Wolf Rock Shifters Books 1-5: Five BBW Paranormal Romance Standalone Novels (56 page)

T
he drive north
towards Calais was largely uneventful. Dascha was a good driver, at least, and quickly grew accustomed to the strange car.

“When we reach the border,” he said, “Just follow my lead. You’re my Canadian girlfriend, if they ask. What did you say your name is?”

“Anita Grant,” said Estée.

“Great, Anita. We met at the University of Colorado. You were studying…”

“Hmm…let’s say Anthropology,” she said.

“All right. And I was there on a football scholarship.”

“Of course you were,” said Estée, laughing.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Just…you’re big, in case you hadn’t noticed. Makes sense. It’s not like you’d be studying neuroscience.”

“Well, I reserve the right to be offended by that remark, my little cat burglar,” he said. “I’m not a meathead.”

Estée’s lips involuntarily curled up at the corners. “You look pretty beefy to me,” she said.

“Hey now, I could take that badly.”

“Listen, honey, I like steak. Especially tenderloin. Melts in the mouth.”

“Well then, I’ll take your cruel words as a compliment.”

“Good. See? Interacting like boyfriend and girlfriend. We’re already having our first proper fight. Well, if you don’t count all the other ones.”

“Well, as long as there’s makeup sex afterwards, I’m fine with all this.”

“Spoken like a true man.”

After a peaceful two-hour drive through the French countryside they came to a town called Amiens. It was the first time in days that Estée had felt at home, even if it was only a very temporary one inside a moving vehicle. For a few moments at least, she’d been able to forget that she was the prey of hired assassins.

Unfortunately, the drive had to end.

But at least their rest stop was a beautiful town, ancient, friendly and largely quiet. The Paris throngs were gone and the likelihood of getting attacked by a shifter in a dark suit seemed minimal here.

“You hungry?” asked Dascha as he navigated the car along the town’s narrow roads.

Other than their brief talk of meat, Estée hadn’t even thought about food after the events of the last twenty-four hours, but as soon as the words came to her ear she realized that she was starving.

“Yeah,” she said. “I am.”

“Well, we’re not in a hurry. Why don’t we stop somewhere and I’ll see about finding a pay phone? I should call the pack leader and let him know what’s happened, and they we’re headed up there. It’s only right.”

“Can’t you just howl a message or something? Isn’t that what wolves do?”

“Our howls don’t carry between countries.”

“I see.”

“Besides, I have to own up to my part in all this, and to warn him. But at least I don’t think we’re being followed; I’ve spent the last couple of hours with my eyes glued to the rear view mirror. Well, except when I was looking at the road. They say that’s a good idea.”

He pulled over to the side of a narrow street lined with shops and restaurants. “There’s a phone,” he said. “I’ll meet you back here after I make the call.”

“Dascha,” said Estée, her voice quiet, a series of thoughts coming to her slowly. “That man this morning—the hyena shifter—he knew we’d be there. It’s like he was deliberately taking down the one guy who could help us escape.”

“Yeah, and?”

“Don’t you think that it’s odd that he knew someone was picking us up to help us get out of Paris?”

“Estée, men have been hunting you for days. It’s as likely as not that the guy happened upon us by sniffing us out. The driver got caught up in the mess. You’re not suggesting that this was an inside job, are you?”

“I don’t know. But just in case, maybe you’d be wise not to tell them exactly where we are this time.”

Dascha pondered her words for a few seconds before replying.

“Understood,” he said. “Don’t worry. Even for a meathead, I can be pretty smart.”

He got out of the car and made his way to the nearby phone booth while Estée chose to wander down the street, taking stock of the money belt at her waist and securing the package once again at the bottom of her satchel, under a few folded items of clothing.

Her first stop was at a patisserie, where she picked up a croissant. It was enough to temporarily satisfy her hunger and she continued her stroll, eyeing the quiet storefronts. She stopped in front of a shop window, for a moment fantasizing about being a tourist on her honeymoon with the man she loved. Oh, to have such a simple life.

On display in the window before her were a beautiful linen shirt and skirt—light, feminine, comfortable. She did miss her suitcase full of clothes.

In a moment of weakness she headed inside. She had money, after all; she could afford to buy a bit of new clothing.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” said the young woman in the shop.

“Hello,” smiled Estée, fingering the garments in front of her. “May I try some things on?” she asked, gesturing as though playing charades.

“Oui, bien sûr,” said the woman. “There are dressing rooms at the back.”

Estée grabbed a few things including a white dress, a new pair of jeans and a couple of shirts, and moved towards the back of the shop. It was too bad that the French hadn’t yet adopted the style of shifters’ tearaway clothing, but of course, her kind was still an anomaly here. The shopkeeper probably wouldn’t have the first clue that she was talking to a woman with a rampaging tiger sitting dormant inside her.

