Seduced By The Rogue Alpha (BBW Shifter Romance) (2 page)

“I understand Beatrice!” Annabel yelled. “I understand I’m not what you want me to be, but you can’t…”

“Can’t what? Look out for you? Try to achieve the best for you?” Beatrice’s roared, but upon seeing Annabel’s jaded expression, her anger turned to a bizarre form of manipulative compassion all with the intent to incite guilt from Annabel. “I just want what’s best for you. I’m so sorry I yelled, child. Now, just go to bed and we‘ll forget all about this.” Beatrice lightly patted Annabel, smiling, and sent her off.

  Off in her bed, Annabel dreamt that night of running through the woods free and unfettered, sprinting with the skin changing Lycans. There, in that nighttime reverie, she could enjoy both sides of Lycan life, run boundlessly as a wolf and make love as a man. Something she thought while fanciful but was not quite impossible.

  The following morning, Annabel rose with the sun, performing her litany of morning tasks with Beatrice monitoring her. Annabel secretly waited, performing her tasks but anticipating her afternoon venture into the wide, open field. She counted the hours down, so she could finally be free. When the time came, she fled into the wide, windy pastures for leafy herbs and juicy tubers. But best of all, was the simple joy of experiencing the verdant, sunlit country, the place where the outskirts of civilization and the wilds met. There, she communed with grass and flowers and nectar-laced gales, occasionally taking time to dream of her ideal suitor.

  For weeks, this continued, and for weeks, Annabel would wander into the village once a week to sell her goods and hear stories of village folk battling the ill skinned changers in the wild Wood. The tales became increasingly fantastic, particularly among the young men. They often involved heroic battles with the beasts, raids on enormous dens, even rumors that the Lycans had even infiltrated the village and were waiting to plot the people’s doom. Despite all of this, Annabel found it amusingly suspicious that none of the lads never returned with a pelt or wolf’s paw to prove their boasts.

  And, so, the monotonous routine continued with only occasional variation. Every few months, Beatrice would march Annabel in front of the long mirror to try on a series of dresses, which were supposed to hide her so-called ‘horribly excessive curves’. The stories of men reporting their valiant patrols of the wild Wood around the village became far more fantastic and thus, farcical.

  But as the summer began to wane on a not too unusual afternoon in a field of high grass, Annabel heard heavy rasping exhales. She froze, still looking around, afraid to even think of what it might be. A musky scent clung around her. The taste of blood in the air and matted fur assaulted her nose and the beating sounds of a hounds’ breathe echoed in her ears. Only, it was far bigger than a mere hound.

  Gulping deeply and walked cautiously forward, Annabel moved through the waist-high grass until she came to a clearing where she found herself face-to-face with the beast. A wolf, one far larger than she had ever seen, stood before her all black-furred with only a few accents of white and grey. The animal snarled, causing Annabel to leap back in alarm. But then, she collected herself in a strangely rapid manner.

“Look to the actions and search their eyes, they’ll speak truth that’s where their intent lies,” she whispered.

  Rather than observing with dread at the wolf’s trim, but muscled body, or its exposed fangs and claws, she looked instead into its eyes. Those deep amber orbs didn’t threaten attack but betrayed vulnerability, fear, bizarrely even tenderness. Feeling emboldened, Annabel slowly inched to her left to find the wolf bore a large gash on his thigh. She held her hand out, at first tentatively, then, confidently, she moved towards the animal. In response, the wolf withdrew his bare fangs, then, carefully sniffed Annabel’s inviting palm, then licking it. Annabel stayed there, gradually  moving closer for the wolf to inspect its wound.

“This needs to be mended,” she began in a slow voice. To her surprise, the wolf paused then nodded in response to her suggestion. And so, Annabel pulled leaves from her basket and applied a makeshift poultice to the majestic creature’s limb. As minutes went by, her fear dissipated and she began to casually converse with the beast. For some reason, she felt she could open up to it…to him.

“Can you return to your mannish form? Don‘t worry, your secret is safe with me. I won‘t tell anyone what you look like.”

