Sleeping Beauty and the Lion: A Shifter Fairy Tale Retelling of Sleeping Beauty (A BBW Shifter Fairy Tale Retelling Book 3)

C
opyright
© 2015 by Sylvia Frost

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

C
over by Sylvia
Frost of
Sfrostcovers.com

Edited by Dee Editorial & Mary Novak

A
cknowledgments
:

Thank go to my patient readers and supportive author friends. I can only hope that I’ve written a book worth reading.

I
lived
for this month in the Rockies. A jagged horizon of mountains stretched out forever in front of me, blue hazed and glorious. Up here, the rabbits burrowing between peeling roots still scurried back to their holes when they smelled me coming, and the air was as clear and thin as it would’ve been two hundred years ago. Up here, my father never lectured me on the territory wars. Up here, a werelion could still be a king.

Most of the time I was no king. My brother and I went to public school where we earned Bs, played second string on the lacrosse team and dated girls we knew weren’t our mates. If we didn’t act normal, the consequences were clear.

I can’t protect you or your brother, Daniel, and if the humans see you, I won’t even try. You have to blend in.

Shaking my lion’s mane, I snorted a plume of indignant air out of my wide nostrils. Father was a liar. Right now he was with my younger brother, Henry, somewhere in the forest, helping him through his first shift, protecting him. I watched the plume of air fade as it matched the temperature of the rest of the atmosphere. That was when I saw the helicopters.

Three black specks swung between the two nearest peaks. My lungs tightened and turned as cold as the snow-tipped mountains in the distance. My claws gripped the cliff’s edge.

Maybe they were fire-fighters. Except I smelled no smoke. The choppers grew from pin-pricks to dots. I weighed the possibility that they were from the army base forty miles south and scrambled backward into the shadows.

“Mamma, can we take a break so I can read?” A voice wafted through the trees behind me. A teenager. A girl.

My tail curled. Why was she so deep in the woods? Why did I care?

“Baby, now’s not the time for books,” an older voice answered.

“But you said we’d be back at the cabin hours ago. Aren’t you supposed to stay put when you get lost?”

“We’re not lost. Don’t sass me.”

Judging from the volume, the hikers were three minutes away. I leaped from the rocky out-crop, and in my wake pebbles clacked. The helicopters were probably search and rescue.

I crouched lower to the ground but my pelt was the color of the parched grasses of the savannah and stuck out against the rocky soil. Worse, claw marks so deep that wood shavings curled up around them scarred the nearby trees. I was an idiot to mark territory that didn’t belong to me.

The thwapping crescendoed and an edgy twitch rippled through my haunches. I drew back to sprint in the other direction when I smelled the girl. Fresh lilacs. Saliva thickened on my tongue, and my heart clenched, like it could wrap around this moment and squeeze it until time stopped.

Ours,
my lion whispered.

No, it wasn’t possible. I hadn’t graduated from high school yet and if the timber of her voice was anything to go by the girl was younger than me. My claws dug into the dirt to keep from throwing myself in the girl’s path, but her scent was too strong. She was lost. I had to help her. My clothes were on the other side of the trail. I’d shift, get dressed and then lead her to safety.

I bounded up the slope. With every step, my claws shrank and my vertebrae folded up into each other like an accordion. Pain blazed through my skull as my synapses reknit themselves into human patterns. Blood roared in my ears.

Except it wasn’t blood. It was the helicopters.

Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. Thwap.

The boughs of the pines bent back from the air pressure and sent a storm of needles flying into my face. Through the debris I saw the black belly of the chopper. I fell to my knees. Completely human.

One man in body armor jumped off the side of the helicopter and then another. They both carried automatic weapons. Rangers didn’t carry automatic weapons. Fuck.

Through the stench of the helicopter’s gasoline, I caught the promise of my mate’s scent. Dewy leaves and purple blossoms. I lurched toward it.

“Stop!” One of the men called.

I pushed myself up against a tree. Bark roughened my palm, and pine-needles pinched my bare, human feet.

