Wolf Rock Shifters Books 1-5: Five BBW Paranormal Romance Standalone Novels (53 page)

A
s Estée stared
at herself in the bathroom’s mirror, two thoughts circulated through her mind:

How do I get out of here? and

Do I really
want
to get out of here?

Dascha the wolfman was a certified pain in the ass. But she had to admit that he’d also
saved
her ass. He could keep her safe for now and no doubt he could even get her home—but if she returned to Wolf Rock after what she’d done,
they
would
follow her there. The Syndicate, led by the man who’d sent those bears after her.

And they’d probably kill everyone she cared about.

All of which was slightly complicated by the fact that her captor was seriously attractive. Attractive?
Ha.
The word didn’t begin to describe what he was. The moment she’d laid eyes on his, she’d wanted to wear him like clothing, to mark his body with her scent, her claws. To scar his back, to bite his shoulders, his neck. She wanted him naked on that bed, on his back, his hands tied to the posts so that she could do all sorts of things to him that were illegal in certain countries.

But why? He was a wolf. She a tiger. A dog and a cat. They weren’t meant to get along at the best of times, and yet it was as though a light had been turned on inside her mind: this man was for her, however inconvenient, ridiculous or foolish.

Maybe she should just come clean with him, be honest and kind, and explain the situation: that he and his pack would be endangered if he brought her back to Wolf Rock. That she needed to protect him by sending him off empty-handed, that he needed to let her run if he knew what was good for him and those he cared about.

She turned the tap on, staring herself in the eye, and mumbled, “Why are you such an idiot, Estée?” She’d done all of this to herself, after all. She should have known better. She’d woken a sleeping giant, one of the most powerful men in the world, and had him on her tail, literally. And as long as Dascha was with her his life was at risk.

She splashed some cold water on her face, patted it dry and resolved to come clean with the man in the bedroom. If only she could throw him onto the bed first and have her way with him…

A moment later she opened the door to find him standing, arms crossed, biceps bulging as he awaited her. The television was turned onto some news station, its volume low.

“Are you going to stand like that all day and night while you watch over me?” she asked, amused and unable to control the smartass inside her. “At some point you’ll get tired.”

“If I have to,” he said. “Like I said, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

“Listen, sit down,” she replied, her voice serious. “I have something to tell you. And you’re not going to like it much.”

Dascha seated himself in the chair, the more formal, less dangerous counterpart to the bed; he didn’t trust her as far as he could throw her, but he was also seriously in doubt that he’d be able to resist putting his lips on some part of her if they both sat on the same bed.

“Go ahead,” he said.

“Okay. Dascha—listen. You’re not safe with me. I did something that could get us both killed, and unless you let me go, you’ll be pulling a time bomb back to Wolf Rock with you. I can’t let that happen.”

“Wait, what do you mean?” he asked. “What could you possibly have done that would be so serious?”

“I pissed off a very powerful man.”

“I can see that that’s a talent of yours, pissing off men,” he said. “Well, at least you’re good at something. Whose panties did you get in a twist?”

“His name is Grendel. It’s a long story, but he runs a group in England known as the Syndicate, though most people think he’s just a successful businessman, like my father. Rich, powerful. But there’s more to him; he runs a lot of underground operations, and the shifters who work for him, they’re…different. Incredibly powerful, stronger than most, and many of them would make you and your Alpha look like puppy dogs. The bears who were chasing us were hired by him to find me, though they weren’t his best men by any means.”

“They were idiots. You shouldn’t worry about them.”

“I’m not. I’m worried about him. Their leader. And what might happen if they find out where I am. Or if they got their hands on my family. But I don’t think he knows who I am.”

“Are you sure?”

“Not sure. But I don’t think so. I only ever gave them—him—my first name.”

“How do you know this guy?”

“I met him at a party. I have a couple of friends in London who are pretty wealthy, and one of them invited me to this bash at a guy’s house. I looked him up to find out where we were going, and I discovered that he was an art collector. So I thought it would be interesting to drop in. What I didn’t know is that he’s a psychopath.”