First she tried on the dress, which fit remarkably well. Busty women always had trouble in feminine garments, or at least Estée did, but this one seemed made for her problematic form. She slipped out of the changing room to examine herself in the mirror. The dress was fitted in the bodice, hugging her curves perfectly thanks to a generous helping of elastic sewn into the back, and the skirt was full, mid-calf length.

Estée had never doubted her pretty face; with it she had manipulated many a man. But now she looked at the whole package; body, face, and deeper, into her own persona, and asked if she liked what she saw.

Her dark hair was still pulled back, in need of the benefits of a shower but remarkably clean for having spent the night on a bench.

She turned and looked at herself sideways, wondering what Dascha would think of the dress.

“It’s perfect,” a voice said as she started, her heart pulsing a little too fast.

“Dascha,” she said as she turned around. He was standing, arms crossed, staring at her. A look of admiration was etched onto his face. “You’re done with your call?” she asked.

“Yes, I am. I spoke to the Alpha.” He walked up, standing over her now, close enough that she could feel his breath on her ample cleavage. She looked into his eyes, which quickly evaded her glance, wandering over her shoulders and breasts as though caressing them gently. Estée told herself that she was mistaken in thinking that she saw hunger in his expression.

Dascha’s left hand came up and his fingers stroked her neck softly, causing her a quick intake of breath.

“You had a few stray hairs,” he said, pulling his hand away immediately.
Of course. Stray hairs.

“Oh. Thanks.” She turned back and pulled the dressing room curtain closed behind her. A moment later she returned with the pile of clothing, which she brought to the front counter, grabbing a hanging cloth tote bag as she did so.

“I’ll take all of this,” she said to the shopkeeper.

“Did you even try it all on?” Dascha asked. “I don’t mind waiting, if you want to. I could even help you…”

Estée let out an awkward laugh. “It’s fine,” she said. “I know my size. I’ll make them work.”

“Okay. I’ll be outside.”

He laid a hand on her back before letting it slip away, a path of heat left in its wake as Estée once again felt herself melt into something like a pool of molten lava, searing hot and churning from within. Did he have any idea of the effect that he had on her?

This was dangerous; feelings, attachment, attraction. Maybe it was some sort of psychological effect of being saved repeatedly by a man; an illusion created by circumstance. If she’d seen him on the street, would she be so entranced by him?

Hell yes, she would.

He was glorious. He was strong, intelligent, and even a little funny. He had the most insane body that she’d ever seen. And he was
good.
So damned good. If she’d had her way, they would have just run off to the Tropics together to do unimaginable things to one another’s bodies for days and weeks, but he wanted to pay his dues to his pack, and even to this stranger’s pack in England. He wanted to do the right thing and to return the jade figurine.

He was infuriatingly good, and it sucked.

W
hen she’d paid
for the clothing, Estée piled it into the new tote bag and walked outside to the place where Dascha stood, examining the façades of the Amiens buildings.

“It’s a far cry from Wolf Rock,” he said. “Come on, I want to show you something special.”

He led Estée down the street and they turned right. Ahead of them, previously hidden from view, was a giant gothic cathedral, exquisite and ornate. It looked like all the pictures that Estée had seen of Notre Dame in Paris. The only difference was that its two towers were different heights; one cut off as though amputated after an accident or disease. But somehow its conspicuous scar only served to give it more character.

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

“Isn’t it? I’m sorry we didn’t get to see the one in Paris up close. But this is a different Notre Dame. I figure it’s almost as good. I also thought you could use a break from everything for a few minutes. You deserve it.”

She couldn’t even look at him for fear that tears might form if she did. He was right; she was emotionally spent, for all her pretence of strength. She just wanted to rest. To spend a few moments at peace, to forget everything.

The building towered over her, a massive stone behemoth that made her feel both tiny and protected at once under its shelter. Estée had never been a religious person; it was difficult to relate to a doctrine that didn’t seem to recognize the existence of her kind—there weren’t exactly a lot of shifters in the Bible. But something about churches had always seemed so beautiful to her, for what they represented: community, a protective roof, the goodness of people who genuinely wanted to help others.

She was a cynic in many ways, but in this she liked to consider only the good. A church was a community, much as a wolf pack was, or the town of Wolf Rock, for that matter. For all the problems that religion had faced over history, it was something that brought lost souls together. And that was just what she was in this moment: a lost soul.

“Do you want to go in?” asked Dascha.

“I…could we?” she asked.

“Of course. Like I said, no rush.” He seemed genuinely to mean it, his tone more patient than usual as he pushed her towards the entrance with his words.

It was as though he wanted to see her heal from all of her wounds. Once again he was protecting her, saving her.

D
ascha watched
as Estée made her way slowly along the church’s façade, examining each carved human face as though to pay tribute to the men who, centuries earlier, had painstakingly etched features into the stone, carved tiny details which most observers would never notice. Every square inch was lovingly and expertly crafted, and now it seemed as though Estée was unwilling to miss any of it.

