Suave as Shift

by Keira Blackwood

  “No need to heal fast if there’s nothing to heal,” she said. “And you’re just worried I’ll get first dibs.”

  “First dibs on bloodsuckers? Be my guest.”

  I followed her down, when I reached the bottom, she was just standing there, staring.

  “What is it?” I stepped up beside her.

  There was a man on the ground, chained to the wall, alive. His skin was dark, his cheeks hollow, and he looked like he hadn’t shaved or bathed in far too long. Beneath the stink of vampire and blood, his scent was wild. He was a shifter.

  Juliana dropped the blade in her hand. “Dad?”

  “Dad?” I asked. Plot twist.

  It’s true, one never knows what life will throw at him. But a badass action duo takes that shit in stride. They travel in style, wear sunglasses whenever they feel like it. Dark night be damned.

  They fuck like bunnies, defeat monsters like the kickass heroes they are, and love hardest of all. They love like the world depends on it.

  Because after the explosions, and after the monsters are defeated, sometimes the world fucking does.

  Also by Keira Blackwood

  The Protectors of Sawtooth Peaks

  The Protectors of Sawtooth Peaks Complete Series Box Set

  Running to the Pack - Cole & Hailey, part one

  Defending the Pack - Cole & Hailey, part two

  Uniting the Pack - Lance & Trixie

  The Protectors of Riverwood

  The Protectors of Riverwood Complete Series Box Set

  Grizzly Bait - Liam & Emma, part one

  Grizzly Mate - Liam & Emma, part two

  Grizzly Fate - Liam & Emma, part three

  The Protectors of the Pack

  The Protectors of the Pack Complete Series Box Set

  Bodyguard - Reynolds & Alex

  Enemies - Witt & Zoe

  Heir - Hunter & Grace

  The Protectors Unlimited

  Can’t Prove Shift - Mason & Caitlyn

  Suave as Shift - Lincoln & Juliana

  Want more Blakes? Continue reading for a preview of Mason Blake’s story, Can’t Prove Shift!

  Can’t Prove Shift: Chapter One

  Lyn

  His heated, hazel eyes devoured every one of my curves. Desire poured from him in waves. Even from my seat, forty feet away, the stink of my mark’s arousal tainted my nostrils. It was the loudest thing in the hotel lobby, even with the musician bellowing Frank Sinatra as he smoothly played the piano. The tune was flawless, just loud enough to dull the sounds of the casino in the next room—drunken chatter, clinking coins, and the never-ending electronic dinging from the slot machines.

  The lounge was filled with dark, rich woods. And rich patrons. A redheaded waitress flirted with a middle-aged suit at one of the small, round tables, then mocked him when she returned to the bartender. A thin, elderly woman in a satin evening gown sat at the next table over. Her silver hair was styled like that of a movie star from the twenties, and her confidence matched. The seats beside her were filled by attractive men, young enough to be her grandsons. But with their proximity to the aging starlet, and her hands on their thighs, I assumed no relation. Whispered innuendos passed, glasses clinked, taps poured. I took it all in while I kept my body turned toward the performer at the piano. But my attention remained focused on my target.

  Salvatore ‘The Weasel’ Girardo—sixty-three, five foot seven, two hundred twenty-five pounds, and most importantly—loaded. His reputation preceded him, a reputation for wealth and a love for curvy brunettes. During my research, I’d learned that Girardo was drawn to short skirts and low-cut tops. Which was exactly what had drawn him to the woman on the stool next to him. It was also exactly the reason I wore a blond wig and a modest pencil skirt. Every button on my blouse was done up to the collar and I sat as far from the lech as the Obsidian Resort’s lounge allowed.

  Not only did Girardo attempt to conquer a new woman every evening, but also the hotel’s poker tables. His vices ruled his nights. Legal defense of Monaco’s sleaziest criminals ruled his days. That, and shady deals with shifter mafia—the Sanguine Syndicate.

  My inner cat was ready to pounce with one look at my prey—some sort of weasel shifter a few times removed. Guys like him made easy marks. Hell, he was asking for it wearing that custom Bangaudi suit and thickly layered gold chains. Only one thing bothered me. There was a quality to him that didn’t fit the rest of the package. It was his eyes. The way that he looked at the woman beside him was lewd, sure, but at the same time predatory. It didn’t matter though. I kept my distance, so even if Girardo had a surprise ferocity held beneath the doughy surface, it wasn’t my problem.

  The brunette cackled in exaggerated amusement as he leaned close and whispered in her ear. His thick, sausage fingers brushed the fair, freckled skin just above her elbow. A heavy blush tinted the tops of her ears and the center of her cheeks. He almost had her. It was nearly time.

  “Hey, sugar. Next round’s on me.” A tall, dark, and overconfident distraction slid onto the stool beside me. His black hair was slicked back in a fifties-style poof that appeared to be made of plastic. The ten gallons of cologne that wafted from him threatened to drown me. And the wide, bleached-white, self-assured grin on his square face told me he was accustomed to hearing yes.

  “I have a drink,” I said, sparing the man only a small glance before turning back to the pianist in the center of the room. The glass was cool against my lips, the Cabernet Sauvignon smooth on my palate.

  “A fine lookin’ lady like you shouldn’t be left to drink alone,” the man said. “The name’s Chad, and I can promise you’ll be screaming it. All. Night. Long.”

  He placed his clammy palm on my bare knee, still sporting that self-assured grin. Clearly he was not the type to take no for an answer. And if I could have afforded making a scene, I would have made him regret touching me. Break a finger, bloody a nose. Not tonight.