“Okay, but you haven’t explained what you did to him.”

“I’m getting to that,” Estée said. As she thought about her next sentence, she was distracted by the television on the other side of the room.

“Holy crap,” she said, her mouth hanging open.

“What—” Dascha began as his eyes followed her own, locking on the screen.

Before him was a photograph of Estée, standing, a drink in hand, presumably at a party. The BBC headline read:

Dascha used the remote control to crank the volume up. A youngish man was now being interviewed by a newscaster. He wore a well-tailored silk suit and spoke in an upper-class English accent.

“We suspect that she’s armed,” he said. “She’s skilled at concealing weapons, so one should assume the worst.”

“What crime has she committed?” asked an unseen reporter.

“Murder,” said the man.

“
M
urder
?” Dascha swung around to stare at Estée. “You fucking
murdered
someone?”

“No!” she replied, her eyes wide. “Of course not. Do I look like a murderer?”

“I don’t fucking know what you look like. You smash into me in an alleyway, looking good enough to eat, and here I find out that you’re a stone-cold killer. On fucking television, no less.
International
television.”

“Watch your mouth, Wolfman,” shot Estée. “I told you, I never killed anyone.”

“So why are they saying you did?”

The body of one of Grendel’s employees was discovered in the Thames River yesterday morning at four a.m, shortly after the victim had met with the young woman….

Estée stood frozen, watching the man on the screen invent a series of stories: she killed the employee in a rage. She was a lunatic, no doubt intending to go on a crime spree. Last they’d heard she was headed for Paris. Well, they got that part right, anyhow.

“Don’t you see?” asked Dascha. “This will be on the news everywhere. Including Wolf Rock. Your family will go nuts if they find out.”

“I have to talk to them,” she said.

“Like hell you will. By now the cops will have figured out your name. They’ll be listening in on phone conversations, hacking emails. You can’t talk to anyone.”

“But…”

“No buts. You’re stuck here. And now, thanks to you, so am I.” Dascha put his fingers in his thick hair, pulling at it and laughing. “God, I’m such an idiot. I took on those bears for you. I protected you. I’m a fucking accomplice to a killer. And all because I wanted…”

“I said watch your fucking language,” Estée growled. “How many damn times do I have to tell you I’m not a killer?”

“So what, then? Explain to me why a man, who, frankly, looks like the King of England, is on TV telling the whole world you killed his buddy.”

“Because I hurt his damn pride and he can’t stand it.”

Dascha slapped his forehead. “Oh! His
pride.
Well, that explains everything. Someone hurt my pride once and I saw to it that he was imprisoned for life for being a serial killer.”

Estée, normally strong to the point of invincibility, felt hot tears well up in her eyes. How was she ever going to convince him that she didn’t do it?

“Look,” she said. “I’m not perfect. But I’m not a murderer. This man is out for revenge. When I was in the bathroom, I told myself that I was going to come out and tell you everything….”

“Save it, missy. I don’t think I can handle any more of your talking. Now be quiet so I can think.” Dascha sank onto the bed, no longer worried about his inability to resist her. His shoulders hunched as he contemplated his options.

“Apologize,” he said. “That’s what you’ll do. You’ll apologize for whatever you did—what, did you sleep with him and not call the next day?”

“No, nothing like that. I’ll tell you if you’ll just listen—“

Estée was interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Room service,” called a voice with a French accent.

“We didn’t order any,” shouted Dascha, turning back to her. “Now look. I’m not mad. Just frustrated. But we need to sort this out together.”

“Monsieur, zis is compliments of ze hotel,” the voice in the hallway insisted.

Dascha rose and took two large strides to the door, opening it.

“I said we don’t want any, goddammit—”

As the door swung open he found himself staring down the barrel of a silencer. At the other end of the gun was a man with dark, slicked-back hair and black clothing.

“I don’t give a crap what you want,” he hissed. “
I
want the girl.”

R
ational thought
was not generally
the first instinct of a wolf shifter.