“Hands on your head!” another yelled.

“What do you want?” I screamed back, just to be heard.

“Put your hands on your head, sir, or we will shoot.”

They called me sir. Werebeasts weren’t given honorifics by humans or arrested. We were just shot. I put my hands on my head.

The blades of the helicopter quieted. Now I could pick out the mens’ boots breaking through the underbrush.

“Look down,” one of the men ordered.

“Please, just tell me what’s going on.” Goosebumps rose up on my skin, and I stiffened. Let them see my naked body, but please let them not notice my fear.

“We told you to look down, sir,” the men said again, and with the cold muzzle of the gun now pressed up against the back of my skull, the
sir
felt irrelevant. “This is your last chance.”

Ham sandwich lingered on the soldier’s hot breath. At least it wasn’t the burning stench of silver nitrate. The bullets in his gun probably weren’t silver. Werebeasts had been declared officially extinct in the late nineteenth century. There weren’t silver bullets for automatic weapons.

I looked down.

The other man yanked at my scalp. I could’ve opened him spine to sternum with a flick of my claw, but I didn’t.

He pushed away my hair from my neck. Too late I realized what he must’ve caught a glimpse of as I ran. His fingers brushed over the solitary patch of tawny lion’s fur left on my body, right under the nape of my neck. My matemark. I’d had it since birth. One day my mate would grow one, too. A knot of certain dread twisted around my stomach, and bile pushed up my throat.

Before I could so much as twitch, a gun shot cracked, ringing in my ears, so loud it almost blocked out the pain, which was thinner and sharper than I expected. It hadn’t been a bullet in the gun. A needle lanced my skin. My hand rose to pull it out but only made it halfway there before flopping to my side.

The corners of my vision fuzzed, blurred, then darkened. My thoughts followed soon after, but I could still taste newly blossomed summer lilacs. I could still taste my mate.

When I woke up, I was in a cage.

H
ello
, world,

My name is The Book Addict. That’s not my real name, but you don’t need my real name because I’m not going to tell you my real story. I’m not going to tell you about how my daddy died in a car crash or how my mamma single-handedly brought us out of poverty. Instead, I’m going to tell you about my daydreams. Trust me, in the long run, they’re a lot more interesting.

When I was thirteen, I grew this patch of orange hair right below the nape of my neck. Now, I’m black, so sprouting carrot-colored body hair isn’t in the column of “things that typically happen to me in a week.” The special doctor I went to labeled the hairs as symptoms of a hormone imbalance, gave me a bottle of pills so big I was convinced he as trying to choke me, and called it a day.

I didn’t think much of the hairs at the time. Then I moved away from home to New York. There I got a job working for a very important and very attractive man. On the off chance anyone besides the Google search bots read this post, I won’t say any more.

What I will say is that sometimes I spend a whole day managing my boss’s emails, but when I bring him his mid-day espresso, he still looks at me like I’m a no-name intern. On those days I like to pretend that the tawny hairs on the back of my neck aren’t just hair at all. But fur. I pretend that one day I’ll walk into my boss’s office and he’ll notice the mark, smile at me, and say, “Oh, it’s you, Book Addict. As the last werewolf on earth, I’ve waited so long for my true mate and here you are. How could I have missed you all this time!”

I know it’s ridiculous. But I don’t care. That daydream is what keeps me from buying a plane ticket home and giving up on my dream of making my own life without my mother’s help. Not because I think that one day my boss will transform into a wolf, but because doing something as simple as visualizing my a handsome billionaire smiling at me allows me to get through my days.

Yours,

The Book Addict

I
slammed
my thumb down on the enter key. One second later the page refreshed, showing my first ever blog post. In the corner of my screen, my view counter ticked up from zero to one.

Okay, so no one would describe my post as “viral,” but that was fine. I just wanted one or two people to read my blog, think “Hey, I daydream about my boss, too,” and realize that they aren’t as weird or alone as they thought they were.

