Wolf Rock Shifters Books 1-5: Five BBW Paranormal Romance Standalone Novels (57 page)

A
s Estée moved
around the church she glanced occasionally at the place where Dascha had seated himself to watch over her. A vision in leather, reverently upright in a rigid wooden chair, his eyes ever vigilant, protective.

Something in the building itself, in its mood, its very bones, was affecting her emotionally. To be in a structure this size, assessing the care that had gone into creating it, evident in every square inch; its years under construction drawing themselves out in her mind. Somehow it put into perspective every complaint that she had about her life and reminded her that some things in this world lasted forever while others did not.

People, for instance.

Shifters could live lives that were quite long, but they weren’t immortal. And they were as easily killed as humans if one had the right weapons. She knew that her life could be ended by a bullet fired through a silencer; that even right now someone might be watching her, aiming a gun at her head or her chest.

But the man who’d brought her to this place: this strange, large, handsome man, made her feel so safe, shielded as though his very body were her armour. But even
he
was only temporary; a tease thrown at her for the time-being, until she succumbed and accompanied him home to be chewed out by an angry father and a worried sister, at which point Dascha would abandon her.

But hell, she’d made her bed and now it was time to lie in it. It was only too bad that he wouldn’t be in that bed next to her. Lying beside her at night, ever-watchful, protective, kind. If she had him at her back she could take anything; any punishment. But Dascha would be taken from her, just as the jade tiger would.

Nothing lasted forever. Nothing.

And so each time she felt tempted to touch him, she must resist. Because each time she did so it would weaken her, break down her own armour. She needed to find a way to stand alone, confronting all the hurt in her life, all the loss. To bring herself close to him meant creating the potential for a whole new dent in her emotional shield.

“Are you ready to go?” she asked, approaching him as he sat in wait.

“Any time. Are you sure you want to?” he asked, standing.

“No. Actually, I’m sure I don’t,” she said quietly. “But if I stay, I’ll want to leave even less. It’s so peaceful and quiet in here.”

She turned and walked out as he followed, back into the sunlight, covering her eyes once again with her sunglasses.

“Thank you again, Dascha,” she said as she stepped onto the front steps, her back still to him. “That meant a lot to me.”

He reached for her, touching her shoulder lightly, and she pulled away to head back towards the car.

“We should get a bite to eat,” she said quietly. “You must be hungry, and I know I am.”

A crowd of tourists was gathered, taking photographs of the cathedral and of themselves in various poses. Everyone seemed happy, animated, the way tourists generally were when they forgot for brief and wonderful moments what real life was like. As Estée made her way through them she was keenly aware of the sensation that they would be sorely disappointed when they found their way back home to their menial jobs and mediocre marriages, to live out their routines without the benefit of excitement.

For such a young person, somehow she’d inherited her father’s cynicism. She almost wanted to laugh at it. The world was meant to be her oyster, an adventure filled with laughter and love. And yet her attitude was…terrible.

She stopped for a moment, watching the joyful throngs of people, telling herself to stop being bitter. Life was beautiful, and here she was, carving all sorts of negative messages on her own soul.

And as she watched, the mass of tourists seemed to erupt in a slow and quiet sea of chatter, a few moving apart, rapidly getting out of the way of something, as though the Queen of England were about to process through their ranks.

The high-pitched scream of a small child sounded close by, and instantly Estée knew what it was that he saw; what she herself would see in a moment. There was no mistaking that scent.

Seconds later, a creature stood in their midst, his shoulder higher than most of their heads, bright blue eyes fixed on Estée and Dascha, who had been standing watchfully over her. As soon as Dascha saw him he grabbed Estée, thrusting her behind him, both arms strong but careful as he did so.

It was a wolf: enormous, dark grey with a strip of black across its muzzle. His eyes were a piercing shade of blue and his back was arched upwards, the fur standing straight up as the beast growled low.

“Who the hell is
that
?” Estée asked, looking over Dascha’s shoulder.

“I think he’s one of our so-called allies,” he replied. “From the London pack.”

“Not looking very friendly for an ally, is he?” said Estée.

