Love Letters from an Alpha

Love Letters from an Alpha

A Lone Wolf Pack
Ripples Short Story

Copyright 2015 Anya Byrne

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

All Romance Edition February 2015

All Romance Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This
ebook remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be re-sold or
given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another
person, please forward them a link to buy their own copy, or use the gift
function available on your All Romance account. Thank you for respecting the
hard work and livelihood of this author.

This book is a work of fiction, not to be confused with fact,
advice or suggestion. The characters are products of the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons is purely coincidental.
Cover art is for illustration purposes only.

Blurb:

A dancer at an exclusive club for gay men, Owen Ellis has
long ago learned to separate his real life from his alternate identity—the
masked Incubus who comes to life on stage. But then a mysterious man comes to
his every show, watching him with eyes that speak to Owen in a way he can't
hope to understand.

When love letters and beautiful roses start popping up in his
dressing room, he tries to tell himself romance can never happen in such a
situation. But the man's gaze follows him in his dreams, as does the want he
can barely contain.

Unbeknownst to him,
his secret admirer is none other than Luther Valentino, an Alpha werewolf with
a painful past. Despite the love he already feels for Owen, Luther can't help
but fear what his nature might mean for his human mate. Can the stories of the
Lone Wolf Pack's courage bridge the gap between this unlikely couple?

Warning: Gay erotic romance. The material in this
document contains explicit sexual content that is intended for mature audiences
only. All characters involved are adults capable of consent, are over the age
of twenty-one, and are willing participants.

14,289 words

Table of Contents

Love Letters from an Alpha

About the Author

Other titles by Anya Byrne

Coming Soon

Love Letters from an Alpha

A Lone Wolf Pack Ripples Short Story

Anya Byrne

Copyright 2015

Chapter One

"Fuck, fuck, fuck."

Owen swore under his breath as he stole a look at his watch.
The bus seemed to be moving at a snail's pace today, and he was impossibly,
ridiculously late. He tapped his foot against the floor, knowing V would not be
pleased if he screwed up the schedule.

Not for the first time that day, Owen cursed his rotten luck.
Everything seemed to have conspired to delay him—from one of his teachers
deciding to prolong their class, to his mother calling in to demand her check
and his landlady asking for the rent money. The horrifying traffic hadn't
helped, and Owen clenched his fingers around the strap of his bag, wishing he
could be anywhere else but here.

When the bus finally reached his stop, Owen practically shot
out of the vehicle. It was already dark, but Owen knew every shortcut in the
neighborhood and could have found his way to his destination in his sleep.

He was panting and sweating when he finally ran the alley
that led to the backdoor of the club. Sonny, the bouncer, arched a brow at him.
"You're late, Ink. The boss is pissed."

"Yes, yes, I know. I'll talk to her later."

Sonny didn't delay him, and Owen slid inside, only to be
immediately intercepted by V. Seriously, the woman reminded Owen of an eagle,
zeroing in on him the moment he stepped into view. She grabbed his arm and
dragged him to the side, like a predator catching its prey.

"Mr. Ellis. Do you know what time it is?"

Owen nodded sheepishly, although in all honesty, he hadn't
checked since he'd been on the bus. "I'm sorry. I was delayed by some
personal difficulties."

V glowered at him. "I'm sure you were, but you have
responsibilities here, Mr. Ellis. Our club is popular for certain reasons, most
of which include our respectability and stability. One mistake can change
that."

"I know." Owen winced. "I'm just..."

Anything he said would have sounded like a stupid excuse, so
he trailed off. V sighed and her hold on him loosened. Her slender
fingers—strikingly strong despite their apparent softness—gripped his chin.
"Your mother?"

Owen nodded miserably, and V tsked. "Next time, call me.
I can give you an advance if you need it. You know that, Owen. You don't have
to run yourself into the ground."

Owen wanted to come up with a reply, to thank her, but she
smiled gently and patted his cheek. "Run along now, dear. You have five
minutes to get ready. Your show is just about to get started."

He hastened to comply, and he was already halfway to the
dressing room when V called out to him. "He's here tonight."

Owen's muscles seized, and for a few moments, he found that
he couldn't breathe. He forced himself to walk, although it was probably only
habit that got him to the dressing room without stumbling.
Him.

V didn't have to elaborate on the identity of the person she
meant. Owen already knew. His heart was racing like he'd run a marathon—and not
because of his mad dash from the bus station.

