Ultimate Alpha Boxed Set: A BBW and Wolf Shifter collection

by Bolryder, Terry

  Rafe nods, smiling his happy smile that warms me inside and turns me on at the same time.

  “Should we tell Hawthorne and Lindon?”

  “They’re gone. After we spoke outside, I assigned them to return to the council and report on what happened, so it’s just you and me here for the next few days,” Rafe says, a hint of slyness in his voice.

  I smile, knowing what that means for both of us. Rafe and I have the house to ourselves.

  “What happens after that?” I think aloud, wanting to know what to expect.

  “They’ll find new places to live. And mates of their own. It won’t be a problem since they’re very well off. We’ll get officially married, even have a wedding if that’s what you want. Then the rest of the future is ours. We can do whatever we want,” Rafe exclaims.

  I sigh and nestle into Rafe’s big, strong arms, enjoying the view of his pecs and shoulders from here. Do I really get to keep this amazing, sexy man to myself for the rest of forever? It almost feels too good to be true.

  Then, as Rafe brings his lips down to mine and kisses me ever so lovingly, I know that this is just the start to the most wonderful journey. Our fairytale ending is just the start of our story.

  And I can’t wait to read the next page.

  * * *

  That’s it for Alpha Games! Turn the page to start Hawe’s story with a sexy lady alpha! You’ll see the other characters woven throughout each story, so I hope you enjoy continuing on!

  Alpha Rogue 1

  When Rose is sent to do surveillance on a rogue alpha working in the underground cage fighting circuit, she isn't expecting Hawes: a pretty boy with the looks of an adonis and the ability to easily crush opponents twice his size. She also isn't expecting him to be cocky, conceited, and too independent for his own good. Not to mention unwilling to listen to Rose when she tells him he's in danger.

  But when Rose is the one threatened, she finds out there's more to the irritating alpha male than she thought. For one, he'll do anything to protect her. For two, he drives a Ferrari and owns a mansion. And for three, he sets her blood on fire when he kisses her.

  Now if only they can escape the people chasing them long enough to figure out if there's something between them that's really worth fighting for.

  Chapter 1

  Hawes

  I sit on a dirty bench in a dusty locker room. The light overhead is dim, flickering off and on, barely giving enough light to fill this small space. Lockers surround me, some ajar, some closed, some dented or scraped from years of use.

  How did I end up in this place again?

  Oh yeah, that.

  I shake the unpleasant memories away and finish my hand wraps, carefully tying the ends so they won’t come undone in the middle of my match. Somewhere nearby I can hear a small TV in a back room with an announcer giving the latest score for a basketball game or something. A few dozen feet away, through thick concrete walls, a large crowd is roaring, raucous and rowdy, cheering or booing whoever is in the ring right now.

  That’ll be me in a few minutes, I think with a small, welcome rush of adrenaline.

  Normally there would be a trainer, a brother or close friend, or even someone hired, to give a pep talk and get me ready. But I’m my own pep talk these days. There’s nothing here but a light that looks like it could go out any second and a heavy mustiness in the air that catches your lungs off guard.

  A man walks into the room from the dark hallway connected to the locker room.

  “You’re up next, Hawes,” he announces professionally. But his voice sounds tired, like he’s been doing it for years.

  I nod. Not much to say to that.

  I stand up, pull on my gloves, and tighten my shorts once more. I pull on a gray hoodie with cut-off sleeves, and tug the hood down to obscure my face from view. Then I follow a few feet behind the man who has turned and is now walking down the corridor.

  At the end there’s a light, which gradually comes into focus as we get nearer. As we exit the corridor, I can see metal bleachers full of people, and a caged ring in the center.

  A limp body is being carried out on a stretcher, and there’s a triumphant-looking contestant standing in the center of the ring, arms raised, shouting at the top of his lungs. Either with the audience or at them, I’m not sure.

  I enter the room, which is probably no more than a hundred feet across in both directions, but is packed to the rim with people of all shapes and sizes and personal hygiene levels.