“Not so much. What I want to know is why we can’t have a few hours of fucking peace and quiet?”

“Apparently because our lives suck.”

Dascha put his hand out, his palm facing the wolf, and approached slowly as the crowd moved apart, the occasional cry of horror sounding as they ran off towards side streets and cars. A few were taking photographs before fleeing, much to Dascha’s dismay. But he didn’t have time or the energy to run around and steal all their smartphones from them.

“Stop taking pictures. All of you,” he growled, thankful that Estée had put on the sunglasses which largely concealed her face. She intelligently remained in place, watching the altercation as it unfolded and keeping her distance, the same thought running through her mind as Dascha’s: Photos would end up on the news, which meant that her face, that of a wanted killer, would be plastered everywhere once again if she got too close to the wolf.

Best to leave this one to her lupine bodyguard.

Dascha didn’t shift, though. He continued his slow, cautious approach, speaking to the wolf in hushed tones.

“I don’t know what you’ve been told,” he said. “But we’re allies. I’m a wolf, like you. Not one of these Syndicate members.”

His opponent growled and bared his teeth, his ears flattening against the back of his head.

“I’m not here to fight you. I’m sorry about what happened to your pack member this morning. I’m sure he was a good man. But it was a Syndicate member who did it. Your man—the driver—he told me to look for Colin. Do you know what that means?”

Something changed in the wolf then, a sudden calm falling over him. He turned away, taking a few steps forward before turning his head back to Dascha. He appeared to be asking the other shifter to follow him.

Dascha turned and looked back at Estée, an expression of relief on his face.

Estée pursued them slowly, from a distance, as the wolf led Dascha down a narrow street adjacent to the cathedral, towards a parked sedan. A moment later, a man stood before them, naked as the day he was born and enormous, though slimmer than Dascha.

“We were told that you did it,” he said softly. “That you killed him this morning.”

“No,” Dascha said. His hand was in the air again, a beacon of peace and friendship. “I didn’t. We didn’t. I knew that he was there to help, and harm coming to him was the last thing I wanted. You have to believe me.”

“I do,” said the man, channeling anger in another direction now.

He opened the trunk and extracted his clothing, pulling it on with no self-consciousness whatsoever despite the distant group of onlookers, who let out a few sighs of protest before beginning to disburse. This wasn’t so interesting, after all.

“Our Alpha took me aside this morning,” the man said, “And assigned me the confusing task of driving to France. He said that you’d slaughtered our man, Martin, though how he knew that, I couldn’t tell you. A few minutes ago I was barreling down the motorway towards Paris and got the call to come here instead.”

“Yes, I called him. I didn’t tell him my location, though. He must have had some way to trace the call.”

“I suppose so,” the man growled as he pulled his shirt over his head. By now, Estée was close by, still hesitant to intrude.

“Why would your Alpha want me killed?” asked Dascha. “Or even just to frame me?”

“It’s not you he wants,” the other man said. “He couldn’t care less about you. He told me to bring a girl in.” His eyes went to Estée; clearly he knew who she was. “A tiger shifter. He said she’s the cargo that he needs.”

“What the hell?” asked Dascha. “Your Alpha is supposed to be a friend of our leader’s. Why could he possibly want her?”

“I don’t know,” said the young English shifter. “But I intend to find out. In the meantime, your life is in danger. We’d best get you out of here.”

“Well, damn it,” said Dascha. “Just when I thought we’d be safe to grab a bite of lunch. Listen—Wait, what’s your name?”

“Colin.”

“You’re
Colin. Of course. The driver—Martin—said your name before he…well, he obviously trusted you. Listen—I need to have a word with your Alpha. If you’re really willing, would you lead me to him?”

“Are you quite serious? If our theory is right, he’ll try and take your entrails out.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty much what I’m hoping for.”

“
I
’ll drive
us up to Calais,” Colin told them, “I know one of the customs agents at the border. He’s one of us, a fox shifter. But whether he’s on duty or not, you two will need to hide. I can’t ask him to risk his job, though I’m sure he’d be happy not to search my boot.”

