Wolf Rock Shifters Books 1-5: Five BBW Paranormal Romance Standalone Novels (50 page)

When at last he got to his feet, he was quickly overwhelmed by a temptation to grab a razor from his carry-on bag and to carve “For the love of all that is good and holy, won’t you please stop with the incessant fucking jibber-jabber” into the stubble on the left side of his face, but thought better of it; he was a large man, but he wasn’t sure he had enough square footage for such a detailed message. Though a simple “Shut up” was a real possibility.

But there was another thing: this trip was supposed to mark a new beginning; new attitudes on his part. An optimistic view of life. After all, he was representing his pack; not out to hurt old ladies’ feelings, and she seemed nice, if not silent, enough.

All of his irritation was residue, left over from his hormonal torment. It would pass. And as he inhaled deeply, he admitted it to himself: He was one stressed-out wolf.

He was young yet, as Tristan liked to remind him. And he was flawed. This assignment was already driving him nuts, and he’d only been out of Wolf Rock for a matter of hours. And
that
was more a sign of his shortcomings than of anyone else’s, and he knew it.

As he wandered down the narrow aisle towards the washroom, passengers’ heads turned his way, gasps emerging from their throats as they took in his size, his powerful build. It was as though these people had never seen a shifter. But then, chances were that they never
had,
at least not in person. It was only in the last couple of years that their kind had gone ‘mainstream,’ and it was his pack that had been more in the public eye than anyone’s.

His breed of shifter was large, muscular; broader than most men, even than professional athletes. His shoulders made his frame more closely resemble a brick wall than a human body. And had a brick wall threatened him, Dascha would most likely have won the fight handily. No one had ever accused him of physical weakness, at least.

If only the people staring at him had known that he was off to hunt a tigress, they’d have gawked even more. Not just
any
tigress, either. The sister of someone he’d come to know and to respect, a friend, who was terrified at what might have become of her younger sibling. For that reason alone, Dascha wanted to bring her back.

For once his motivation wasn’t entirely selfish; this mission was about making someone else’s life better. His priorities were changing, and for that he was grateful.

And there was probably nothing to worry about. Young women were famous for getting themselves into trouble, for running away and pissing their families off. In all likelihood she’d just met some horny young man and was off having a fling in Italy or something. It would probably be an open and shut case, and he’d come out of it looking like the hero. It all seemed too easy, really. He almost felt guilty for getting to take the credit for “rescuing” a woman who wasn’t in need of rescue.

But it was the only way to prove to the pack that he was worthy, reliable. That one day he was capable of taking on the role of Alpha to a pack. Not to take over from Tristan, of course;
he
was solidly in position to lead their pack for years to come. But perhaps he could lead one of his own.

“You’d better make this easy on me, Estée,” he mumbled as he washed his hands in the comically tiny sink, struggling to fit the massive extremities under the running water. “Or so help me.”

He splashed cold water on his face when he’d had his few moments of much-needed solitude, and, after carefully squeezing his massive frame out through the folding door, made his way back down the aisle to the seat, certain that his pack mates had booked it purely to punish him for his insubordination:

“Oh, there you are, dear,” said the old woman when he’d returned to his seat.

And he’d foolishly hoped she’d fall asleep during his absence. Or, you know, succumb to paralysis of the tongue. Was that a thing? “I was afraid we’d lost you,” she said as he crawled over her once again.

“I considered opening the emergency exit and leaping to my death, but the flight attendants told me I’m not allowed,” Dascha replied, smiling in an attempt to conceal at least a little of his sarcasm.

“Oh, no, dear. You shouldn’t
kill
yourself. Think how upset your mother would be.”

“Right. Between that and the stubble, I’ll do her in with my lack of consideration.”

“Yes, dear.” The woman patted his muscular thigh. “Goodness,
that’s
something, isn’t it?” she asked, raising an eyebrow as she looked sideways at him.

Sweet Jesus.

T
he rest
of the flight was an exercise in restraint as Dascha worked to convince himself that a Zen attitude was better than a grumpy one for any potential Alpha. After all, Tristan never seemed to seethe with rage, unless someone threatened those he loved. That man was the essence of even-headedness.

Dascha asked himself what his leader would do in this scenario, and came to the inevitable conclusion that Tristan would nod and smile, taking in the woman’s words obediently even as his eyes scanned the plane for potential threats, protecting everyone on board with his vigilance. With that in mind, Dascha allowed his mind to open to his companion’s tales of surgeries, her grandchildren’s questionable accomplishments and her assortment of adult undergarments, and even managed to begin to relax.

All of it was a test, he decided, which in the end he passed with flying colours, particularly given its difficulty level. It seemed that no topic was off the table. At one point the woman went into the pros and cons of dating a man with erectile dysfunction. Dascha responded by nodding his head slowly, smiling and resisting the temptation to seek out the air sickness bag in the pocket in front of him.

You’ve got this, man.