  Some look like businessmen, ties loose and collars unbuttoned, here to relax and indulge their rough side after a long day at the desk. Others appear like they run with a tougher crowd from the other side of the tracks, with shaven heads, liberal amounts of tattoos, and mean eyes. Others look like they could be hobos that walked off the street. Many of them are drunk.

  The victorious contestant leaves the ring with his crew, and an announcer, a slick man with slick hair and nice clothing, enters the arena with a microphone. For a moment, the crowd silences palpably, and the air in the room is tense.

  “And now, for your entertainment, I give you the fight you’ve all been waiting for.” The announcer sweeps his arms widely, making large gestures to excite the crowd, who in turn begins to shout and holler.

  “On my right, standing at six-foot-three, and weighing in at one-hundred and ninety-six pounds, I give you…Hawes! The Jacknife!”

  That’s my cue.

  I start walking up to the arena and enter through the open door leading into the cage. The crowd is a mixture of applause and booing, but mostly just noise as they wait for the match to start. I walk up to the announcer and stand on his right side, and he nods at me with a big shit-eating grin that only an announcer could have. The cage itself is standard sized, but enclosed on the sides and the top, allowing no escape. The people here want blood, not rules.

  “And on my left side, the man you’ve been waiting for, the best fighter this ring has ever seen. Undefeated in over fifty matches, standing at a massive six-foot-eight, and weighing a whopping two hundred and eighty nine pounds, I give you Richard ‘The Crusher’ Bronson!”

  The crowd is roaring now. Everyone is on their feet. My opponent enters the room, tailed by a small entourage of trainers and lackeys. If I were to guess, I’d say they were lying, and he actually weighs over three hundred pounds and is only a couple inches shy of seven feet.

  The Crusher enters the ring and stands next to the announcer, who looks hilariously small next to him.

  I’ve heard about this guy. The people here love him because he gives them what they want. Violence, and lots of it. He takes the already sparse rules of underground cage fighting and throws them out the window. He has brutally injured many of his opponents and, if rumors are true (which they often are in these parts) he’s killed several.

  Looking at him, he stands up to his name. He’s not only huge, but 100% muscle to boot. The only hair on him is a closely shaven beard, which gives more severity to his already hateful-looking eyes. His back, neck, arms, and basically anything except for his head and legs are covered in tattoos.

  One might look on this situation and ask, what about weight classes? What about fair fights? My only response would be, it’s underground fighting. People just wanna see one guy get beat to a pulp by another guy, and maybe make or lose a little money in the process.

  To be honest though, even I would be lying if I didn’t think the odds were fairly stacked against me in this situation. Just pound for pound, no amount of skill could make up for the absurd difference in physique.

  Lucky for me, there’s one thing they don’t know.

  I’m a fucking werewolf.

  Chapter 2

  Rose

  I hate going on undercover missions, especially in places like this. I hate crowds, too. Especially ones that are dirty, drunk, and handsy. Even with an outfit comprised of an old hoodie, a baseball cap, and baggy jeans, people still notice from time to time that I’m a woman.

 
But I’ve gotten pretty good at blending into the background. So here I am, sitting in some underground fighting pit about to watch another match start, trying to stay as unnoticed as possible while completing my assignment.

  Then I see him. My eyes go to him just as the announcer calls his name. Hawes. The Jack-knife. The fighter I was I sent to watch tonight.

  But he’s far from what I expected him to be. Walking up to the center platform, he’s not covered with tattoos and he’s not covered in scars, two essentials for your run-of-the mill underground fighter. He walks up and stands next to the announcer and pulls off his cutoff hoodie.

  No amount of training could have prepared me for this.

  He’s the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen. Some kind of beautiful, tanned adonis from the novels I’ve read. Or my dreams.

