Soft Shatter (Wolven Moon Book 1)

by Dany Rae Miller

  “Be sure it stays that way.” Cruz looks pleased by my single status. “What about your family? What will they make of you working here? Your father? Brothers? Is someone going to arrive at the Dollhouse with a shotgun?”

  There’s Nash. He isn’t family, but he’s as protective as a big brother would be. Would he kill Cruz for hiring me, or me for coming here? Both of us, most likely.

  Lie, Shavone.

  “No.” I look down at my hands and glance back up.

  “What took you so long to answer? Whether or not you have male relatives should be an easy question for an intelligent girl such as you.”

  “I was taken aback by another illegal interview question.”

  He laughs and sits back, crosses his arms. “Do you want a job or not, Miss Gentil?”

  Fine. He wants my life story, he’ll get it.

  “I was adopted by a single woman when I was six. I don’t know who my biological father is — or my biological mother, for that matter.”

  “And your adoptive mother?”

  “She died several years ago,” I murmur. The fire almost killed me, too. Dillon came to the rescue, putting a wet towel over my face and carrying me out.

  Then he was killed. And now Val’s missing.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Cruz’s inflection says that he means his words, even though they sound like a ready answer. “What about siblings, Miss Gentil?” He murmurs, shutters on his expression.

  “Obviously, I don’t know if I have any blood siblings.”

  And an adoptive one has run away — supposedly.

  I shake my head and just look down at my hands in my lap.

  There’s an uncomfortable silence.

  chapter four

  SADNESS ENVELOPES SHAVONE. That she feels so alone when the French were supposed to become her family infuriates me. Where the fuck is the detective? Doesn’t he care about her being here?

  Mingled with her sorrow are residual scents of fear and anger caused by my outburst. My wolf whimpers in regret. He craves her heart and soul, desperately needs to comfort her.

  “So.” Needing a distraction to keep him out of my eyes, I pick up her application and move on with the interview. “Your résumé states that you are a student at the University of Denver.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “What are you studying?” As if I don’t already know.

  “Psychology.”

  “Why psychology? Enlighten me, please.” I sit back, allowing myself to enjoy her presence and soft voice.

  She hesitates, caught off guard by another odd question.

  “I’ve always been curious about individual and group behaviors,” she responds. “The humanoid mind specifically — how it forms connections, how it makes and stores memories.”

  “Interesting.” Although not surprising. I’d wager it speaks to memories that she’s attempting to understand. The other nations’ reports are similar. Each of the Soft girls are curious about their past and their birth family. It’s only natural.

  “Have you considered pursuing internal medicine? It could tell you more about the brain perhaps.”

  The wolf swoons at her playful grimace of a smile. “Unfortunately, my stomach is too squeamish for blood and guts. I lost my lunch dissecting a pig in high school biology.”

  I imagine the scenario and smile back. “I see.”

  The high school portion of Shavone’s life seemed happy. My visits to check on her were limited to nights — covertly watching as wolf.

  My world shifted when she began dating Dillon Monbeau, imploded when I came upon them making out in a secluded area of Cheyenne Canyon one moonlit night. A dagger lances my wolf even now, years later. Her with another. Me losing control of my beast for the first time, forcing him into a tight cage. I push the painful memory away, focus on the here and now.

  “Although, my emphasis is on neuroscience.” Shavone’s voice brings me back to the present conversation.

  “Tell me why you want to work here. You’re an admirable young woman. I’ll repeat myself in that I find you well above this kind of work.”

  She smirks, ready for such an obvious question. “I’ll repeat myself as well. Money. I heard that the tips are extraordinary here.”

  Though that is the truth, it is not her primary reason.

  “Mr. Cruz?” Her apprehensive voice moves me.

  “Yes?”

  “I fully expected to be interviewed by the club manager. If I may ask, aren’t you far too important — what I mean is, aren’t you far too busy to worry about hiring waitresses?”

  How ironic. One of the most powerful witches on Earth believes me important. She swallows, the movement in her throat momentarily distracting me.

  “So it may seem. To answer your question, I happened to see your application and photos. I was intrigued by your bright eyes and smile. You have an arresting all-America look. I wanted to meet you in person.”

  Her eyebrows shoot up in shock.

  “You aren’t our normal type of applicant.” I attempt a believable explanation.

  “Oh?” She’s surprised.

  “We have a few student dancers, yes. But most dancers are just that, dancers.”

  How far is she willing to take this charade? I should find out.

  “If you’re interested in higher earnings, you should consider dancing.” I motion to the stage that in reality I would never let her step a toe on. “You could make considerably more money.”

  “I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing that.”

  “I see. Modestly greedy, hmmm?” I do my best to suppress a smile. “Well, perhaps after you have gained some experience here, watched some of the other dancers” — My voice trails off.

  She nods, but stays silent in an unmistakable determination.

  I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. I’m exceeding pleased at the display of her unwavering self respect.

  One day, I hope you’ll dance privately, for me alone.