Right now, I felt pretty alone. In the offices of Rom Investing, I was an island among the sea of empty white desks and dark, glass walled cubicles. I’d come in late to copyedit emails and catch up on work, but it was almost 10 p.m now. Even the die-hards had left. Except one.

A soft glow emanated from the conference room at the edge of the office. Prowling inside was my boss, a billionaire named Rex West who the tabloids called the “Prince of Wall Street.” He stopped in the corner of the conference room near the brass bar cart and unstoppered a decanter. Then he grabbed some glasses and carefully measured out two tumblers of whiskey.

One for him and one…

For me?

Biting my lip, I allowed myself a little smile. I knew Rex would never actually ask me out, but a “good job” shared cocktail and a peek behind his corporate mask would sure be welcome right about now.

Absentmindedly, I lifted up my thin, waist-length box-braids over my shoulder, exposing the back of my neck and the collection of hairs I liked to pretend were a matemark. Orange and thick, their silky smoothness was a very different texture from the rebellious kinks on the top of my head that I’d tamed into my many braids. I was just about to reach out and feel the “mark”, when my phone buzzed.

“Hello?”

“Rose.”

“Don?” I recognized the voice of Rex’s driver.

“Cynthia is about to arrive at the office. You should let Mr. West know.” 

“Cynthia?” Three clicks later and I was pulling up my to-do list from yesterday. Her name was in big, red block letters at the top. “As in the businesswoman who was at Mr. West’s party the other night that he couldn’t find?” 

“You couldn’t find. Mr. West found her. They’re having a meeting tonight.”

“Right.” I cradled the phone against one ear as I highlighted her name and changed it from red to crossed-out yellow meaning, “done, but not on time or in the right way.” Color coding helped me do my job despite the focus issues I sometimes had. “I’m sorry. Thanks, I’ll let him know. Do you know—”

He hung up.

Great.

I stood and wiped my hands off on the space-age desk then rubbed my pendant for luck. Sheathed inside the steel scabbard was a miniature magnesium sword, a tiny replica of Naomi’s magic weapon from my favorite series,
Mates of Darkness.
Courage gained, I walked to the conference room and opened the door.

Rex saw me and his eyes narrowed. “Rose?”

The door slipped from underneath my sweaty palm, swinging back in my face. I dodged it and stepped inside. “D-don said Cynthia Cinders has arrived.”

Rex’s gaze stayed cool, and he didn’t reach for the other Manhattan on the bar-top. With his hungry blue eyes and perfect cheekbones, he could’ve been a model for a luxury whiskey brand. But if he was, I was not part of the same commercial.

“You can leave now,” he said. No smile.

I felt my blush in each of the freckles on my nose. It spread all the way to the tips of my ears. “Oh, of course, sir, I’m sorry—”
In his world, I didn’t rate so much as a thank you.

His close-fingered hand sliced through the air in a curt wave. “It’s fine. Just let Ms. Cinders know I’m in the conference room.” 

Right. Cynthia. Work.

Feeling like a bobblehead, I nodded a few times and returned to my desk. My glossy monitor loomed with my blog post still front and center. I exed it out with a vicious command + alt + please go away. My fingers felt numb against the plastic keys until I gripped my sword necklace so tightly it dug into my palm.

In
Mates of Darkness
Naomi
never had any trouble being brave. Then again, Naomi was also chosen by the gods to fight evil. Getting fired wasn’t really an option in her line of work.

The elevator dinged, startling me into standing, and the doors parted to reveal a beautiful blonde woman. She looked to be in her late twenties, but her plus-sized curves and bountiful hair belonged on a southern belle not a Manhattan businesswoman.

Cynthia Cinders.

Cynthia didn’t see me but sashayed straight to Rex. When she opened the door,
her
hand didn’t tremble.

Rex noticed her and raised his eyebrows along with his glass. Then he did something I’d never seen him do before. He smiled. God, that expression melted the glaciers in his blue eyes and softened the sharpness of his cheekbones. It made him look human. Young. In love.

Just not with me.

