City Wolves: Paranormal Shapeshifter Werewolf Romance Bundle (Master of the City / Mistress of the City) (17 page)

“
O
hhh
…please…I can’t…Do it now!”

Sandwiched between her men, Nat cried out in frustration and pleasure. Their bodies brushed, the slap of skin on skin filling the air and the scent of pleasure and wildness surrounded them. This time, their mating was in an actual bed rather than the cold ground, the ruins of the manor rebuilt the instant the alphas were released from their enchantment. But it didn’t matter, she’d have followed her lovers…her mates, anywhere.

Tight heat made a battleground of her body as she was filled over and over, pussy and ass stretched by thick, rigid cocks, but the physical pleasure wasn’t what drove her. Another need, driven by the creature inside, took precedence. She arched her back, pressed against Verne and tilted her neck to the side in mute appeal.

“Nearly there, love,” he rasped and his lips grazed her shoulder. Inside, she stilled, waiting for the sharp bite of his teeth, claiming her. Finally. She needed them to bite her, to add that final mark of possession and mating to her body at the height of their pleasure.

Her pussy clenched, tightening around Darrick and he moved, pulling her down over him. The tension within her escalated, until her vision started to gray at the edges. It was too much…

“Hold still, love.” Verne’s voice was thick, almost primal.

She tried to nod, couldn’t, but it didn’t matter. In the next heartbeat they struck. Fangs sank into her shoulders, one set each side. As if that was what her body had been waiting for, she came; an explosion of heat starting in her core and spiraling outward at light speed. A wave of pleasure greater than anything she’d ever felt rushed over her, swallowed her whole and took her into an abyss of pure bliss as the two cocks buried within her pulsed their own releases.

She barely felt the fangs remove from her shoulders, the gentle swipe of tongues to heal the wounds as she floated in pleasure. Gentle, loving touches brought her back to earth, and she opened her eyes to find herself between two hard male bodies. Nestled. Protected. Loved.

“Back with us, love?” Darrick smiled, the lines of pain and loneliness eased from his handsome face.

She nodded and reached up to stroke his jaw. He had stubble, heavier than usual. More evidence they had been released from the curse. A quick glance at Verne confirmed he was the same and she sighed in contentment.

Her men were free, finally, and all hers.

Forever.

“
B
ut
, Mom, do I
have
to go to the ball?”

Archer Davis stopped mid-stride as his little brother’s voice filtered through the half-open bedroom door and into the corridor. Seth was sixteen and a total teenager. That he was conversing in full sentences was new, but the petulant tone wasn’t. On an average day, Seth could make even a grunt sound like a whine. Now though, he just sounded scared—very scared—which sent all of Archer’s protective instincts into overdrive. Without another thought, he barged through the door.

“What ball?”

His mom and brother jumped, turning to look at him. He bit back a shiver at the twin set of amber eyes. Werewolf eyes. It still freaked him the hell out to see them. His mom had married a wolf, his stepdad, when he was seven years old, and Seth had been born a Were. Call him speciesist, but he still preferred to see his mom’s eyes their original—human—brown.

Ignoring it, he focused on his mom. Of the two, she was more likely to tell him what was going on. “Ball?” he prompted.

“The Midwinter Choosing,” Seth answered, his whole manner flustered and he yanked at the suit he wore. It was a little too big for him, evidently borrowed from his father. Although they were the same height, thanks to Seth’s recent growth spurt, he had yet to fill out in the shoulders so the jacket hung loose on him.

“Wait…what? The annual fuckfest for the mistress?” Although the rest of his family was Were, Archer wasn’t a wolf, but living in the pack house since he’d been discharged from the army had left him with a good idea of furry politics.

“Archer!” his mother snapped, reaching out to smooth Seth’s jacket straight. “It’s not a…a—”

“Fuckfest,” Seth grunted, grinning despite the fear that had leeched his skin. Like most immature teenagers, dirty words still made him snigger.

“No, no! It’s an honor for an offering to be chosen,” she insisted, fussing over Seth again. “And as a pack, we have to send an offering or we’ll be in default. Seth’s the only unmated male we have. And he’s an adult.”