  His hair is a golden chestnut color, wavy and falling perfectly around his face, perfectly tousled like he’s just had a woman in bed with him. His jawline is straight, strong, but he has a pretty boy face. His lips are full and sculpted, showing the smallest hint of some emotion- a little quirk at one side that suggests either annoyance or excitement, I can’t tell at this distance.

  His body is tall and lean, every muscle defined but not making him look hulkish. Instead he has the body of a perfectly muscled, perfectly fit young man. His shorts are riding a bit low and I can’t help but see his abs tapering down to nice ken doll lines.

  But the last thing I see is his eyes. The bright fluorescent lights of the room catch them and light them up, making them appear a stunning, warm light brown that almost flashes orange. Fiery, like they are lit from within. When they flash my way they show a raw animality that excites me in a way that I’ve never felt before. A funny, hot feeling rises in me and I pull my hoodie tighter and remind myself to stay professional.

  The announcer calls his opponent and they come face to face. My jaw drops at the size difference. Though Hawes is ripped, his opponent belongs in his own weight class entirely and seems to have been doing this for years. But the sexy newcomer doesn’t appear fazed at all.

  I narrow my eyes, feeling tense just watching this. The fight is moments from starting. I see Hawes smile, an almost spiteful grin in the face of the situation.

  The ref makes the call, and Hawes springs from the ground toward his opponent, catching Bronson in the sternum with his right knee. Muay Thai. This guy knows his stuff.

  Bronson isn’t unaffected, but he counters with a close hook towards Hawes’ face. Hawes pulls under it and rolls off the ground back to his feet. As he stands he spins into a roundhouse kick, which Bronson blocks with his arm. The impact is incredible though, and the slamming contact echoes through the room over the crowd’s rowdy cheers.

  Bronson throws his leg outward and almost catches the lighter man in the chest, but Hawes narrowly dodges. Hawes has speed on his side, but he’s getting cocky.

  This isn’t my first time watching an underground fight. I’ve been on several assignments over the past few months that have brought me here. But nothing has been as exciting to me as this match.

  Usually I’m talking with contacts or trying to pry info from the locals during the matches, but right now I can’t keep my eyes off the ring. The dichotomy between ripped and sexy and young against thuggish and gigantic could not be more apparent, or intriguing, to me.

  I just hope Hawes doesn’t get his head knocked off. I want to meet him in person.

  He’s using his speed now and throwing punches faster than I can count. That speed…something is just…not normal about it. Bronson is able to shield himself from the majority with his sheer bulk, but the combination of straights, hooks, and uppercuts in perfect succession from Hawes are taking their toll on the giant, and it’s wearing him down.

  Meanwhile Hawes looks like he could do this all day. There’s a glint in those intense orange eyes, almost like he’s…enjoying it?

  Against what normal reason would dictate, Bronson goes on the offensive- trying to charge through the punches- and connects hard with Hawes’ chest, sending him flying across the caged ring. My breath catches and the world moves in slow motion to me as he rolls to a stop. There’s a loud ‘oooh’ from the audience. That had to have hurt.

  Cocky bastard, I think, watching him. Now you’ve done it.

  There’s a silence as Bronson walks quickly across the floor towards Hawes, who is still on his back, motionless. I can hear people catching their breath as they wait for Bronson’s signature move to end it all.

  Hawes stirs. He takes a deep breath, then starts laughing. Loudly.

  Bronson stops, stunned by the audacity of it. The audience stops too, unable to process what they’re seeing. I don’t know if I want to laugh or cry, but for now all I can do is watch too, waiting to see what will happen next.

  Hawes pulls himself to his feet, almost leisurely, his laugh now carrying across room, filling the silence. He dusts himself off a little, and pops his neck and knuckles, as if amused by his own performance and being soundly punched only moments earlier.

  I see Bronson move out of the corner of my eye and snap my gaze in his direction.

  Bronson, seeing his clear advantage has faded, runs towards Hawes, cocking his arm all the way back in the hopes of catching Hawes unaware and landing another hit.