After a pause, the wolf shook his head in a defeated manner.

“I imagine you must be pretty old, being so lanky and graying.”

A loud snort exited the wolf’s nose in an annoyed manner.

“So you’re younger then?”

The wolf nodded then shifted his gaze to look out at the open sky in a stoic manner.

              “Well, I’m Annabel. I suppose since you can’t change back, there’s no point in me asking your name, is there? But that‘s okay.”

  Annabel continued to dress the wound while feeling the wolf’s course textured hair, enjoying the sound of its deep, even breathe. She could feel the ripples of sinew and muscle along its taut frame. It was not a sensual experience but a spiritual one, for lack of a better term.

“Here you go,” said Annabel, while finishing up and pressing the last of the herbal mixture into the wolf’s injury, still trying to make conversation with the beast. When it was finished, the two sat there again, staring, waiting, and uneasy, neither comrade nor opponent.

  As the bells chimed, Annabel found herself again in a field of grass, trying desperately to remember the ecstasy of feeling no care or worry with a hint of libidinous. She rubbed her eyes looking for the lupine stranger, but the wolf was gone. She rushed home, trying to keep pace with the falling sun, knowing Beatrice would be at home, ready to scold and condescend her. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Only the connection she felt with the wolf. She had looked past the flesh, past the appearance of what most would’ve thought to be a mindless beast ready to tear her to crimson tatters. Instead of perceiving her as a threat, the beast decided to remain copacetic and cooperative, allowing for something to pass between them that were  more than just healing but understanding.

              “Again? Where have you been? There are so many…” Beatrice began nagging Annabel as soon as she approached the farmyard. Beatrice began to go through her typical tirade off insults and threats, adding to the list of chores to be finished before sundown. Annabel finished them all without complaint or even the slightest response. The only thing she thought of, was the Lycan visitor in the field, free to come and go, free to choose, to cooperate or leave of its own accord. A being, no, an ideal she craved to pursue.

  When the sun finally set, Annabel went through the barn once more to check everything had been put away but stopped when she noticed a strange protuberance in one of the hay stalls. Closer observation revealed it was flesh colored and ended in tiny projections. Toes. Feet. Bare legs. Annabel rushed to see the body, which was attached to it and found a boy, or a man? A man! It was a
young
man about her age, asleep and naked, laying covered haphazardly in straw. Exposed was most of his torso, extremities, neck and head revealing he had jet black hair on the top of his head with only a little strip of the same on his abdomen. It was somewhat curly and wild, reminding Annabel of the unpredictable waves of the Great Sea. His face was handsome, yet intense, reminding Annabel of the wild dogs she occasionally saw in the village, only far more feral. Even his ears retained a slight lupine appearance. His skin wasn’t fair like hers but slightly ruddy and a bit tawny.

  Annabel began to look closer upon the striking, unconscious youth finding that he had a curious scar with flecks of green leaf on his right thigh. Could it be? Annabel slowly turned the lad more on his side to find at the top of his buttocks was a small furry tail. …
he
is the Lycan! Annabel widely grinned both in happiness that her new companion was safe and flushed by the thrill of finding such a gorgeous body in her barn. Her eyes drifted down to lads crouch, still covered in far too concealing hay. With baited breath she reached her hand down to see, to discover what had been hidden from her imagination. What secrets about the male body she had heard of but never seen for herself. What anatomical treasures lay hid under just a handful of straw? And just as her arm had crept low enough a sharp exhale broke the stillness. The lads’ eyes had opened.

II “Elevation”

Where came the Mist, the source of man and skin changers races many may debate. From the High-lords in their heavens or from the furnaces of the deep most scholars exclaim. Perhaps from the Great Sea or eastern mountains range, others say. But what is known is the resting place of the founding Mist is now the lost South. Both being kind, avoid venturing towards such a place save the bold and deranged. For once one enters the vast fields of the Mist one sees what most fear; reflections of their true self as if they were looking into a mystic mirror.