  My cock twitches as my imagination takes over. I clear my throat and glance at her application, again. “You only want to work three nights a week. Why?”

  “I’m a college senior preparing to apply to a graduate program. It promises to be a hectic semester. Three nights a week allows for study and research time.”

  “Why do I get the feeling that you’d be doing research on the job here.”

  Her eyes widen slightly at my hint at the truth.

  “Um, well, actually, I would be.” She answers truthfully. “First, it’s in my nature to do so. And secondly, it’s an unusual environment that researchers don’t often study in person. What kind of people work here, what kind of people frequent this type of establishment? It would dovetail nicely with the topic I’m considering for my senior thesis. ”

  I snort. “Horny men, Miss Gentil. That’s who frequent the Dollhouse. No matter their positions of power or their wealth, in here they are depraved males. That is the nature of this business. Please don’t romanticize it in your mind or with your research.”

  “I won’t.” Her face alights with a thought. “And you, if you’ll permit it, I’d like to interview and study you.”

  “Me?” I laugh, genuinely surprised. “Why would you want to study me?”

  You can get personal with any part of me you’d like. A particular appendage is aching to meet the adult Shavone.

  “You’re a very powerful man. I’d like to know what makes you tick.”

  That the French have filled her head with horrible lies and heinous tales about me has been written all over her face since she arrived. Of all the Natives, they want her to fear me most. Alliance orders.

  “I believe you know more about me than you give away. Or” — I make a flippant motion with a hand — “you think you know me based on rumor and false accusations.”

  “Perhaps.” She admits with a voice as soft as her eyes. Her empathy touches me. “You could let me interview you. Then I could know the real you.”
/>
  Oh, you will know the real me one day, intimately and completely, my Shavone.

  “As research, of course, in preparation for my senior thesis,” she adds.

  “Perhaps I will consent.” A small smile plays on my face. “You have a thesis topic in mind, already?”

  “Yes, I do. I hope to study the influence of culture on cognitive and social processes.”

  “That’s quite eager of you given that your thesis isn’t due for many months.”

  “I don’t like leaving things for the last minute. I prefer to be well prepared far in advance,” she says. “And, I hope to do a thorough study, good enough for publication.”

  “You’re that ambitious, are you?”

  “Yes.”

  I nod, relishing her intelligence. “Research would better explain why you want to work here. After all, you don’t need money that badly. You have a full scholarship at the University of Denver.”

  The blood drains from her face and her muscles flex. “That information wasn’t provided in my application, Mr. Cruz. May I ask where you got it?”

  “We do complete background checks.”

  Who do you think funds your scholarship?

  “You do background checks on applicants?”

  “Of course. Why are you surprised?”

  “Seems a rather large and unnecessary expense before you hire a person.”

  “My time, as you’ve pointed out, is valuable. I prefer to determine in advance whether a person is worth wasting time on.”

  Her head moves side to side, considering my point. A beautiful woman with more than half a brain — she’s a breath of fresh air.

  “It pays to know what sort of person will come through the door, or in your case, what sort of witch,” I joke.

  Air whooshes out of her mouth and her mid section tightens as though she’s been punched in the stomach.

  “Miss Gentil?” I stand.

  Wide eyed and becoming paler by the second, she stares at me — the scent of her fear so potent it singes my nostrils.

  “What’s wrong?” I kneel at her side taking her hands in mine.

  Eyes huge, she says nothing. Worse, she’s holding her breath.

  “Damn it, Shavone, breathe.”

  Just as I’m about to put my mouth on hers and blow oxygen into her lungs, she draws in one shallow breath.

  “You know what I am?” She whispers.

  “Of course.” I cup her beautiful face. “Inhale deeply right now.” I demand.

  She sucks in a lung full. I sigh and hang my head in relief.

  “Another.”

  She does so.

  “Miss Gentil.” Antonio offers her a glass of juice.

  She extracts her hands from mine to take it and sip.

  “No need to be alarmed, Miss Gentil. You know what I am, I know what you are. That’s because wolves and witches innately recognize one another.”

  Clearly it’s a revelation to her. Unbelievable. Fuck. I’d like to wring several French necks. They’ve taught her nothing.

  Taking a bigger gulp of juice, her ab muscles relax.

  “Better?” I watch her carefully.

  “Yes. Thank you.” She shakes her head. “I feel foolish. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. You’re safe here. All witches are safe here.”

  Though she says nothing, her eyes show doubt. She has no clue as to the relationship between witches and wolves. Un-fucking-believable.

  I sit back down, determined. No longer on the fence on hiring her.

  “I’d like you to start work this Thursday.”

  Relief lights her face. Disbelief darkens Antonio’s. Uncle Emmanuel is beside himself with anger. I don’t care what either of them think. Shavone needs protection and instruction from a true guardian. Me.

  “Neither our entertainers nor our wait staff use their real names. It’s a personal safety precaution that I insist upon.”

  She nods. “Makes sense.”