With trembling hands, he reached for his costume. In his
eagerness, he almost dropped the damn thing, so he stopped and took a couple of
deep breaths.

He was being ridiculous. This was not the first time
he
had come, and it would most likely not be the last. Whatever hope or emotion
he
stirred in Owen's chest, there was no point in dwelling on it. That way lay
madness, heartbreak, and possibly the loss of his employment.

Owen liked the club because the dancers weren't required to
do more than that, dance. Other places were nothing more than glorified
brothels, crawling with pimps who'd have leaped at the chance to have someone
like Owen. But here, Owen knew he wouldn't be forced into anything. He hadn't
counted on meeting someone he actually wanted—in his bed, and out of it. For
that reason alone, the stranger was dangerous for his peace of mind. But maybe,
some risks were worth taking.

Owen studiously pushed back the treacherous thoughts and
focused on his costume once again. Really, for something he was meant to take
off after only a few minutes, the damn outfit was ridiculously elaborate.
Still, he was used to it by now, so by the time V called out to him again, he
was ready.

He touched up on his make up and rushed out of the dressing
room. The previous dancer—a big man in a cowboy costume whom Owen only knew as
Loneheart—was just leaving the stage. Loneheart greeted him with a grin,
tipping his hat at him. "Hey, Ink. Quite a crowd out there tonight. Good
tips. What do you say? Will you do better than me?"

Owen smiled back. He liked most of the dancers here. Even if
they all hid behind masks, they were nice enough, more so than any people Owen had
met in his "real life". The supposed competition between them was all
in good fun, and no one really resented Owen for being among the most popular
dancers.

"I suppose we'll just have to see what happens, won't
we?" he teased.

Loneheart chuckled, and at a different time, Owen would have
loved to stick around and chat more. But duty called, and V's familiar voice
was already announcing his stage name. "Good luck, Ink," Loneheart
said, winking.

Owen braced himself and with one last nod of acknowledgment, he
stepped out into the light. The crowd exploded into enthusiastic applause, and
Owen became someone entirely different—the Incubus.

When he swayed his hips, following the beat of the music, he
didn't think about anything else but the motion. He let go, losing himself in
the seductive tones of the melody. His body remembered the choreography, each
movement coming to him as naturally as breathing. He took one step forward,
then several steps back, extending his arms in invitation. He curled his leg
over the pole in the center of the stage and rubbed against the metal before
performing a flip that even a gymnast would have envied. He slid his corset
off, tossing his hair and letting it fall back in a dark curtain. And all the
while, he managed to ignore the crowd watching him, even if technically
speaking, he was dancing for them.

Only... He wasn't, not really. At one time, he had completely
tuned everything out except the song, pretending he was in his room practicing
instead of stripping for people who paid to see the show. But Owen barely
remembered that now. Had that only been months ago? Owen couldn't answer that.
He just knew everything had changed when the stranger had stepped into his
life. Since then, whenever the man was present, it was Owen who faced the
crowd. His Incubus mask was there for everyone else, but not for
him
.

Even as he moved, Owen let his body speak for him. It wasn't
the music that had his attention, but the fierce presence of the stranger who
haunted his dreams. He dropped to his knees and crawled to the center of the
stage like a panther, all the while looking solely at the man. He was thankful
for the mask hiding his eyes, because he didn't think he could have kept the
truth from the rest of the crowd if not for it.

The tight leather pants did very little to hide Owen's body,
and in fact, served more to emphasize his best assets. As such, there was no
way to conceal the reaction the stranger had on Owen's dick. When he got up, he
had men crawling over each other to reach for him, shouting things Owen
studiously ignored. The bills they waved were more important, and with the
skill of long practice, Owen managed to grab them even if the bouncers kept the
patrons back.

Still, Owen's focus remained completely on the stranger. He
sat at the same table as always, one located in the VIP section that directly
faced the stage. They weren't exactly eye to eye, and the lights kept Owen from
distinguishing the man's features. Nonetheless, Owen could practically feel
that dark gaze burning into his skin. In fact, maybe he felt a little like the
incubus he'd been named after, because he found himself humping the steel pole
and caressing his own body, imagining different hands on his skin—the hands of
his hopeless crush.