Cynthia took the drink he offered her and the closed the door, blocking my view of Rex’s smile. I slid back down into my seat. My eyes were hot. They shouldn’t have been. All my dreams of Rex being my secret mate were just that—dreams.

Leaning over, I yanked open the bottom drawer of my desk and pulled out a worn library book titled
Beasts, Blood and Bonds.
It was after I checked out this book that my imaginings had reached a fever pitch. The laminated spine creaked as I flipped the book open. Dust wafted up from the yellowed pages, but the booky smell didn’t comfort me today. I flipped to the page I had earmarked and read:

“Usually growing a few months after a human female is exposed to a werebeast or their territory, the matemark is the defining characteristic of a werebeast’s mate. It appears in the form of a patch of fur, scales, or feathers — depending on the beast —and has been documented on the wrist, ankle, hand, and back.”

A daguerreotype photograph from the 1840s followed the text, showing a pale woman in a high-necked Victorian gown. Fur coated her skin all the way up to her rolled up sleeve.

I closed the book and draped my braids over my arm, as I felt with two fingers for my “matemark”. When I reached it, I gritted my teeth. Tingles shockwaved through my body, like I had bumped my funny bone but without the pain. Spreading my fingers I measured the diameter of my patch of hairs at about one and half inches. Too small compared to the picture and in the wrong place.

My computer screen went to sleep, casting me in shadow and I shut the book. One last cloud of dust puffed up from the pages.

Thump.

I bounced up in my office chair, my whole body tensing at the sound.

Thump. Thump.

Swiveling, I noted the sound was coming from the conference room. I pushed the rolling chair toward the noise, still in shadow and spotted a misshapen silhouette pressed against the glass walls. It had four legs. Like an animal?

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The silhouette twisted and I realized it wasn’t an animal, but two people, one on top of the other.

A feminine moan joined the thumping. “Oh, Rex.” 

Rex was not turning into a werewolf. He was having sex. In his office. With Cynthia. Blonde, beautiful, but still just as curvy as me, Cynthia Cinders.

He groaned back, then he grabbed her and slammed her onto the floor. The motion was so violent it made me worried for her. Until they rolled over, changing positions and she bowed her head over his body and
nipped
him.

My throat clenched so hard I couldn’t push air through it. I had to get out of here.

Praying they didn’t notice me, I grabbed one of the more subdued purses from my Mamma’s latest collection, a big leather bag piped with lime-green accents, stuffed my book and phone into it, and headed to the elevator. I stabbed the down button so many times my finger ached, but finally the doors opened and I hurled myself inside.

The doors closed, blocking out the symphony of sex noises behind me. I made myself focus on the light marking the floors as it fell downwards. My cheeks were as wet and hot as my eyes now. Oh Sweet Jesus, I was crying.

Mamma would’ve been tempted to slap me if she saw me like this.
I
was tempted to slap me. Just because I was a virgin didn’t mean I had to be an idiot.

Ding.

I dabbed my eyes one last time before venturing out into the reception area for Rom Investing. With its marble columns and glossy modern decor the entry way looked like what would’ve happened if the Romans designed a spaceship, but I felt very much earth-bound as I exited onto the street.

Outside it was dim for a New York night and loud. A brisk March air wooshed through the streets, making the people around me have to shout to be heard. I tried to block them out, stepping over the curb and into the street.

This is the last time I’ll ever allow myself to get so wrapped up in fantasy
, I promised. I never wanted to feel so much over something that wasn’t even real ever again.

Someone honked. Once. Twice. I covered my ears and turned, frowning. My frown expanded to a dropped jaw. I screamed. A cab barreled toward me, lights flashing. It was slowing down, but not enough.

I jumped to the left and my purse flew out of my hands.
Beasts, Blood and Bonds
arched upwards, its spine opening like the wings of a bulky bird. My orange bottle of hormone pills and phone followed. All my life was suspended midair, so much smaller than I ever realized it could be.

I’m going to be hit by a car,
I thought.

And then I was.