“Boot?” said Dascha.

Colin eyed the trunk of the car, raising his eyebrows.

“Oh, hell no,” said Estée. “You want us to ride in there?”

“I’m afraid so,” he replied.

“But I have a new passport…I can….”

“None of that matters, I’m afraid. Your face has been all over the news. And border guards aren’t complacent about these things. You need to keep those lovely features of yours out of sight.”

Dascha reminded himself that Colin was helping them as he found himself bristling, annoyed by the hint of flirtation in the man’s voice. Of course he found Estée attractive, with her perfect, symmetrical face and poreless skin.

He shook off the pang of jealousy that came of watching another man interact with her and said, “We’ll be all right in the trunk, Princess. I’ll look after you if you get scared.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she said. “I’m not sure I can handle you in such a small space. And definitely not sure you can handle me.”

“Just get into the car. For now you can sit up front in the big boy seats, like normal grown-ups,” said Colin. “But keep your sunglasses on. I’ve got some food, and you’re welcome to it. Just try not to kill each other—I’ve just had the interior cleaned.”

After a quick detour to the other car to fetch Dascha’s bag, they bid good-bye to the vehicle and went on their way.

“We’ll do the switch about twenty minutes out of Calais,” said Colin. “There’s plenty of air in the boot, so you won’t suffocate.”

“It’s not suffocation that I’m worried about,” mumbled Dascha. Every time he came close physically to Estée’s body, his own seemed to take him over. Something about the idea of spending half an hour pressed against her made his head spin. But it had to be done, and at least it meant that Mr. Posh Accent wouldn’t be offering her flattering remarks.

“So, a tiger, hey?” Colin said as if on cue, looking in the rearview mirror as he drove. His eyes seemed fixed for far too long on Estée’s face. “I can’t say I’ve yet met a tiger shifter.”

“We’re pretty well the same as other shifters, unless you count the stripes on our fannies,” she said, avoiding the word ‘asses’ in an attempt at politeness.

“You do realize that ‘fanny’ in my country means something quite different from what you’re talking about,” laughed the driver.

“Oh?”

Dascha turned and glared at Estée, shaking his head as though to say, “Don’t encourage him.”

“What
does
it mean, Colin?” Estée leaned forward, a hand on the driver’s seat, her fingers briefly touching his shoulder. Whether this act was in defiance of Dascha or out of genuine interest, he couldn’t tell. He only knew that seeing her fingers touch someone else sent a pulse of emotion through him that he couldn’t define.
Possessiveness?
No. It couldn’t be. She wasn’t his.

Why exactly wasn’t she his?

A
fter Colin had regaled
Estée with amusing examples of British terminology for body parts over the course of twenty or so minutes, he pulled over on a quiet country road to let them out.

“All right then,” he said. “Apologies for this, but you should find the boot quite clean.”

“Boot,” laughed Estée. “It sounds like we’re about to dive into something that smells of sweaty feet. I do so enjoy your funny Brit-talk.”

Colin beamed with something approaching pride as Dascha scowled. “Just pop it open. Please,” he said.

Colin did as instructed, seeming to understand that he’d irked the larger shifter, and as in an act of submission he opened the trunk, which thankfully was in fact empty and clean.

“Ladies first,” said Dascha after throwing his duffel bag and Estée’s tote of new clothing into a corner.

“Me? I thought you should go in first.”

“Fine,” he said, climbing in, his back facing towards the front of the car. “Your turn, Your Highness.”

Estée climbed in without a word, clutching her satchel to her chest as she pressed her back to him. The trunk was large, but his enormity seemed to take up the bulk of it.

“See you in a little,” said Colin. “You’ll know when we’ve stopped at the crossing into England. The UK border control is at this end of the Chunnel, but you’ll have to hang in until we’re across.”

“Chunnel?” asked Dascha.

“The tunnel under the English Channel,” said Estée, her voice vibrating against his chest.

“Ah. Sounds like something you’d eat at an amusement park.”

Colin closed the trunk, slamming it gently, and all was dark. They heard him get in and start the car up again.