Before Dascha could register what was happening, he’d transformed into his large wolf form, which seemed enough to throw the potential assassin off his game for a moment. The man took a step backwards into the hall even as Dascha’s teeth sank into his forearm, forcing him to drop the gun on the floor.

The wolf forced him further, the man’s back slamming against the opposite wall, just as he altered into the form of a cheetah, sleek, fast and vicious, his canines bared as he hissed, attempting to get his mouth around the wolf’s neck.

Estée looked on, trying to assess the situation, to weigh her options.

This was an opportunity to flee. To escape both the pursuers and the clutches of Wolf Rock. She had identification now; she could leave Paris, run away to anywhere in the world, hide. And for a moment she considered doing just that. She had no attachment to this man, Dascha, the large wolf who was currently saving her life.

But damn it,
he was saving her life
. What sort of person would she be to let him die for her?

As Dascha tangled on the floor of the hallway with the cheetah, who was making noises that only a large cat could emit as the wolf growled and snapped at any accessible bit of flesh, Estée shifted into her white tiger form. It only took her a second to leap onto the cheetah’s back, biting at its neck and disabling it swiftly as Dascha’s teeth caught the front of the creature’s throat.

A moment later the two dragged the limp animal into their room, a dim trickle of blood left in its wake on the dark carpet.

Dascha shifted first, grabbing the gun off the floor and closing the door.

“Did you see anyone?” he asked.

Estée shifted then, quickly grabbing the bedsheets to cover herself.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Is it…dead?”

“Think so,” said Dascha, leaning down to check the creature’s pulse. There was no steady rise and fall of the rib cage to indicate life; no pulse.

“We just killed someone?” asked Estée.

Dascha looked up at her, his blue eyes revealing something like amusement.

“How the hell can you look like you’re enjoying this?” she asked. “We have a dead fucking shifter in our room.”

“I’m enjoying this because it proves that you’re no murderer,” he said, standing up. “Because it proves that my first instincts were right.”

“Instincts? A minute ago you were accusing me of being a killer.”

“A minute ago I was dumbfounded at the idea that you could be,” he said. “But I didn’t want to believe it for a second.”

“Well, I’m not. I don’t like violence, believe it or not. I didn’t want to attack this thing, either.”

“So why did you?” Dascha took a step forward, his large frame towering over her.

“Because I didn’t want…” she began, distracted by the pile of clothes on the floor and his nudity. “It doesn’t matter. I did. Now let’s figure out what to do with him.”

“You didn’t want me to die,” he said, smiling. “You were worried about me.”

“I couldn’t care less about you. You’re an underpaid bodyguard, as far as I’m concerned. I don’t even want you here.”

“You do so care,” he said, his voice mocking as he leaned towards her. “You care a lot.”

“I didn’t want that guy to kill you. If he did, he’d go after me. That was all.”

“Aw, you’re so sentimental.”

“Bite me,” growled Estée. “But before you do, hand me my damn clothes.”

Dascha reached down and grabbed the pile off the floor. He held it out, but as Estée reached for it, he pulled his hand back swiftly.

“Ask me nicely,” he said.

“Are you kidding right now?”

“I don’t know. Do I look like I’m kidding?” he asked as he examined her shirt, holding it up in front of his face. He began to pull it over his head. “This might just fit me,” he said.

“Stop that. Fine. Please, Dascha, could I have my clothing? I would really like not to be naked right now.”

“I dunno. Far as I can tell, you look pretty good naked,” he replied, handing her the garments.

Estée grew angry with herself for feeling even remotely flattered by the words. She shouldn’t care what this guy thought; he was a damn wolf. He was nothing to her. So he’d protected her; anyone would have done the same.

“Turn around,” she commanded.

He did so, revealing a perfect, taut, round backside to her, as well as an assortment of muscles that reminded her of the Alps. Man, that guy was built.

She pulled on her clothes slowly as her eyes moved over him, down to his shapely thighs and calves, which she had a sudden urge to bite.

And then she reminded herself that a corpse was lying on the floor beside him.