Her cheeks turned scarlet as she tried to avoid mentioning sex, but the elephant crowded into the room anyway. The Midwinter Choosing was
all
about sex, and everyone knew it. It was when the mistress, the most powerful werewolf in the city and “overlord” of all the packs, chose a bedmate for the night. A young, handsome lycan to fuck while the moon was high.

Archer snorted to himself, and the poor fuckers were grateful for the chance at her. He’d never met the mistress, but since werewolves gained power as they aged, she was no doubt some dried up old harridan who needed protocol to entice a guy into her bed.

His mood soured as he looked at Seth, all tarted up like he was about to head to senior prom. It would be so easy to slip into that delusion, but it would be a lie, and Archer detested lies. His little brother was about to be served up like the sacrificial lamb, and as the reality set in, he looked as scared as fuck about it.

“Have you forgotten Seth is only sixteen?” Archer asked, his voice deceptively calm. Folding his arms over his chest, he ignored the fact that his shirt pulled at the shoulders. He needed to go shopping, all his tops were too tight since he’d been stateside and hitting the weights hard. “He’s not an adult.”

Their mother pursed her lips.

“Maybe not for a human, but for a wolf, he’s been an adult for months. Ever since he mastered his part shift.” At that, she beamed with pride. Part-shifting was something Archer knew the furries prized. It meant Seth would be an alpha like his father.

“Really.” Archer’s voice was flat and rang with the disapproval he didn’t attempt to hide. “Well, you have fun tonight,” he said and turned to leave the room.

What was it to him if the kid’s parents threw him to the wolves? Or, in this case, wolf. One wolf. The Mistress of the City.

Reena Leroy. The most powerful werewolf in the city, she ruled from her “court” over on Eastside. From stories Archer overheard, whispered when they thought he, the human, wasn’t listening, she was a cast iron bitch who’d killed her own father to attain her position.

He stomped down the corridor to his own room and slammed the door behind him. Why did he care that Seth—still a child—would be shown off like a piece of meat in front of a woman no doubt old enough to be his grandmother? Archer had never been to court, so he had no idea what the woman looked like, but even he knew wolves gained power as they aged.

How old would a female wolf more powerful than the rest have to be? Seth might have mastered his part-shift, but he was no match for a woman like that. She’d chew him up and spit him out. The whole idea of men…hell
anyone
…paraded about for one person to pick from for sexual services turned his stomach. It was disgusting, archaic and he wanted nothing to do with such a society. Unfortunately, he didn’t have that luxury.

Archer stood in front of his open wardrobe, anger and worry vying for dominance in his gut. For the first time in his life, he wished he’d taken up his mother’s offer to turn him. He’d always refused because his military career depended on him remaining human. Wolves, while not banned from the services, were not exactly treated like equals…

His gaze fell on his good suit and a slow smile crawled over his lips.

But he wasn’t in the army anymore.

He didn’t need to be human anymore.

And today was a good day to put an uppity female wolf in her place.

* * *

T
wo hours later
, Archer slid his car to a stop outside the court building. Cutting the engine, he levered himself out of the low vehicle and handed his keys to the valet. The guy, a wolf by the amber eyes, flicked a glance at him.

“Pack?” he demanded, his expression a little suspicious.

Archer gave him a scowl to look at. “Griffin. What of it?”

The smaller man’s eyes widened, just a touch, before he bowed his head. “Well met, Alpha. Through the double doors and turn right, the Master of Ceremonies is waiting to welcome you.”

Archer nodded, striding toward the building in front of him. That had been easier than he’d thought. In fact, he’d expected to fall at the first hurdle. Expected alarms to blare as soon as he set foot in court, warning all the little wolfies that they had—shock, horror—a human in their midst. Well, perhaps human wasn’t accurate. But the valet had barely looked at him after Archer growled. Being an asshole got him mistaken for an alpha wolf. Go figure.

Surreptitiously he rubbed the tiny flesh colored bandage between his thumb and forefinger. He’d covered all his bases. He told his mom and the driver of the arranged limo that he’d make sure Seth got to court on time and despite his lycan heritage, Seth had been easy to sneak up on. When you lived with wolves, it was easy to figure out how to trick one into a part shift, then knock him out. He’d used Seth’s claw, puncturing the skin just enough to infect himself with the lycanthrope virus.