Estée breathed deeply, attempting to control her heart, which had been beating rapidly since she’d pressed herself against the large wolf shifter. She was certain that he could hear it; that he would take it as flattery, a sign of her attraction.

A part of her wanted him to—to know that she went weak-kneed at his scent, or that she wanted to turn to liquid when she looked into his eyes. But another part wanted to keep her distance, still afraid of the repercussions of closeness.

But closeness there was, as every inch of her back and thighs felt his large, muscular frame pressed against her, his left arm draped over her, either for his own comfort’s sake or in a protective gesture.

“So, this is nice,” she said quietly, attempting a little humour.

Dascha didn’t reply.

“You all right?” she asked.

“Fine,” he said, a growl faintly present in his voice.

“You don’t sound fine.”

“I’m just relieved to get to watch you stop kissing Sir Flirts-A-Lot’s ass,” he said.

“Kissing his ass? What are you talking about?”

“Oh, come on Estée. Your lips may as well have been stapled to the guy’s scrawny buns.”

“You’re jealous,” she said, a smile spreading invisibly over her face. “You are jealous.”

“No, I’m not. I just don’t like watching sycophants at work.”

“You are, though. You want my lips reserved for you.”

“Yeah, right. I don’t give a flying fanny where your lips spend their time.”

Estée turned her head to the left, and as Dascha’s eyes adjusted to the dark he could see the faint outline of her profile.

“I think you do. I think you want my mouth,” she said, no longer joking. “On you.”

Dascha shifted his weight, and Estée was certain that she could feel him move his pelvis away from her, no doubt to hide what might be occurring in his jeans.

“It’s a nice mouth is all,” he said. “And I’m not particularly interested in watching it on another man.”

“Why not?”

“Do I really have to answer that?”

“Yes. Please.”

“Fine,” he said, the arm that had been hooked around her moving so that now his left hand sat on the curve of her hip, his fingers gently digging in. “Because of this, right here. Because of you. I was sent across the ocean to find you. And I did. I’d seen your picture, and I had all sorts of preconceptions about who you are. And I was so, so wrong.”

“So what am I?”

“You’re complicated. You’re definitely intelligent. And…”

“And?”

“Beautiful,” he said, his fingers sweeping along the S-curve of her body, up her waist, reaching the arm that lay across her chest. “You are beautiful, Estée. And I want you.”

Now he moved into her once again, pressing himself to her wordlessly so that she could feel his hard length easing into her backside; all his desire represented in that one motion.

And between her legs she felt it too, the arousal, the sweet agony of want. Twenty minutes suddenly seemed like not nearly enough time to be tangled in a trunk with this man.

Her eyes closed and her hand took his, pulling it over her chest, slipping it into her open-collared shirt and pressing his fingers to her heart.

He could feel it; the rapid beats, the strength and fragility of her. The admission of weakness, of attraction.

“I’m scared,” she whispered as she held his hand in place.

“It’ll be all right…the border…”

“No. Not of that,” she said. “I’m scared of what will happen to you.”

“Nothing will happen to me that’s not meant to happen,” he said.

“You’re going to face an Alpha with a pack on his side.”

“That Alpha is a traitor to our kind. His pack will let us have at it. They won’t interfere.”

“What if he’s stronger than you, Dascha?”

“Then he wins. But he’s not, and he won’t.”

“How do you know?” Estée’s face was turned so sharply that he could feel her breath on his own lips now, only an inch from his own.

“Because I have you,” he said, moving forward so that his lips brushed hers, as faintly as a leaf floating over their surface. “I have you on my side. I have your strength.”

Estée pulled her face away then, a wash of common sense dousing her as though she’d been hit with an ice cold bucket of water.

She felt Dascha’s hand slip away, outside of her shirt as though a sign of respect; understanding of her change in mood.

“Dascha,” she said.

“Mmm?” She could almost feel him wincing, his balls no doubt a bright shade of royal blue by now. Amusement mixed with sympathy inside her.

“Don’t get killed, okay?”

“Mmmm.”

A few minutes later, the familiar sound of quiet snoring came from him.

Men.