So if you got here from the Nine Naughty Novelists blog, it means you’re looking for the rest of Chapter One – and, by the way thanks! Welcome to my rarely updated blog! If Chapter One hooks you, and you want to purchase the novella, you’ll find it here: http://samhainpublishing.com/romance/kiss-and-kin.
Kiss and Kin: A Sexy Shifter story
Detective Taran Lloyd yawned with boredom as he stood by the bar and observed the patrons of Le Monde on a typical Saturday night. A pricey club, it attracted an affluent crowd, and a mixed one: humans, werewolves and other shifters, people who looked a little more than a little fae. The only thing they had in common was a willingness to pay five bucks for a bottle of domestic beer and seven for well drinks—or the ability to find someone who would do it for them.
He grimaced. He’d like a drink himself, but regulations prohibited drinking on duty.
The intimate nightclub featured wood-paneled walls, polished hardwood floors and a lot of recessed lighting. Music loud enough to dance but not too loud to talk, waitresses pretty but not too sexy, bartenders fast but friendly—if not for the fact that three women reported missing this month were last seen here, it would’ve been a great place to bring a date.
He tried to remember the last time he’d gone on a date.
“Detective?” Daniel Denardo, the HPD Shifter Investigations Unit’s rookie, interrupted Taran’s musings.
“Yeah, Danny?”
“What are we supposed to look for here?”
Taran smiled wryly. “If we get lucky, some guy will pick up a chick, throw her over his shoulder and run out, and we’ll arrest him. But I don’t think we’ll get lucky. So we hang around and watch, talk to people, ask if anyone saw the women, noticed unusual behavior, that sort of thing. I’d rather no one know we’re cops yet.”
As soon as he said it, he noticed Lark across the room at a banquette with another woman and four slimy-looking wolves in suits. Taran automatically considered any guy with Lark slimy-looking. These wolves looked like Eurotrash. Eastern European wolves ran drugs and weapons in and out of the country, and SIU suspected they’d expanded into the sex trade. Rich European werewolves frequented Le Monde. Apparently Lark did, too.
She sauntered toward the bar.
“Shit,” he muttered.
“What’s the matter?”
“I’ll be back in a second. Why don’t you mingle.”
“I can do that,” Denardo replied cheerfully.
“What are you doing here?” he growled softly.
Those words, that voice, just hours after the dream, freaked Lark right the hell out. She started so violently her perfectly chilled Cosmopolitan sloshed the front of her dress. Her nipples stood at attention. He didn’t even notice.
She grabbed a handful of napkins. “Damn it, Taran, what—”
“Quiet,” he said fiercely as he stole her breath with a smile. He never smiled at her like that. He rarely smiled at her at all. She stared up at him, dumbfounded. He clamped a meaty paw on her elbow and dragged her away from the bar toward an empty table.
The dark blue pinstriped suit, a fitted European cut, and the custom-tailored, crisp white dress shirt looked great on his long, muscular frame. Taran didn’t live on his detective salary alone.
“Act like we’re having fun.” Irritable as always, he still wore that stutter-inducing smile. It stopped short of his luminescent green eyes. “Why are you here, and who are those wolves?”
“None of your business…” she grinned gaily, “…and I don’t know.”
A few golden strands of hair drifted across his eyes. He wore it halfway to his shoulders; HPD grooming regulations exempted werewolves. She always itched to brush his hair aside. One day she’d do it, just to watch him react.
”I’m serious, Lark.”
“You’re hurting me, Taran.”
He let go instantly but continued to stare at her, knowing she’d answer him.
She heaved a dramatic sigh. “I’m here with my friend Eloise, who’s into some Euro werewolf whose name I don’t remember, and he’s with his bros, and they’re all creepy and boring, and one of them keeps trying to pick me up, and after you replace the Cosmo you made me spill, I’m going home. This just is not my night.”
“Are you driving?”
“No, I’m talking to you. Why? Do I look like I’m driving?”
He didn’t laugh. He never laughed.
“El drove. I’ll take a cab home. Where’s my cosmo?”
