Shifter Alpha Claim 1-6 Omnibus (2 page)

Merck

I watch the change, enjoying her wariness as her soft gray eyes pierce the shadows, searching out my presence. Her slightly reflective irises don't make me out in the gloom.

She's old for a hybrid. It's a mystery to me why a rare female would change so late.

My nostrils flare.

I smell a small wound and a recent injury. An involuntary low growl seeps from between the tight line of my lips.

Did someone cause the injury?

No
, I immediately soothe my beast. Probably that tumble she took over the couch.

I chuckle. Wasn't sure if I'd have to wade in there, and save her from herself before it was too late. I had been a little sloppy with my presence. But Talyn Phisher is very practical. She's probably already talked herself right out of very good instincts.

Talyn walks off, and I take a second to lust after her.

The practice of coveting the changes is strictly forbidden, of course.

Our job's now doubly hard. Vamps and Turners have been outed, and now they're cruising the same hunting grounds we do.

The Lanarre, as the Lycan royalty is named, doesn't want a vulnerable hybrid Lycan running into a vamp that likes their tasty werewolf blood.

Nor do the Lycan want a war. But a war they shall have, if they fuck with our females.

This one especially.

My eyes follow her rounded backside. A more scrumptious ass I have never beheld. Oh for the days when a little extra flesh was considered a mark of wealth, health and attractiveness.

I like my women with ass cheeks that overflow the hands—tits as well. A waist I can span with my hands.

I lick my lips, turning away from the enticing sight.

Women are fine for carnal pleasures, but that's not the job of a Changer—Lycan warriors—who seek female hybrids hiding among humans. Like their vampire counterparts, hybrid females will die without a strong male to see them through their transition to full Lycan.

Unlike the vampires and their blood exchange, the Lycan must sex it out of the hybrids.

I smirk. I can't say I hate the process.

Though that is all that is allowed. A transition, and then Changers find the next target for transitioning. Any Lycan should be proud to change a female.

I find it lonely. Tasting of their lush bodies, only to never share in their lives. It's a form of torture. But the Lanarre is deaf to their own warriors.

It's a numbers game.

And
the possibility of a human female of royal lycan blood hiding in plain sight.

I roll my eyes at the unlikelihood of that. It's a wonderful bit of werewolf lore. But I don't know that I've ever met a Changer who has encountered a hybrid with that unique Lanarre component.

I've been watching Talyn Phisher for two months. I know where she's going. I don't even need to follow.

But I do.

Just being thorough.

Or at least—that's the line of bullshit I feed myself every day.

*

Talyn puts herself through the same laborious paces five days per week. The mile-long walk to get to the gym.

The elliptical.

The hand weights.

It's the squats that get my full attention. Her ass cheeks splitting like twin goodness as she gracefully drops into a deep plunge then comes up to repeat.

I watch every repetition.

She moves like the Lycan she'll become. I randomly wonder if she's ever noticed she's faster and stronger than other females. That her sense of smell is almost painfully acute.

My eyes narrow as a human male approaches her.

Growling begins from deep inside me, humming through my chest like my very own motor.

Then a vibration begins inside my pocket so high only dogs, and a few other fine-hearing creatures can hear the buzz. I slip my pulse device out of my pocket without looking.

I watch the mundane human try to put the moves on Talyn. One of our future females
.

Move on, douche.

I tap my pulse to
activate
with my thumb.

Charles:
status.

Status?
Status is: Talyn is not changing. She smells like a sweet piece of fruit that's just on the cusp of ripening.

But not yet.

Me:
negative. Still under surveillance.

Charles:
maybe too old—past her prime. Possibly a false read?

No!
I calm my shit, and prepare to
think
my response. But first, I set my pulse to
low emotive transference
.

Yeah. Don't need Alpha Lycan Boss to get that I'm sort of wrung out over this change.

Fuck
no
.

Me:
possibly, but because she's older, standard protocol might not apply to her.

Charles:
can't afford to waste manpower on a dud.

Talyn is no dud.

Me:
give me a couple more weeks. Once I see physical degradation, I'll move in.

The wait of almost a minute is an uneasy one.
What if Charles terminates the mission?
That Talyn doesn't deserve the time—that a hybrid female pushing forty is too much of an anomaly to waste time on?

Sweat beads on my forehead. I swipe it away in irritation.

I glance at Talyn.

The human has his hand on her forearm.

Talons burst from my fingertips, and I groan at the pain of the partial change.

The high hertz frequency buzz alerts me to Charlesʼ reply.

Charles:
two weeks then it's a wrap. There are other hybrids waiting and too few Changers.

My breath leaks out of me in relief.

I don't even realize I'm across the street and peering none-too-subtly inside the window.

If I could wish that human to death with my stare, he'd be zombie food right now.

I
think
into my pulse device with the side of my thumb.

Me:
Roger that.

I palm the slim communicator, sliding it into my pants pocket.