“What are we going to do about that?” she asked after she’d finished pulling everything on.

“That is a cat. A large cat. He’s not going to shift, now that he’s dead. So when someone finds the cheetah in the Paris alley, someone will assume that it was a pet, purchased by some rich person or escaped from the zoo.”

“So you’re going to dump him out the window?” she asked as Dascha quickly sorted through his scattered clothing, pulling on his jeans first. He bent down, picking the cheetah up and throwing it over his right shoulder.

“Hell yeah, I’m going to dump him out.”

Estée watched as he made his way to the Parisian window, which opened inward in two parts, and unceremoniously dropped the cat down the two storeys to the pathway below.

As pedestrians on the nearby street began to notice the large cat, cries emerged from the sidewalk: comical French words like “Sacre bleu” and “Mon dieu” (did people actually
say
those things?), and Dascha turned, wiping his palms in satisfaction at a job well done.

“So listen,” said Estée. “Aside from the obvious issue that we might have someone pounding on our door any second now, do you think you might put some more clothes on?”

She’d avoided examining his front too closely, but it was nearly impossibly not to notice how ripped he was; how perfectly laid out every inch of him seemed to be. What was going on between those powerful thighs of his was covered up, at least. It had been impossible to keep her eyes from straying to that impressive feature. The guy was big all over.

“I’ll get dressed if you’d like. Then we’d better get out of here,” he said, his voice serious. “You’re right—if this guy knew where you are, they’ll send more for you, and soon.”

“Where are we going?” she asked as she watched him slip on his shirt and jacket, then toss the gun into his bag.

“To London. I don’t know what the hell you did, but you need to apologize for it.”

“
T
hat’s insane
,” Estée said. “You don’t understand—“

“I understand plenty. There’s a guy on the international news accusing you of murder. This’ll follow you around forever if you don’t fix it.”

“And you think that walking up to him and saying, ‘Sorry, dude,’ will be enough to get him off my tail? You have no idea who this man is.”

“So tell me,” said Dascha. “And quickly.”

Estée bit her lip, reluctant to say a word. But what choice did she have? If Dascha left, she’d be alone, pursued by them—all of them. Maybe he was right.

“I already told you that he’s the head of the Syndicate. He has men at his disposal who will apparently chase people through the streets of Paris or shoot them through the head, and those are the weak ones. They say that he’s got an army of shifters at his disposal, unlike anything most of us have ever seen.”

“If you know all this, why did you piss him off?”

Estée ground her jaw. “I didn’t like his attitude. And besides, I didn’t know about the army when I did it, or about his corrupt business practices. But he deserved what I did.”

“You didn’t like his attitude? And you were just the person to teach him a lesson, were you? Well, I just cannot wait to hear what you did, you little cat-genius.”

“I—”

Voices could be heard down the hall, making their way towards the room.

“Come on,” said Dascha, reaching for her arm. He opened the door, led her into the hallway with his rucksack slung over his shoulder and, turning towards the elevators, saw a couple of hotel employees making their way towards them. “This way,” he said, turning Estée towards the emergency stairwell and breaking into a run.

“Hey!” yelled one of the employees, taking off after them.

Dascha shoved the door open and pushed Estée through.

“Down,” he growled as she ran ahead, to the first floor, shoving the fire exit open to find herself in another Parisian alleyway. She began to sprint, wanting to get away from this place, her pursuers, Dascha, everyone and everything.

But the wolf shifter stayed with her until they found themselves emerging from the alley in front of the hotel, the crowd of stunned onlookers still examining the cheetah’s unmoving form on the ground near the sidewalk. Sirens blared in the distance.

“Let’s go,” said Dascha, his hand once again securely locked around Estée’s upper arm as he led her in the direction of the river, towards crowds, tourists and possible temporary safety.

“We’re going to need to find a new place to stay tonight,” he said. “And it won’t be a hotel. Everyone and their dog will be able to recognize that mug of yours by now.”

