but because she's older, standard protocol might
not apply to her.

Charles:
can't afford to waste manpower on a dud.

Talyn is no dud.

Me:
give me a couple more weeks. Once I see physical degradation,
I'll move in.

The wait of almost a minute is
an uneasy one.
What if Charles terminates the
mission?
That Talyn doesn't deserve the
time—that a hybrid female pushing forty is too much of an anomaly
to waste time on?

Sweat beads on my forehead. I swipe it away
in irritation.

I glance at Talyn.

The human has his hand on her forearm.

Talons burst from my fingertips, and I groan
at the pain of the partial change.

The high hertz frequency buzz
alerts me to Charles
ʼ
reply.

Charles:
two weeks then it's a wrap. There are other hybrids waiting
and too few Changers.

My breath leaks out of me in relief.

I don't even realize I'm across the street
and peering none-too-subtly inside the window.

If I could wish that human to death with my
stare, he'd be zombie food right now.

I
think
into my pulse device with
the side of my thumb.

Me:
Roger that.

I palm the slim communicator, sliding it
into my pants pocket.

Talyn disengages from the ballsy fuck inside
the workout room and walks away.

Her look of mild and dismissive disgust
makes me smirk. Especially when the human looks after her with pure
lust. And something else.

My nostrils flare to catch the scent of his
emotion.

Glass is no barrier for a Lycan warrior.

Violence
.

Violence is mixed with his lust.

My growl is not soft anymore. But a warning
nonetheless.

He doesn't hear it, his ears are far too
human—too dull to the danger I've just offered.

But the small creatures of the nearby forest
halt the busyness of their lives and listen to the sound I've
made.

They heed the danger with their communal
silence.

Talyn

Jerk
.

I rub my arm where he touched
me. Do I have a sign that says,
desperate
tattooed across my forehead?

Why can't the decent guys that
I hear about show up at the gym? Oh-
no
, it's got to be the pudwacker types.

So when is:
I love
the way you fill out your yoga pants—
a
healthy intro?

One answer: never.

I stomp into the women's locker to grab a
shower. I take off my yoga pants, athletic top and kick off my
shoes. I strip my socks and toss them to join the damp pile of
clothes.

I slip into my flip flops and
shuffle to the faucet, jerking it to
H
.

I wait, the old pipes groaning in
resistance. When steam begins to rise, I step beneath the spray.
The hot water flows over my dark hair that needs a trim. I let its
heat pour over my face where it beats softly against my parted
lips, the water cleansing and hot inside my mouth and on my
skin.

Water runs out my mouth and dribbles down
the front of me. It's the only thing I can stand right now on my
sensitive skin.

My flesh burns, my teeth and joints are back
online, hurting like forgotten wounds.

Damn.

My palms hit the tile, my chin lowering to
my chest. Tears burn behind my eyes.

I can help anyone, no
matter
how
big the problem. If it's
real, I can puzzle out the solution that's meant for
them.

So why can't I fix my own chaos?

I must love it.

I palm my soaked hair off my face and flip
it behind me. The wet strands make a smacking sound as they hit
between my shoulder blades and I flinch, my skin's so
hyper-sensitive.

The flesh of my exposed back, buttocks and
legs rises into gooseflesh, the small hairs running across my skin
becoming spikes of alert.

I scan the locker room, taking in the vast
shower stall. Aqua tiles from the fifties stare back at me with
wilting indifference. I fully revolve, the hot water now soothing
my back. My breasts tighten, the nipples becoming completely
erect.

My vagina comes alive, throbbing between my
legs.

What the hell is going on?

A wave of heat flushes over my skin as if
kerosene is pouring over my body. And a match is struck.

I gasp, trying to breathe through the heat
engulfing my body.

I manage to turn and slap the
lever to
C
.

Barely
.

I tighten my thighs, squishing my pussy lips
together to stop the ache. Nothing works.

God!

Icy water pours over where hot water just
flowed. Moving from under the spray, I walk away without turning it
off, and grab my towel I flung over the tiled half-wall, wrapping
my drenched hair.

My body is radiating heat, but I'm
shivering.

Something is really wrong. First my fangey
teeth, now I've got hot flashes.

I stop in the middle of the tiled floor. My
raspy breathing echoes back in the strange acoustics of an all-tile
room with high ceilings as icy water sprays down the drain.

“
Hot flashes?” I sing in a
half-yell into the room. “This is
dumb
!” I scream like a juvenile delinquent. In fact,
they
behave more maturely than I'm
acting.

My teeth and crotch are throbbing, my
nipples ache, and I feel like someone's lit a torch inside my
body.

I need a doctor. There's no
denying that. Maybe this
is
early
menopause? The thought makes me want to cry.

I don't.

I do the most unhealthy thing I can. The one
thing I caution my patients to never do.

I stuff it.

That stupid emotion of
helplessness will
not
defeat
me.

I bite my lip, drawing blood. I suck on
it.

The overwhelming feelings of sexual need,
mixed with burning alive begin to subside while I stand naked and
dripping cold water into a puddle at my feet.

Finally, I grab my second cheap towel and
cover my body. With slow deliberation I walk to my gear bag and
carefully pull new clothes out of the soft duffle.

I don't tremble as I dry off then put on my
clothing or stuff my dirties inside a plastic grocery sack.

I turn off the water with a guilty twist.
The sound of water dripping follows me as I leave the gym.