His sharp cheekbones and strong chin, and the pale, thin scar scoring his left cheek from his ear almost to his mouth, gave him a look of menacing power. That disappearing smile, though, made him look like a fallen angel. A hulking, six-foot-six fallen angel who could change in five minutes in broad daylight—the mark of a powerful alpha wolf.
“Don’t tell anyone you know who I am,” he ordered. “I’m working a case.”
“What kind of case?”
No reply.
“Fine, whatever. I won’t tell anyone I know you.”
He nodded and turned to go.
“Um. Hello?”
He turned back. “What is it?”
“You owe me a drink.”
He pulled a ten from his wallet and held it out, staring at her eyes as he did so. She snorted at the cheap shot power play, but it worked—a human couldn’t maintain eye contact with an alpha.
She looked at the bill in his hand. She didn’t take it. Instead, fueled with courage from her first cosmo, she put her hand on his outstretched arm and leaned in, her head grazing his cheek. Their bodies almost touched. A werewolf’s normal body temperature was one hundred five point three; for the millionth time in ten years, she fantasized about snuggling up to his warmth.
Her pulse hammered in her throat as she whispered, “Taran? If you want people to think your cousin is a hooker, you could at least pretend I’d get more than ten bucks. Otherwise, go buy me a drink, you lazy bastard.”
He growled low in his throat. She peeked up at him. Taran meant “thunder” in Welsh. It fit him when he looked like this.
“Wait here,” he snarled before stalking off to the bar. The crowd parted for him by instinct, like zebras at a watering hole when the lion drops by for a drink. He returned with her cosmo.
“Thank you, cuz,” she cooed sweetly to his shoulder. New drink in hand, she steeled herself for another excruciating twenty minutes with Eloise and the Euro cheese. Would he watch her walk away? As if.
Taran rarely saw Lark without friends or family around. When he found an opportunity to watch her walk away, he took it and he savored it, because he liked the way it hurt.
The killer dress, long sleeved and stretchy, cut low in back, clung to every inch of her. It hugged her beautiful ass and stopped short of her knees, which meant twenty inches of leg still showed. His mate had legs like a fucking racehorse.
Did she know he hated the “cousin” crap? Sometimes he was tempted to think she did it to torment him, but he knew she didn’t. Unlike many beautiful women, Lark didn’t tease. If she knew how he felt, she’d react with disgust or pity. Disgust would make family functions uncomfortable, and alphas didn’t tolerate pity.
Her scent, her laughter, the caress of her hair against his cheek would torture him for hours. He used to turn to other women whenever he needed to ease this blissful pain.
That didn’t work anymore.
“Wow.”
“Uh? Oh—I didn’t see you come back,” he said, turning to Danny. “Wow what?”
“The girl in the green dress. I mean, look at those legs.”
“Those are my cousin’s legs,” Taran said dourly.
“Oh, um—sorry.” The brunet beta instantly dropped his gaze.
“It’s all right.” Taran sighed. “I know she’s hot.”
“None of my cousins look like that, that’s for damn sure.”
Taran smiled tightly. “We’re not actually blood. She’s my brother’s cousin.”
“Oh, right. You and your brother have different fathers.”
“Yeah. Myall’s dad is human. Lark’s his niece. My mom and stepdad raised her after her parents died. Myall thinks of her as a sister.”
“So you think of her as family, too.”
Taran nodded. “Yeah, a little.”
No. Not at all.
“She play basketball?”
“Soccer and volleyball,” replied Taran softly.
“Beach volleyball?” Denardo leered. The smile faded as he looked at Taran’s face. “Just a joke,” he muttered. “How tall is she, anyway?”
“Five ten.” Ask me anything. Her favorite color is purple, her favorite food is Mexican. She’s scared of roaches but pretends she’s not. Great dancer, lousy singer. She’ll laugh at the dumbest movie and the stupidest joke. Likes kids and rain, hates cats and golf. She’s twenty-six. Her shampoo smells like apples and she thinks I’m an asshole.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s start mingling around here.”
