Beastly Passions
Authors: Nikki Winter
Beastly Passions
Nikki Winter
Copyright © 2016 by Nikki Winter
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or shared in any form, including but not limited to: printing, photocopying, faxing, recording, electronic transmission, or by any information storage or retrieval system without prior written permission from the authors or holders of the copyright.
This book is a work of fiction. References may be made to locations and historical events; however, names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the authors’ imaginations and/or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), businesses, events or locales is either used fictitiously or coincidental. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only.
Published by: Nikki Winter Publishing
Cover Art: Bree Archer
Note about
eBooks
eBooks are NOT transferable. Re-selling, sharing or giving away eBooks is a copyright infringement. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.
Copyright Acknowledgement
Disney
:
An American diversified multinational mass media and entertainment conglomerate headquartered at the Walt Disney Studios in Burbank, California.
Ave Maria:
A musical composition by Franz Schubert.
“Every man has a wild beast within him.”—Frederick The Great
Table of Contents
Check out a pre-view of the next installment of the Verochka Pride “Beastly Urges” which is simply…fierce….
One
Primorsky Krai, Russia…
The
coppery
tinge of blood struck the air, sweeping across the room with the same deftness that silence descended amongst each individual there. Stunned. This was the only way to describe the reaction that had captured and twisted the features of several faces. Mouths hung open, eyes widened and a stillness shrouded them all. It was a moment she would never forget; something that would remain with her until her last breath. On Asha Shankur-Verochka’s wedding day, a man had been killed not even six feet away from her. There was no mercy, no hesitation. And the murderer? Her husband. A man whose brutality was infamous for its inability to be curbed. Sitting at the long dining table, filled with members of his family and hers alike, he’d proven that fact once again.
Asha’s eyes rose from the slumped over form with the torn throat and slid to the large male so casually wiping his distended claws with a cloth napkin that he’d produced from his pocket. She chose not to worry herself with the possibility that he’d placed it there because he’d
known
he would use it to relieve his hands of the crimson stains covering them.
His eyes glowed faintly with an otherworldly fury as he gazed back, his scarred, left brow inching up as if to say,
“What did you expect?”
Nothing. She’d expected
nothing
and yet…there was death.
Once he’d cleaned his hands to his satisfaction, he cast those irises comprised of ice and azure to their quietly horrified guests.
“I am not particularly sure what it is that some of you have become accustomed to,” Taras Anatoly Verochka stated, his perpetually rumbling voice rasping with his origins of Siberian heritage. “But calling my bride a whore while sitting two feet away from me is something that I consider to be grave sin.” Charcoal lashes lowered a fraction. “And in same sense that the God of Christians meticulously smote those who blatantly disregarded his word and committed themselves to immorality, I often times find myself doing this same thing.” He tilted his head to the rapidly cooling corpse. “But whereas that god exhibits forgiveness and grace, I do not. I do not tolerate disrespect. I do not withhold myself from wiping annoyances from this earth the way one would do pests. And I most certainly do not laugh at insinuations that
I paid an excellent price for my spouse!”
Asha jerked at the sudden roar that finished his statement, her hands fisting in her lap.
Taras momentarily closed his eyes, his neck rolling as he seemed to fight for composure. When his lids parted again, he smiled and asked, “Would anyone else like to refer to Asha as no more than lowly prostitute that I rescued from the streets?”
No one said a word.
His smile widened and his fangs retracted. Lifting a hand, he waved it and requested, “The body. Remove it.”
Servants rushed to do as they were told and her husband reclaimed his seat catty corner to her, re-buttoning his jacket as he did so. He drummed his fingers against the table. “I’d like this to be one and only time I have to say this—
do
this—because next the offense will not be dealt with as quickly. I will draw it out, delight in it.”
Asha saw several people shift uncomfortably, predatory instincts obviously pushing them to either fight or run. None of them would fight. There was not one person in the room brave enough to even attempt that. The man had just killed his own cousin. There had been no warning, not even a twitch from Taras as he’d stood and took the pride male’s jugular.