At long last as the plane taxied into position at Heathrow, the wolf shifter breathed several drawn-out sighs of relief and gently explained that while he was very sorry not to meet his new friend’s cat-loving granddaughter, he had no doubt that she, her five felines and anyone affiliated with them were wonderful creatures.

His foot hit the corridor leading away from the airliner and he told himself that the hardest part of his journey was now over.

Boy, was he wrong.

T
he last social
media posting by Estée had been about some outing she’d had with a friend five weeks earlier, a gallery excursion in London. After that, she’d gone into a state of radio silence, not answering her phone, emails or texts.

The address which Cecile had given Dascha was his only lead at the moment, and there was no indication that Estée had moved to another apartment, or that her social media accounts had been disabled.

It was possible—just
possible
—that he would find her peacefully napping in her apartment, having simply cut herself off from her family in hopes of having some rebellious time alone.

She wasn’t a child; she was in her twenties after all, but as far as Dascha was concerned, that was no sign of maturity. A woman who’d grown up as she had, a member of a wealthy family, a rich girl with little responsibility, would no doubt have moments of bratty behaviour and attention-seeking, and this disappearing trick could have been just that: a test to see if her family would worry enough to look for her. It seemed that a spoiled brat who lived off daddy’s credit cards didn’t care who she inconvenienced.

That was the thing, though: according to her father, Conrad Malcolm, Estée hadn’t charged a cent to any of his cards in weeks. So how she was paying for food or lodging was a total mystery, though not enough to particularly intrigue Dascha, who was convinced that a woman who looked like Estée could get anything she wanted handed to her on a silver platter. A man’s greatest weakness was the inability to resist a beautiful woman.

But her pretty eyes and full lips did nothing at this point but irritate
him.
Yep, women were a thing of the past; parasites that he didn’t have time for. In that sense at least, he was the perfect man for this job. “Babysitting,” he mumbled when he finally grabbed his bag from the luggage carousel. “I’ve been sent across the Atlantic to be a glorified fucking babysitter to an overly-pampered little cat.”

His irritation was amplified by his exhaustion, and a small part of him felt sorry for anyone unfortunate enough to cross his path over the next several hours.

When he’d gotten his bearings at Heathrow Airport, he hopped the express train into downtown London, navigating his way via the subway (or, as the Brits called it, the
Tube
), among antisocial locals on their way to work, or wherever it was that one went in the early morning in that city. Men in well-tailored suits read thick newspapers and women with perfectly made-up faces stood in their impractical heels next to boys in rugby uniforms having lively conversations about celebrities that Dascha had never heard of. This place was another world entirely from Wolf Rock.

He felt out of place in his leather clothing, yet found that no set of inquisitive eyes ever seemed to dwell on him for long. This may have resulted from the hostile glances that he shot in the direction of anyone who dared size him up with a judgmental expression. “No, I’m not wearing an expensive silk suit and yes, I need a shower,” his face said, eyes narrowing as he glared at this and that potential victim.

Something about travel had always made him feel as though a shallow film of dirt had collected over his body, and it seemed now as though everyone on the train knew it: This disgusting man hadn’t washed properly since he’d been on another continent. And it was driving him nuts. Why the hell didn’t subway cars have showers, aside from the obvious “public nudity is frowned upon” thing?

When at last he’d arrived at the station that was nearest to Estée’s apartment, he found his way on foot to her door, carrying his large duffle bag over his shoulder and wondering if he’d be offered a beer when he arrived; the one thing he wanted even more than a hot shower. A hot shower
with
beer? Now, that would have been heaven.

Imposing old buildings rose up around him as he hiked, drawing his eye here and there as he had to admit to himself that London offered a different vantage point from that of Wolf Rock: history surrounded him, but this time it was man-made as opposed to the ancient mountains that circled his hometown. This place had been forged by labouring men, by monarchs and their loyal subjects. And it was, he acknowledged silently, quite beautiful despite the large number of bodies thrusting themselves about on the busy streets, oblivious to their surroundings and even to the shifter in their midst.

In fact, the one thing London seemed to lack were shifters. Everywhere he looked, a sea of humans blew by in waves, unaware of who or what he was, unthreatened by him and unconcerned with the daily struggles of his species.

And he envied them this blissful ignorance; their lives seemed so delightfully simple in comparison with his. Pack politics and hierarchy weren’t going concerns; all they cared about was getting to work, making it to five p.m. and hitting the road home. There would be no bloody fights between warring packs; no power struggles within their own; no daily situations that might result in a death. Only a pay check at the end of it all.

Of course, he supposed that most businesses worked very much as his pack did. But instead of teeth and fangs, the weapons were biting words that men and women used as bullets, taking one another down from within their organizations, spite and venom sabotaging fellow employees.

When he arrived at a wide street lined with white row houses, making his way to the doorway to Estée’s apartment, Dascha buzzed the bell for unit 2A. He was hoping both for and against a reply from within. If he received none, it would mean that he could make his way to a hotel, a bathtub and a bed, and come back in a few hours when he’d had a chance to wash the trans-Atlantic filth from his body.