She returned to find El laughing uproariously with her new werewolf boyfriend and his pals. Lark suspected El wouldn’t drive herself—or Lark—home tonight.
“There you are!” El shrieked. To the werewolves she said, “Y’all excuse us a minute. Come on, Lark.”
Lark shrugged and belted half the cosmo before setting it down to follow a weaving El.
“What d’ya think?” El asked when they reached the bathroom. Lark noted the slurred speech and droopy eyelids. Definitely not driving.
“About who? Your Russian guy?” She stared at herself in the mirror as she waited for El to finish. I should wear more makeup. She liked her dark blue eyes and snub nose well enough. She considered her brown hair, with its auburn highlights, her best feature. Thick, straight and glossy, it fell to just below her shoulder blades. She wore long bangs in front, parted on the side. It’s an okay face. I need more makeup.
“Dominik is Czech. He’s loaded.” El giggled. “I’ll probably go home with him, if that’s cool with you?”
“I only came out tonight because you didn’t want to go out alone!” Lark said, exasperated. Dominik apparently didn’t care enough to pick Eloise up and take her out.
“Please don’t be mad, Lark.” El pouted. “I really like him, and I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
Lark didn’t blame El for being a ditzy narcissist—she couldn’t help it, not with all that fae blood. It made her annoying but irresistible to all three species of sapiens.
“Whatever, El. That’s fine.” She’d already planned to cab it.
As they walked back to the table, Eloise looked over to the bar. “That’s your cousin the cop, isn’t it?”
“He’s not my cousin,” Lark responded reflexively.
“He is so hot. I know that guy he’s with.”
“You do?” She wouldn’t look in that direction; she didn’t want Taran to see her watching him.
“I don’t know his name. He’s a friend of Luc. You remember—the French wolf? We went to Vegas a lot.”
“Luc with the Ducati?” Lark wasn’t a fur chaser, but she loved fine motorcycles.
“Yeah, he took me out on it a few times. This one time we rode to Austin…”
El talked all the way back to the table, promptly ignoring Lark once they got there. Lark drank her cosmo and ignored the other werewolves. She people watched, trying to guess couples on first dates, couples just hooking up, couples breaking up. When she got bored, she Taran watched. He never glanced in her direction, so she felt free to spy until a flock of geeks descended on a table and blocked her view.
The werewolf who’d tried to buy her a drink—Sergei/Stefan/whoever—offered her a chair at one point. She declined. A little later, she thought maybe she’d reconsider.
The whole world listed to the left sharply and suddenly. She grabbed the edge of the table and swallowed hard. The music got both louder and harder to hear. The room began to spin very fast, like in a movie where the camera pans around and around until the viewer gets sick and dizzy.
She didn’t see El and the Czech werewolf anywhere. Another guy, dark haired, joined the group now. Lark concentrated on staying upright while she tried to get the attention of the werewolf next to her. She labored to keep her eyes open.
“Hey,” she said. It came out nearly inaudible. “Hey!” she tried more loudly, and took one hand off the table to put it on the shoulder of Stefan/Sergei/whomever. He finally looked up at her; she all but sagged on him at this point. He said something. It sounded all muffled and distorted, like it came from underwater.
He flashed her a smile—an insincere, predatory smile. Panic paralyzed her.
The other werewolves and the new guy looked straight at her. She suspected they recognized her distress, yet they just stood there and watched.
The werewolf stood and grabbed her upper arm. She tried to pull away and almost fell down. The other werewolves ignored her. Now she knew they did it deliberately. All around her people talked and danced and jostled. No one noticed her about to pass out while this scumbag clutched her arm and his buddies ignored her.
She grabbed a chair, trying to pull away. The werewolf put his arm around her waist as if to help her. He kissed her on the cheek. Helpless, more terrified than she’d ever been, she was about to be dragged away in the middle of a crowd.
She tried again to pull away, then pushed at him feebly—for God’s sake, the guy stood four inches shorter than her. I’m not drunk, she raged helplessly, internally, I’m just…dizzy, and sleepy and scared, and…
Taran. Taran could help. But she couldn’t see him—she couldn’t see anything. She had double vision, maybe even triple, after only two cosmos.