By the time his routine ended, Owen was burning in the fires
of arousal, but so were many of the members of his audience. Thankfully, that
manifested in a lot of bills thrown his way. Owen highly suspected his tips had
passed Loneheart's by far, but he couldn't really muster any enthusiasm over
the money. He looked toward the table, his heart clenching with something he
didn't dare to acknowledge. Finally, he retreated backstage, breathing hard—and
not because of the acrobatics he'd done during his dance.

Why did that stranger have such an effect on him? The man had
never approached him, and for a while, Owen hadn't even known how his secret
admirer really looked. Owen had eventually stolen a few glimpses of him after
the show was over, and he was always left dumbstruck at the stranger's dark
handsomeness.

Since then, Owen always dreamed about his admirer, wondering
what his deep black eyes hid, if he was imagining the emotion he'd thought he'd
seen. He dreamed about the man's large body pressing him into the mattress of
their bed as they made love. It was insane, and Owen hated himself for not
being able to let go.

In his defense, maybe he'd have tried to bury it all deep. He
was no child, and he understood that for the patrons who came here, he was
basically just a piece of meat. A man like that was completely out of his
reach. He would have perhaps been able to squash the fantasy and let the spark
of hope fizzle—if not for the letters.

Dancers were not allowed to receive any presents from
admirers—club's rule. But the letters were different. At first, Owen had
thought V wouldn't want him to accept the missives, but she didn't seem to
care, and in fact, almost encouraged it. It was a good thing, because after
each of his routines, the letters were always there without fail.

That knowledge helped him walk away from the stage, and from
the table with the mysterious stranger. When he reached his dressing room, he
was not disappointed. As always, a bright red rose was waiting for him, and
beneath it, a lone envelope.

With trembling hands, Owen picked up the flower and inhaled
deeply. He could never get tired of the scent of the beautiful blooms. He loved
roses, but he found that the flowers that could be purchased in shops often had
no scent. They were beautiful, but lacked... soul. Not so with the roses Owen
received. It meant something, and it conveyed the very same sentiment the
letters hinted to.

Owen set the rose aside and reached for the missive, already
far too greedy to find out what message was waiting for him. He instantly
recognized the now familiar script and practically drank in the written lines.

"My incubus,

As I write these words, you are just finishing your
routine. It never ceases to amaze me how you move the way you do, despite being
just a human. I wish..."

There was something crossed out, and Owen grinned. He found
that charming, because in a way, it made it obvious that the letter truly
expressed genuine emotions.

"There are many things I would wish to tell you, but
it feels like I never have enough time. I should not burden you with my
problems, but somehow, even if we've never met, I believe I can trust you. I
can have faith in us."

Owen's heart started to flutter as he continued to read. His
mysterious admirer had indeed told him many things, and Owen had replied. There
were never actual details, just enough to make it clear that the stranger was
under a lot of pressure from what seemed to be a very demanding family, or
perhaps a business. Owen always wrote back and left the letters with V, and
although he didn't really feel qualified to provide advice to anyone, he hoped
he'd helped. This seemed different, though. Tonight was different.

"I've tried to live for other people for so long, my
beautiful rose,"
the message went on to say.
"My family..
Everyone I've ever loved showed me a way they thought was right. And maybe I
would have taken it... If I hadn't met you.

"But you don't know me, and I won't say more, because
I don't want to scare you. I'll be waiting for you in front of the club. You're
too clever to not doubt me, so ask V about me. She'll know who I am, and I know
you trust her.

"This is strange, I realize that, and I haven't
exactly gone the best possible way in trying to approach you. I will understand
if you decide against it, but please give me the chance to explain. My Owen.

Your ever faithful admirer,

Luther"

Owen's breath caught. It was the first time the man had
addressed him by his name, or had ever introduced himself as anything other
than the ever faithful admirer of the Incubus. He dropped down on the one chair
in the dressing room, his eyes still fixed on the words in the letter.

I'll be waiting for you.
His longtime crush wanted to
meet with him. Judging by the man mentioning V in the letter, Owen's employer
probably knew about it and wouldn't hold it against him—just like she hadn't
been against the letters. He could barely even process it.

Owen set the missive down on the table and picked up the rose
again. He brushed his fingers over the delicate bloom, thinking hard.

Having an unrequited crush on a customer was entirely
understandable, he thought. He was young, the stranger was hot, and the letters
reached out to him in a way he had not expected. Accepting a meeting would
change things, and Owen had heard enough horror stories to know this sort of
thing could end horribly.