If she was there, he’d have to deal with her. The tiger princess, who would doubtless resist the trip home and fight tooth and nail to stay far away from Daddy Bigbucks. But at least he would know where she was, and feel the relief that came from the job’s completion. The pack would have to concede that he was reliable and forgive him for everything that had happened, and all he’d need in order to achieve it was to provide them with the porcelain-skinned tigress.

As he stood contemplating his trip’s possible outcomes, a voice came over the intercom. It sounded like it belonged to a young local woman, her English accent immediately identifiable:

“Yes? Who is it?”

“I’m a friend of Estée’s. From the States,” he lied. “In town for a quick visit.”

“A friend of Estée’s?” the voice repeated, seemingly dumbfounded.

The woman cut off immediately, her question followed by a prompt click, as though a phone had hung up abruptly.

Dascha turned to walk away, his shoulders slumped in a “Well, I tried” stance. Clearly she didn’t want to talk to him. A sense of temporary relief flooded him as exhaustion began well and truly to kick in. His very bones felt weary, and he just wanted to lie the hell down for an hour or six.

“Estée hasn’t been here for days and days,” said the voice he’d heard via the intercom, only now it was clear as day, coming from directly behind him.

Shit. She’s come downstairs.

Dascha turned to face her: a light-haired, thin woman in her early twenties. Not particularly pretty, but then, not particularly
anything
. She looked nice enough, and as a bonus she didn’t seem overly chatty.

“Do you know where she is?” he asked. “It’s sort of important that I find her.”

“I…” The woman’s eyes darted back and forth, assessing the street’s traffic. “Come in for a moment, won’t you? You said that you’re her friend?”

“Something like that,” said Dascha, stepping into a tall stairwell behind the woman as she closed the door behind him. “To be entirely honest with you, I was
sent
to find her. Her family’s worried because they haven’t heard from her in some time.”

“Well, I’m not surprised that they’re concerned,” said the woman. “I told her this would happen if she ran off like that.”

“Wait, if she did
what
now?”

The woman’s eyes went wide and she cupped a hand over her mouth as though to prevent any more words exiting via her lips.

“Where is she?” Dascha asked. “Please, it’s important. Her family thinks she might be in danger. I figured she’d just taken off for a few days, but it seems that I’m wrong. Or am I?”

The woman dropped her hands to her sides, surrendering to her mouth’s desire to let the words out. “She’s gone to Paris. I don’t know where she’s staying. I don’t
want
to know, truth be told. She was behaving really strangely when she left: gave me a month’s rent, told me to find someone else to live here, to take her room. She didn’t tell me why she was leaving, but…I had the impression that she was scared of something.”

“Do you think she was being followed by someone?” Dascha asked.

“Well, no one’s been here looking, if that’s what you’re asking. So if they’re following her, they already know that she’s gone. Which I suppose means that she’s not safe in Paris, either.”

“Well, crap,” moaned the wolf shifter, his fist hitting the plaster wall next to the woman’s head in a spontaneous moment of frustration.

Paris. Why Paris?

Estée’s former housemate flinched and pulled away, a look of horror on her face.

“Sorry,” Dascha said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I…it’s all right. Say—you’re one of them—them
shifters,
aren’t you? Estée told me a thing or two about your kind.” All of a sudden, the young woman’s voice had warmed up significantly.

“Did she, now?”

“Yeah. My name’s Cara, by the way,” she replied, her body language more relaxed now, as though she felt safer knowing that the man before her could turn into a raging beast at a moment’s notice. She leaned her back against the wall, bending her knee and flattening her foot against the baseboard in an inviting, flirtatious pose, as she twirled a lock of hair around her index finger.

Here we go,
thought Dascha, suppressing an eye roll.
Women. Always aroused by big strong men.
They became idiots around shifters, melting into goo as though their brains had shrunk to pea-sized entities, rendering the most intelligent woman a blithering mess all because a set of broad shoulders had come their way. Of course, he was one to talk: give him a set of round hips and dewy eyes, and, well, his body had gone nuts.

Never again, though.

“She said you’re fierce, strong and
demons
in bed,” Cara added, a hand going to the edge of Dascha’s leather jacket. “And I can see that she was right about the fierce and strong bit, at least.”

“You can tell, can you?” asked Dascha, laying a hand flat against the wall beside her head and moving his face in towards hers. “We
are
fierce,” he said. “And strong. But,” he pulled away abruptly, his voice going cold. “I have to tell you: your friend Estée is the
real
tiger in the sack.”

“Estée?” The woman seemed disappointed. “Do you mean that you’ve slept with her?”

“God no,” said Dascha. “I’ve never met her. And if I ever get my hands on her, she’ll find that sleeping with her is the last thing I intend to do. Now, for the love of God, tell me I can use your shower.”