Talyn disengages from the ballsy fuck inside the workout room and walks away.

Her look of mild and dismissive disgust makes me smirk. Especially when the human looks after her with pure lust. And something else.

My nostrils flare to catch the scent of his emotion.

Glass is no barrier for a Lycan warrior.

Violence
.

Violence is mixed with his lust.

My growl is not soft anymore. But a warning nonetheless.

He doesn't hear it, his ears are far too human—too dull to the danger I've just offered.

But the small creatures of the nearby forest halt the busyness of their lives and listen to the sound I've made.

They heed the danger with their communal silence.

Talyn

Jerk
.

I rub my arm where he touched me. Do I have a sign that says,
desperate
tattooed across my forehead?

Why can't the decent guys that I hear about show up at the gym? Oh-
no
, it's got to be the pudwacker types.

So when is:
I love the way you fill out your yoga pants—
a healthy intro?

One answer: never.

I stomp into the women's locker to grab a shower. I take off my yoga pants, athletic top and kick off my shoes. I strip my socks and toss them to join the damp pile of clothes.

I slip into my flip flops and shuffle to the faucet, jerking it to
H
.

I wait, the old pipes groaning in resistance. When steam begins to rise, I step beneath the spray. The hot water flows over my dark hair that needs a trim. I let its heat pour over my face where it beats softly against my parted lips, the water cleansing and hot inside my mouth and on my skin.

Water runs out my mouth and dribbles down the front of me. It's the only thing I can stand right now on my sensitive skin.

My flesh burns, my teeth and joints are back online, hurting like forgotten wounds.

Damn.

My palms hit the tile, my chin lowering to my chest. Tears burn behind my eyes.

I can help anyone, no matter
how
big the problem. If it's real, I can puzzle out the solution that's meant for them.

So why can't I fix my own chaos?

I must love it.

I palm my soaked hair off my face and flip it behind me. The wet strands make a smacking sound as they hit between my shoulder blades and I flinch, my skin's so hyper-sensitive.

The flesh of my exposed back, buttocks and legs rises into gooseflesh, the small hairs running across my skin becoming spikes of alert.

I scan the locker room, taking in the vast shower stall. Aqua tiles from the fifties stare back at me with wilting indifference. I fully revolve, the hot water now soothing my back. My breasts tighten, the nipples becoming completely erect.

My vagina comes alive, throbbing between my legs.

What the hell is going on?

A wave of heat flushes over my skin as if kerosene is pouring over my body. And a match is struck.

I gasp, trying to breathe through the heat engulfing my body.

I manage to turn and slap the lever to
C
.

Barely
.

I tighten my thighs, squishing my pussy lips together to stop the ache. Nothing works.

God!

Icy water pours over where hot water just flowed. Moving from under the spray, I walk away without turning it off, and grab my towel I flung over the tiled half-wall, wrapping my drenched hair.

My body is radiating heat, but I'm shivering.

Something is really wrong. First my fangey teeth, now I've got hot flashes.

I stop in the middle of the tiled floor. My raspy breathing echoes back in the strange acoustics of an all-tile room with high ceilings as icy water sprays down the drain.

“Hot flashes?” I sing in a half-yell into the room. “This is
dumb
!” I scream like a juvenile delinquent. In fact,
they
behave more maturely than I'm acting.

My teeth and crotch are throbbing, my nipples ache, and I feel like someone's lit a torch inside my body.

I need a doctor. There's no denying that. Maybe this
is
early menopause? The thought makes me want to cry.

I don't.

I do the most unhealthy thing I can. The one thing I caution my patients to never do.

I stuff it.

That stupid emotion of helplessness will
not
defeat me.

I bite my lip, drawing blood. I suck on it.

The overwhelming feelings of sexual need, mixed with burning alive begin to subside while I stand naked and dripping cold water into a puddle at my feet.

Finally, I grab my second cheap towel and cover my body. With slow deliberation I walk to my gear bag and carefully pull new clothes out of the soft duffle.

I don't tremble as I dry off then put on my clothing or stuff my dirties inside a plastic grocery sack.

I turn off the water with a guilty twist. The sound of water dripping follows me as I leave the gym.

When the night air hits me, tears begin to pour out of my eyes.

I don't know what to do
. Even trying to turn the tables, and intellectualize how I'd handle this from a client's perspective doesn't help.

Because I've never had these symptoms present in my room. My world.

My face rises, tears of frustration tremble on my chin as I look at the crystals of brightening stars, sprinkled like chunks of raw sugar in the deep twilight blanket of the sky.

I wipe away my wet anger with a hasty stroke. I'll get to a doctor. Figure out what my stupid problem is.

I forget about the blue eyes. The lame come-on from the guy in my gym.

I walk the mile back to my car alone, lost in my thoughts—buried in my uncertainty.

Two sets of eyes follow me.

One as protector, one as predator.

If I'd been more aware, and less caught up in my emotions, I'd have forgotten all about what was to come—and rather, what was already happening.