Sobbing with fear, she began to scream. “Taran! Taran! Help me! Please! Tar—” No matter how hard she screamed, nothing came out but a thin wail no one would hear over the noise of the club.
She choked on her sobs and fell silent, but finally people noticed. The crowd in front of her seemed to ripple. A bunch of people screamed and fell down. The creepy werewolf let go. Someone caught her as she fell.
Please be Taran.
The scents and sounds of places like this played hell on a werewolf’s senses. Alcohol and perfume, sweat and pheromones and fabric, all ran together in one meaningless smell. Music and voices, ice against glass against bottles, created a background roar through which he struggled to pick out words. He could hear better in here than any human, but nowhere near optimal.
It took a few minutes for the sound of someone calling his name to pierce the cacophony. A voluble blonde chatted him up; he’d dropped the name of a missing woman, she’d claimed to have known her slightly, but as they talked Taran realized the blonde didn’t know anything useful.
That’s when he heard it, faintly at first.
“Taran!”
Why would Lark call him from across the bar, when he’d just told her…
“Taran! Help me! Please! Tar—”
The cop heard the terror in her voice; the wolf responded. Taran shoved his drink at the startled blonde, who didn’t take it. He ignored the dull thud of lead glass hitting hardwood. Soda splashed the blonde’s legs as he closed the distance between him and Lark in seconds. Tables, chairs and patrons flew everywhere. Taran ignored it all, focused solely on the werewolf with his arm around a feebly struggling Lark. The werewolf let go of her abruptly and disappeared.
Taran caught her as she crumpled. Only then did he become aware of other people around them again.
He knelt with an unconscious Lark in his lap. Bouncers came running. He snarled, “Call 911, now!” and they ran to comply.
He smelled the earthy odor indicating incipient change; it came from him. He hadn’t changed involuntarily since his teens; stress could make betas do it, but alphas only did it under extreme emotional duress. A mate’s near abduction would qualify.
If he changed in the middle of a stirred-up crowd like this, humans and non-humans alike might panic. He lowered his head and closed his eyes so no one would see if they began to yellow. A minute later, he had it under control.
A guy identifying himself as a doctor checked Lark’s pulse and pupils.
“I saw her thirty minutes ago. She didn’t get passed out drunk that fast. She doesn’t drink like that.”
“No respiratory distress, heartbeat’s good,” replied the doctor. “If someone slipped her a mickey, it’ll show up in a tox screen.”
Denardo dispersed the crowd and leaned over Taran’s shoulder.
“What do you want me do?”
Taran didn’t take his eyes off Lark as he stroked her hair and face.
“You get a look at the wolves she was with?” he asked Denardo absently.
“No. I was over there.” He gestured to the other side of the room. “I didn’t notice anything wrong till I heard people screaming.”
“I got a little rough with the crowd,” Taran muttered.
“I talked to some people at the next table,” the rookie continued. “They said it just looked like a wolf and a drunk girl. She didn’t make any noise they could hear.”
Drugs might have made her unable to scream. It would explain why none of the missing women created a scene before disappearing. Maybe they’d tried and couldn’t.
“I thought she looked like she was in trouble, and when I got over here a wolf was dragging her out.”
He didn’t mention he’d heard her scream. He’d only heard because Lark was his mate. No one needed to know that.
“Well, now we know how those women went missing,” he muttered. “It happened in the middle of a crowd. No one noticed a thing.” A cold, heavy weight sat in his stomach and something squeezed his heart—probably stark terror, which, like involuntary change, he’d not experienced in fifteen or twenty years.
He didn’t realize he held her tightly against his chest until an EMT tapped him on the shoulder and said deferentially, “Sir? We need to get the lady on the gurney.”
He stood with Lark in his arms and laid her gently on the cart.
“I’m a cop,” he informed the EMT. “I’m coming with you.”
Filed under: The Romance Genre, Writing | No Comments »