“Mug?” said Estée as she walked beside him, tugging her arm out of his strong grasp. “You really are a gentleman, aren’t you?”

“My apologies, Princess. Face. Visage. Lovely assortment of features.”

“That’s better.”

“Listen: the cops will be watching train stations and buses. If you and I want to get across the border, it’ll have to be in a car.”

“Fine.”

They made their way towards a street which was lined with café tables and happy-looking tourists enjoying glasses of wine and pastries that they didn’t actually need.

“Sit,” said Dascha. “Order something if you’d like. I need to make a call.”

“Who are you calling?”

“Tristan gave me a contact—someone to talk to in the UK if things got ugly.”

“Okay. Is he one of us?”

“A shifter? Yeah. A member of another pack. I guess they’ve been friends of Tristan’s for some time. He says we can trust them. Maybe we can even get one of them to help us out.”

Estée threw herself onto one of the wrought iron chairs at a small table and let out a profound exhale. She pulled a pair of sunglasses out of her bag and concealed her striking eyes, next unleashing her hair from its elastic and letting it fall about her face. Dusk was already settling in, but there was no sense in having the entire world recognize her.

Dascha left her sitting alone to go off and make the call at a local pay phone while Estée looked on, hoping that he’d return to her quickly. All desire to desert him was gone now; she wanted the big man at her side, to help her face whatever was coming.

She reached once again into her small bag and felt for it, her fingers rifling through the detritus floating around the compartment. Finally they reached the cloth surrounding the item and the allowed her hand to close around it; this talisman that somehow made everything all right, if only for a moment at a time.

The object had caused so damn much trouble, and in all likelihood would only cause more. And yet she still hated the idea of parting with it.

A waiter approached her, eyeing her curiously as though wondering if she might be someone famous.
It’s the sunglasses,
she thought.

“May I ‘elp you?” he asked, unable or unwilling to pronounce the ‘h.’

“I’d love a glass of red wine,” she said.

“Oui, Mademoiselle,”he replied, taking off without studying her further. Had he recognized her from the news?

More importantly, was life going to feel like this from here on out, as though she lived on the edge of a precipice, always threatening to slip and fall to her death? Anyone might see her and know immediately who and what she was. In their reality, she was a criminal, dangerous and impulsive, ready to kill for the pure pleasure of it. She knew how things went when news stories were sensationalized; a person’s reputation and life could be ruined in an instant by the right words strung together in the hopes of shocking an audience.

Fortunately Dascha returned a moment later, interrupting Estée’s contemplation of the end of life as she knew it.

“Okay,” he said. “We’ve got a ride. The driver will meet us near here, first thing in the morning. But you and I are going to have to hide out for the night and avoid security cameras.”

“Great,” said Estée. “Let’s go dancing at a dark night club.”

Dascha’s eyes narrowed. “You’re joking, right?”

Estée lowered the sunglasses enough for him to see her eyes. “What do
you
think?”

“I think you’re a naughty girl who likes to create problems for everyone because her daddy has too much money and she doesn’t know what to do with her life.”

“Well,” replied Estée, shoving the glasses back up her nose, “You’ve got me figured out, anyhow. Good job.”

“If I don’t, you should tell me what you are,” he said. “Because I’d actually love to know. You’re not exactly what I expected when I first stepped onto the plane out of Colorado, I’ll tell you that much.”

“It’s complicated.”

“Sweetheart, we’ve got all night.”

Estée leaned back and studied her companion. She hadn’t yet managed to figure him out either; what was he? A bad boy, or a boy who simply wanted to be bad? He’d come all the way here on an errand, as though trying to right a wrong.

Bad boys didn’t do things like that. Bad boys didn’t defend women from multiple assailants. But then, this was supposed to be about her.

“I don’t like who I am,” she said. “That’s the simple answer.”

“And why not?” he asked, leaning towards her and putting his forearms on the table, his hands linked together. “What’s not to like?”

“Plenty, as you know already.
You
don’t like me.”

“I never said that. You’re a giant pain in my rock-hard butt, but I never said I don’t like you.”