Whether she was delaying the rest of the trip, he didn’t know. Perhaps she was contemplating an escape attempt. Maybe she wanted to get away from him. After all, he hadn’t exactly been kind to her. He knew that he’d hurt her more than once in their brief time together, bringing back feelings from her past, hurtful incidents. And he’d reprimanded her for her behaviour, like a grouchy parent speaking to a child.

But all of it had been intended to help. Everything in him wanted to protect this woman, to shield her from harm. For the rest of her life, even, though the thought of it terrified him. He couldn’t take rejection, not from her.

But he cared for her, and more deeply than a man should care about any woman he’d known for such a brief time. After his stern resolution to avoid her gender he’d been drawn in, bewitched by every aspect of her.

And that was why he needed to fix all of it, and now. Why they needed to sort things with the London wolf pack, the so-called Fraternity of the Claw, and with Grendel. He needed to save her from her pursuers and to ensure that they would never come after her again.

And then he would have to let her go. To say good-bye, and each of them would get on with their lives. As soon as he could prove to her family back in Wolf Rock that she was all right, he would shake her hand and set her free like a bird in flight.

That was, after all, what she was. Estée was more bird than cat, always looking to the vast sky, always searching for a way out. Running away, afraid to be caged. He’d felt it in the car; her reluctance to sit still, her hand reaching for the token of her mother, the one remnant that kept her calm, still. The jade tiger was her anchor.

But the thought of it—of letting her go, was hard to take. In her, Dascha saw himself: a person lost, trying so hard to function alone, to prove to himself that he didn’t need anyone else. And yet he was discovering that the opposite was true.

Shifters always talked about mates. And when one found the person they were meant to join with, to be with forever, something happened to them, as though an inner feeling of peace penetrated their hard shells, working its way through their bloodstreams. The most dangerous and difficult man could be brought down by love and Dascha had seen it again and again over time.

He’d insisted internally that he wouldn’t be one of those guys, though. He would persist alone, his ambition guiding him to his rightful place among wolves, at the head of a pack. That was where he belonged. The occasional bout of lust was one thing, but love? That was a crutch.

But something in Estée made him question the fate he’d always envisioned for himself. When he was in her presence it was as though a hard outer wall was being stripped away, one piece at a time. He went from thinking about his pack to thinking about her, her well-being, her needs. And in this moment all he cared about was her happiness. For that, he would have given anything.

There was her physicality as well. How could he help but find her alluring? The vision of her standing in that shop, her beautiful curves hugged by the thin, soft white dress, which made her look so ethereal. Like a porcelain, dark-haired angel. An angel with a wicked twist, and one that he wanted to bite, to claw, to possess. She made him want to be better and worse at once—but worse in all the best possible ways.

When he’d approached her in the shop, he’d inhaled the scent of her skin, unwashed but clean; the smell of her femininity pouring off of her, better than any perfume that money could buy. He’d wanted to bury his nose in the soft cleavage that the dress revealed to his exploring eyes, to slide his lips along her collarbone, to taste that neck of hers, which seemed to beckon to him like its own being.

Dascha shook his head, realizing that he’d gone off into a dreamland, allowing his fantasies to take the reality away: he was here to save this woman.

And now where was she?

He looked around, seeing only tourists milling about the front of the church. No Estée.

He raced inside, his eyes momentarily blinded by the contrast of the outdoor sunshine and the dim candlelit interior, enhanced by the rays of sunlight piercing beautiful stained glass windows.

As he took in the interior space he was filled with awe. Dascha had never seen such a place as this. Its ceiling arched higher than any treetop that he’d ever seen, its columns reaching to the sky, no doubt in an attempt to hit something close to Heaven.

And then he saw her, lighting a candle among a sea of flickering flames.

“I didn’t know you were a religious girl,” he whispered as he came upon her from behind.

“I’m not,” she said. “But apparently people light these in memory of loved ones. This is for my mother. I think she would have loved this place.”

“That’s a sweet gesture,” he said.

Estée turned to him, her face aglow from the light below. “Thank you so much,” she said. “For bringing me here. For knowing what I needed.”

She laid a hand briefly on his forearm before pulling it away again.

“You’re welcome,” he said.

She walked away, her head turning to take in this and that bit of architecture and design, her feet reluctant to move too quickly, and Dascha watched her, wanting to put his arms around her and to hold her as they moved together as one, to feel what she was feeling—even if it was nothing but pain and sorrow. If he could help her just a little he would do anything.

He almost wanted to laugh, recalling how only a day earlier he had envisioned her as a burden; an object to zip up in a bag and to carry home. He had never imagined this being, better than himself and filled with complexity. Raw, in need of love as he was. Distant, fearful. Vulnerable yet strong.

He wanted her so much that it was killing him.