                                                        -excerpt from the Darenkh Chronicles, by Vedakh Carn

  Bright, amber eyes peered back into Annabel’s with a sense of wonder and bewilderment. The wolf-man was now erect, sitting up in the pile of hay and straw, his body and hair covered haphazardly in the thresh. His eyes scanned Annabel as if trying to decipher whether she was full of goodwill or woe. Annabel thought to open her mouth and start talking, but she then decided not to those the light resin-colored eyes from staring at her. She breathed deeply as a warm flush filled her chest. Right now, a gorgeous young man was sitting across from her, inside her barn, just the two of them. Biting her lip Annabel prayed that he might be the savage she had heard all skin changers were and take her right there. While unable to ask such a thing aloud, in her mind she began to picture him pinning her down, tearing the clothes from milky flesh. If he did, she hoped he’d start by taking her like a bitch in heat, then flip her every which way, and finally finishing on top staring at her with those big, possessing amber eyes.

“Where am I?” the Lycan asked, shattering the still silence.

“Y- You’re, uh, this is my barn. Well, Beatrice’s anyway.” Annabel responded struggling through her heated thoughts. Her gaze was now shifting from the lad’s eyes to his trim but defined, bronzed chest. From there, to his similarly muscled legs and then, to the hay covered space between them.

“Are you the girl from the field?” he continued. “My memories are a little clouded.”

“Uh, yes,” Annabel stammered trying to concentrate on the conversation rather than the growing sensation of carnality, which had gripped her mind. “I’m Annabel.”

“Annabel,” he said, with a nervous grin, still clearly unsure whether or not to trust her. His head then darted about the barn, taking in his surroundings.

“How did you come to be here?” she asked.

“I think…” the lad’s eyes shifted downward, moving in the way one does when they think with great effort. His voice rose and trailed off unevenly, indicating a lack of confidence in his recollection. “I think I left after you patched my wound. I tried to avoid the hunters, those bastards…I think I lost them as I ran, but…”

“You don’t remember?” Annabel inquired, keenly interested. She had always been told that skin changers were either completely in control of themselves after they turned or lost their minds to the bestial form they’d taken. Was he the latter type?

“I can’t…it’s difficult for me to recall what happens when I change. I’m still trying to control how I do it.” The youth’s eyes shifted down in embarrassment. Annabel thought it curious that his sense of shame came from opening up about his actions, not being stark naked in front of a total stranger.

“What’s your name?” Annabel asked, now squatting to appear less domineering.

“Eh, Dirk,” he replied coyly, still unsure of Annabel’s intentions, “Listen I’m sorry to have stayed in your barn, I’ll leave right- ah!” Dirk recoiled, shrieking and grabbing at the gash on his thigh, his leg continued to lightly shake in spasms of pain.

“You should stay here to heal,” Annabel insisted with a notable mix of true, genuine compassion as well as a mounting feeling of lust in her voice. “I’ll grab some bandages and clothes for you.”

  With a motivated vigor, Annabel rushed from the barn to sneak away some wrapping cloth and an old tunic from the cottage. Beatrice was pacing through the cottage muttering to herself, fortunately, paying no mind to Annabel’s absence. Taking advantage of her neglect, Annabel stole from the kitchen a handful of dried venison and potatoes, also. Returning to the barn, she found Dirk where she had left him, still sitting semi-concealed in a stall of hay. After giving him the food she had acquired, she reluctantly gave him the tunic, stifling her desire to see him uncovered. Interestingly, he, like her, seemed to be embarrassed over his nudity despite his slender frame; Dirk had sat holding his arms around his chest in much the same way Annabel had done when feeling self-conscious about her own appearance.

  She again examined his amber eyes. They were bright as day and possessed a shine, as if to suggest the vibrancy and honesty with which he lived life. Looking into these big pretty eyes, Annabel felt as if she could open up to Dirk about anything or anyway. It wasn’t just the urge to pursue the means to satisfy the physical cravings she had. Yes, she did want a man to find her attractive and lovely. But she wanted to be able to leave her emotional guards riven and allow her suitor to be interested by her inner beauty as well.