After that, it was a walk in the park. Seth was bundled up nice and neat in his own closet back home, the locked door no barrier when he woke, and Archer had driven himself here without incident. He didn’t have to worry about his mom and her husband turning up. His stepfather was ailing, ill health meaning only his brother’s presence was expected at the choosing.

Archer rolled his shoulders, settling his jacket more comfortably as he walked through the double doors. Court was not at all what he’d expected. The word conjured images of historical buildings and stately elegance, but the building was modern chrome and glass. He looked around and turned right. Good thing they weren’t all vampires or they’d be crispy critters come morning.

More doors opened in front of him and a thin man looked up from his clipboard. “Pack?”

Archer bit back his anger. Did no one ask people’s names around here, or were they all known by their pack monikers? What if there was more than one from each pack…did they assign each a number?

“Griffin. Here as the offering.”

The man just nodded and made a note. “Very well, follow me.”

* * *

S
he was bored
out of her fucking mind.

Reena Leroy, Mistress of the City, and the most powerful wolf in the room, sighed and drained her champagne glass in one shot. Motioning toward a waiter, she disposed of it and collected another. It wouldn’t make a difference how much she drank, she couldn’t get drunk, more was the pity. Getting plastered might make the evening bearable.

Just.

She still had to pick a man to fuck. Tradition going back centuries. She wished she could just cancel the damn thing, change the law, but the council of alpha’s had pitched a hissy fit when she’d so much as mentioned it.

Ugh, she needed more champagne. Waaaaay more champagne. The waiter was still hovering, his expression bland as she exchanged her glass yet again and looked across the room from her place on the raised dais. It was filled with men. All kinds of men. Short, tall, skinny, and muscled. They were mostly young. The law required each pack to send a virile, young offering. Most had sent more than one, to increase their chances of getting a wolf into her bed, and hopefully get her pregnant. They did that, and convention dictated that maybe, just maybe, they got to be her consort.

Yeah, right. So not happening
.

She looked at her glass, swirling the golden fluid. Shit. She wished her best friend Travis was here. For years, he’d covered her ass, pretending to be her pick for the evening even though they weren’t a couple. But now he was happily mated, and she refused to cut into his honeymoon.

Suck it up, buttercup
, she told herself, knocking back the rest of the champagne and rising at the same time. How hard could it be to pick a guy to fuck?

One night. Mindless sex.

She could do this.

Her progress down the steps of the dais was careful but elegant. It was her armor, so she’d chosen her outfit for the evening with care. The halter-neck dress was fitted to the hips before flaring out into swathes of fabric around her ankles. Unlike the other women in the room, the few who had accompanied some of the older males rather than the offerings, not a sequin or bead sparkled on the black fabric, but when she turned, she heard the whispered gasps and muttered comments. Her lower back was exposed, the skin marked and puckered with scarring.

She rarely revealed them, but she wasn’t ashamed of the marks on her skin. To her, they were her history and a visual reminder of the horror of a childhood with a violent father. When that father had claws…even wolves, especially young wolves, scarred. She set her face into a pleasant smile and circulated the room, weaving around the men.

Although most were too well schooled to wince at the sight of her back, most knew who’d given her those scars and that they’d all stood back, no one doing anything while she’d suffered all those years ago. Everyone remembered that she’d killed the son of a bitch.

Nineteen years old, and in her first challenge fight, she’d killed…no, slaughtered…the most evil werewolf to draw breath in the last few centuries. The fact he’d also been her father was something she’d rather people forgot.
She
was Mistress of the City now, and they’d had fifteen years of peace. Fifteen years where those who were different need not live in fear of their lives. People like her best friend, Travis, whose all-inclusive sexuality had put him right at the top of her father’s shit list.

Her fingers tightened on the stem of her glass at the memory. Her father had been about to kill Travis that night. She’d seen red, her rage almost blinding her and galvanizing her wolf into action. Then there had been a lot more red. The scarlet of her father’s lifeblood as it poured from the mess of his ruined throat onto the granite floor of the old court.

“I didn’t think the champagne was that bad, but it looks like that glass has personally offended you,” a deep, male voice cut in.

Startled, she looked up. No one usually dared interrupt her reverie. Instantly she was caught in a dark-eyed gaze that sparkled with intelligence and humor. “A dance from a beautiful lady could make having to come to this damn cattle market worthwhile.”