  One second, Hawes is still dusting himself off and looking at his nails, and the next his hand connects with The Crusher’s jaw. There’s a loud crunch that resonates across the room as Hawes’ fist meets Bronson’s face. Bronson, completely open from being on the offensive, takes a devastating uppercut to the jaw, sending the six-foot-ten giant upwards several feet into the air, spittle arcing in the air behind him, and then back to the ground where he lands with a resounding thud.

  The audience is speechless. Not a sound is heard in the room, except for a stifled belch from someone drinking beer in the front row. All eyes are wide and fixed on the tanned, sexy fighter who looks like he belongs in a Gucci ad, not an underground cage match.

  Oh, someone is not going to like this. I can tell from the angry murmuring starting in the room. I flip through my papers and close my folders. My guess is of all the bets in the room, some of them big and quite important, none were on Hawes.

  I’ve got to get down there to him. Quick.

  Hawes saunters over to Bronson and just looks down. Bronson doesn’t make a move. He’s out completely. Hawes smiles, then frowns, almost like he’s sorry it’s over.

  Several moments pass in silence until the ref, having now remembered what his job was, comes into the arena with a whistle, calls a countdown, and then declares Hawes the winner.

  The crowd erupts all at once with noise. Despite the performance, there’s a ponderous amount of booing. I was right. A lot of people were betting on Bronson, and they’re not too happy about it.

  Hawes may have gotten away with other fights where the odds were stacked against him by simply winning and running, but I don’t think that’ll work out this time.

  Hawes doesn’t waste a minute. He shrugs into his hoodie, which he pulls over his head and face, and makes his way out of the arena amidst the yells of disgust and anger from the drunken crowd. He walks right toward the exit, and I spring from my seat after him.

  I have to catch him before something bad happens.

  Chapter 3

  Hawes

  That fight wasn’t as nearly as long as it should have been. You should have made it last longer, I tell myself as I walk down the steps from the cage and toward the hallway leading out of the arena.

  Typically I like to make the matches last as long as possible, drawing out the fight. It’s not that I derive a perverse pleasure from toying with my opponents (though some could argue that), it’s just that I need the distraction. Fighting clears my mind. All that exists is me and my opponent and unadulterated adrenaline.

  I’ll be the first to admit that a werewolf against any human isn’t necessarily equal, but hey, the people down here fight dirty and are use
d to bad odds.

  But I lost control and went a little too hard when Bronson hit me square on like that. I didn’t pull back in time, so he got a little too much.

  Just overeager to forget, I think.

  The crowd’s boos and the volley of empty beer cups and debris don’t bother me. This is the usual response to my victories anyways. I know that I’m usually unfavored in the odds, both a combination of poor public image and the fact that nobody knows anything about me. I like to keep my secrets close to the chest.

  As I’m about to enter the dark corridor back to the locker room, a hand grabs me and I hear a voice.

  A woman’s voice.

  “Hawes, wait. You have to come with me,” she says.

  I turn around, and look into stunning, pale blue eyes. I can’t make out the rest of her, due to her being covered in copious amounts of baggy, masculine clothing, but she has a pretty face. It’s not everyday you see someone like that watching underground cage fights.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask, puzzled and eager to get out of here before the angry crowd becomes a mob.

  “I can’t tell you here. But you’re in danger,” she says, eyes earnest and looking a little angry with me.

  “You’re crazy. The only danger I’m in is if I don’t leave here right now.” Got to keep up appearances and stay true to my rep. Win and go.

  “I’m serious, Hawes. This is no joke,” the blue-eyed woman demands sternly.

  “Look, I don’t know who you are, or how you know me. For all I know you’re just some crazy stalker-fan. But all I want right now is to get home, have a nice shower, and schedule my next match.”

  She frowns but doesn’t budge or explain further. She’s starting to bug me. Too many demands and not enough answers. I gently pull her hand off my arm and turn around to walk down the corridor. I don’t need anyone’s help.