  “Chad,” I said, looking him square in the eyes, “you’ll remove your greasy paw from my leg and make your way back to the casino.”

  “And why—”

  “If you don’t,” I said, leaning close enough that only he could hear me, “I’ll tell your wife exactly what you’re doing on this ‘business’ trip.”

  Chad recoiled, stupid grin sliding right from his smooth face. “How could you… I’m not…”

  “The indent from your wedding band remains on your finger,” I said. “Besides, I can see the outline of your ring in your pocket.”

  He looked down, sliding his hand over the offending wrinkles in the black fabric. It was enough of a diversion.

  “And I’m guessing this is the lucky woman who snatched up such a prize.” I held his cell phone out for him to see. On the screen was the picture of the jerk holding a smiling blonde. Both wore matching gold bands.

  “How’d you—” The cheater reached for the phone, which I gladly allowed him to take.

  “And now it’s time to return to the casino,” I said with a small, sarcastic smile.

  He did exactly that, without another word, and with his head turned back to watch me while he walked away.

  Plastic Hair shoulder-checked an undeserving bellhop just before leaving my line of sight. I sighed in relief and turned my attention back to my task.

  Panic welled in my chest when I found Girardo’s stool empty. His scent of aftershave and lust still lingered. I scanned the room.

  There. By the elevator. His fat fingers teased the hem of her barely-there skirt as he held the woman against the wall. His back was turned to me. Her face was buried in his chest.

  I set my glass down on the counter with enough cash to cover the tip. Then I stalked forward. Silent steps came naturally, even in six-inch heels, even on the buffed marble floor. It didn’t matter. The couple was so engrossed in their pre-coital connection, I could have shifted into an elephant and trumpeted and they wouldn’t have noticed.

  Stealth was my thing, so I stuck to it. A flick of the w
rist, and I slid the keycard from Girardo’s pocket without missing a stride. Before the elevator doors opened, I was halfway up the stairwell.

  A stark contrast to the noisy luxury of the lobby, the stairwell was cold, concrete, and quiet. Thick stone walls buffered the noise from below. The floors above were quieter, filled with lavish, empty rooms belonging to the rich gamblers who threw their money away in the first-floor casino. Girardo’s room was six fifty-three. High enough to make escape from the window difficult. Also far enough from the security that swarmed in the casino that if I happened to be caught, it would take time for them to arrive.

  At the entry to the sixth floor, I stopped and listened through the thick, metal door. Heavy footsteps accompanied the dragging sound of rubber wheels on carpet, and the gentle clink of glass on metal. A food cart. Metal jingled, keys fumbled on an overfilled ring. The ding of the elevator. A gentle moan, a rustle of fabric. They were here.

  “Come.” The voice was deep, his accent heavy. The woman giggled, wobbly footsteps following just behind his heavy, steady set.

  As the minutes passed, I waited silently behind the door.

  “Where is it?” Girardo growled.

  “Let’s go in,” the woman said. “I’m ready. I want you now—”

  “My keycard,” he said. “It’s fucking missing.”

  “Forget it,” she said. “Let’s go to my room.”

  “I’ll have to go to the desk—”

  “Please,” she begged. “I’ve waited too long already.”

  Again the rustle of fabric. The slobbery smacking of lips. The wheels of the cart and footfalls of the bellhop sped past.

  “Yeah,” Girardo said, voice rough as gravel.

  Moments later, the elevator dinged once again. And they were gone.

  I moved. My window of opportunity was limited. Salvatore Girardo was likely a ten minute ride at best. As soon as he was done, he’d be back.

  I glided through the hall as if I belonged there, past the cleaning lady. Six fifty-three. I used the keycard and stepped inside. The suite was covered in shades of cream, from honey-hued hardwood to the white chaise lounge. Even the bricks around the fireplace were marbled white and sand. There was an ivory grand piano and dozens of white roses. The only vibrant color to be seen was beyond the hotel walls, though through the dark, night sky, the beauty was diminished. Dark waves rippled just beyond the open glass doors to the balcony. The same view in daylight was cerulean and azure. The decor was what I had expected. As was the location of the safe—just behind the ornate mirror next to the bed.

  One of the benefits of being a shifter was the enhanced hearing. I’d never met another thief who could hear the subtle clicks of the combination lock as it turned without using a tool kit. For me it was easy. I was born for this. The lock clicked in place, popping the safe door open. Inside was a stack of cash, and more importantly, the Vandervelt brooch I’d hoped for. That one little piece would not only feed me at the finest restaurants for the next five years, but afford my entire lifestyle and whims. The rumors were true. It was here, cold and heavy in my palm.

  The thrill of success clouded my brain. But not enough to overpower their scent. Wolves. Shit. They were close. Why did it have to be wolves?

  Before I could react, a sharp, stabbing pain pierced the back of my neck. I turned, ready to fight, ready to run. But the world spun. The room swirled in a foggy… unfocused…

  Shoes, black dress shoes. Salvatore ‘The Weasel’ Girardo stood over me. The woman beside him looked terrified, her lip bloody, her wrists tied. Suit-wearing goons filed in around Girardo. Blackness shrunk my field of vision. Twinkling away. Something else, a feeling to replace everything else. Dread. Nothingness.

  Get Can’t Prove Shift on Amazon!

  About the Author

  Keyboard ninja, late-blooming bibliophile, proud geek, animal lover, eternal optimist, visual artist.

  Keira Blackwood writes steamy paranormal romance full of suspense, action, and a dash of humor. No cheating. No cliffhangers. Always a happily-ever-after ending.

  Be the first to hear about new books and sales with Keira's newsletter.

  Get started now with your free, exclusive Protectors story!