“When speaking to wife, you should do so as though she controls next breath. Because in essence, she does. Her elegance will not allow her to revel in this but I am more than capable of providing evidence to faithless.” He sighed and stared down at his plate, frowning at the orange and mustard glazed lamb chops with garlic roasted asparagus. “My food has grown cold.” Taras stopped one of the staff with a light touch to the forearm. “Could you please have Magdalena reheat this dish for me? And give her my apologies that I did not eat when it was first presented. I was otherwise…occupied.”
Yes. With killing. Killing his cousin. The cousin who’d only jokingly stated, “
A simple visit to Denmark and all of this could’ve been avoided.”
minutes before his glassy eyes had been directed towards the ceiling. Was the joke distasteful? Yes. Had Asha wanted to shove a fork into his hand? Of course. But had he been lying? Not in the least bit. She’d been bartered like cattle and they all knew it. Asha wasn’t sure if the shame she felt came from being forced into a union with a common thug or if it was comprised in realizing that each person she met, talked to, and shook hands with would be aware of this.
Those were thoughts she’d learned not to verbalize because down that path lay false outrage from her pride members and lectures from her father about how this was for the good of their people. Selling one’s eldest daughter into a family of bullies and cons wasn’t for the betterment of anything but Nirav Shankur’s bank accounts. The Shankur tigers were dying out, their time of controlling Asian territories fading with their deaths. With nothing to offer other prides in exchange for alliances—and the unwillingness to even consider inbreeding—they’d made decisions that should have left them unable to sleep at night. Instead, neither Asha’s parents, her brother, her cousins, aunts nor uncles had seemed particularly unsettled about using her until this moment; when they all got to witness what kind of man Taras truly was.
She almost wanted to laugh,
almost.
But there wasn’t much room for amusement around the ball of self-disgust and sadness lodged in her throat. She was married and soon to be mated to one of the most feared and hated tigers in their community. There was no way out, no way around it. Her college education would not help here. Her penchant for diplomacy and politics that had taken her far in their world would be of no consequence because—as it had become quite evident—her gender made her goods. What rested between her thighs had degraded her into a pet. It was humiliating. It was archaic. And she loathed them
all.
Taras in particular. He represented everything she detested about their kind. The arrogance, the disregard for thinking with decorum and more than just the agenda of one’s beast.
He was a violent prick who killed because he enjoyed it, because his father commanded it so. He’d been manipulated into this monster that haunted the majority of them when they closed their eyes to sleep at night. Her husband had no morals and as far as she saw, very little values. Even
her
value was limited in his eyes. Of that she was sure. The pride male he’d so casually murdered had obviously been someone who had gotten under his skin on more than one occasion. Asha had watched the exchange between the two, gazing on as her husband’s nose twitched, his lip curling ever so slightly. And now here she sat, staring at the maroon dots marring the stark white tablecloth they ate upon.
“Is something wrong with meal?” Taras asked softly. “Would you like something else?”
Asha didn’t lift her eyes. Doing so would reveal the rage poisoning her. Instead, she shook her head and answered, “No, thank you.”
“Then why do you not eat?”
Because I would rather use my steak knife to slit your throat.
“I suppose I am not very hungry.”
“Is it because of what stupid Igor said because I—”
Unable to sit there any longer, Asha abruptly stood. When stares jerked her way, she swallowed and said, “Excuse me a moment please? I’d like to have a little bit of air.”
Taras placed down his utensils. “I will go with.”
“No,” she told him quickly. His eyes narrowed. “I am being rude enough in my leaving. Stay and entertain our guests for a little while? I won’t be long.”
He relaxed and nodded sharply. “If this is your wish.”
My wish is to wake up from this nightmare.
“It is.”
Before she could say or do something that that couldn’t be taken back, she quickly left the room.
Taras
watched the silken trail of Asha’s wedding sari as it drug behind her by a few scant inches, the traditional garb made of vivid creams, golds and broad reds that went perfectly with her rich sepia complexion. He wanted to follow, to erase her expression of disappointment. Very few things rankled him as a man who was used to being loathed. However, the weight of
Asha’s
loathing unsettled him. It couldn’t be helped. What he’d done…it had a purpose. All of it had a purpose; a message. It didn’t deteriorate his own internal irritation but it did help to soothe whatever reservations he had.