  A small smile lifts my lips. “Here you will be Sara.” It means princess in Spanish. “I’ll pair you with Paige, since she’s the one who referred you. At the Dollhouse, she goes by Paulina. She’s experienced enough and can teach you about the doll persona, especially how to handle enamored customers properly.”

  Please learn so that I won’t have to kill our clientele one by one.

  “Thank you,” she murmurs.

  “Are you sure you’re alright, Miss Gentil?”

  “Yes.” She abruptly stands. “What time should I be here on Thursday?”

  I also stand. “Four o’clock. Your shift will go to midnight. You may change now.”

  I walk her to the curtain and wait, listening for anything amiss — like the thud of a girl fainting. She’s much quicker changing back to her street clothes, exiting within minutes and with more color in her fair complexion.

  “I will escort you safely to your car, Miss Gentil,” I say.

  “Oh, that’s not necessary.”

  “Please.” Gently taking her elbow, I indicate she should move toward the entrance.

  Antonio follows us while Uncle Emmanuel seethes in the back office. Shavone clicks a key fob to unlock her old Saturn.

  “A sensible car.” I open the door for her.

  “It’s a hand-me-down.”

  Her mother’s. I recognize it.

  When you are mine, you will drive a brand new Lexus or Mercedes or whatever you like.

  She slides in giving me a wonderful view of her legs. Briefly I imagine them wrapped around me in passion.

  “Very clean for it’s age. You take good care of it.” I peer in pretending to look at the mint condition upholstery when what I’m really doing is filling my lungs with her scent.

  She starts the engine. “Yes, I do. Thank you for the job, Mr. Cruz.” She smiles a tight smile. “I’ll see you Thursday night.”

  “I look forward to it.” I close her door.

  I stare after her car. Beside me, Antonio frowns. Narrowing his eyes at me, he shakes his head ever so slightly.

  “What was I supposed do, Antonio? Did you see how frightened she was? Shavone needs me — needs us. The French are failing her.”

  “Doesn’t matter what we think. Jack is going to have a cow.”

  Fuck Jack and the Alliance.

  Antonio reaches for the phone in his pocket. “I’ll call her and let her contact LaFontaine — let the shit fall on her shoulders.”

  “You’ll do no such thing.” I pin my brother with a stare, my hand over his phone.

  He narrows his eyes.

  “If Shavone was here on her own, she’s looking for answers that neither the Alliance nor the French are providing. If they put her up to this, well, they’ll already know.”

  “Are you willing to start a war over her?” Antonio hisses.

  “I attached to her when I was ten.” I grin. “What do you think?”

  chapter five

  ONCE OUT OF sight from the Dollhouse, I pull off into a parking space.

  Gripping the steering wheel tight to still my shaking hands, I close my eyes and rest my forehead on the center of it.

  I certainly didn’t expect that. That was insane. I touch my arm where Cruz did.

  Who knew wolves recognize witches? All my life, it was drilled into my head that to be safe, I have to hide what I am. The fire made it all too clear how important it is for us to lay low. It would have been nice to know about that particular wolf ability.

  If he knows what I am, then he likely knows who I am and that I’m looking for Valerie and Francisco.

  Shit.

  I look at my phone. It’s four o’clock. I have six missed calls and twice the number of texts from girls in my coven.

  We grew up in the Voisin coven in Colorado Springs. Even though we’ve scattered for college, we’re still tight — communicating often. Some in the circle approve of my targeting the Dollhouse, some don’t, but all support me in my search for my sister.

  It doesn’t make
sense that Val ran away. None. What worries me most is the silence on her end.

  I tap to send a group text to my circle. Got the job.

  Next, I tap speaker and call Cherie Valentine, one of my besties.

  “Jesus! It took long enough,” she says.

  “Yeah, longer than I thought.”

  “Another minute and I would’ve called Maria to get you out of there.”

  “I’m okay.” A delayed shudder from Cruz’s over dramatic demonstration wracks my body. I still feel his powerful hand wrapped around my arm. With a slight twist, he easily could’ve snapped it.

  “You don’t sound okay.”

  “It was just — intense, you know? Cruz is intense.”

  “Which Cruz?”

  “I met two, Antonio and Enrique.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. Enrique interviewed me assisted by Antonio.”

  “Shit, Shav. Please don’t do this. We’ll find Val some other way.”

  “What other way?” I snap.

  “I don’t know. Damn it! I’m scared for you. What part of ‘Enrique Cruz is bad news’ don’t you understand? If Gabby’s afraid of him” — I cut her off.

  “I’m aware of that.” And I am. Gabriela is a Native who sidesteps her own Prime. That speaks volumes. “I’ll text the coven every night before work and every night when I get home, alright?”

  She sighs loudly. “Fine, but here’s my caveat — you miss one text and I call not only Gabby and Maria, but all the Monbeau’s, Nash, and every other wolf I know — Native, French and Norse.”

  “Aw.” I giggle despite the gravity of the conversation. “That’s a lot of phone calls.”

  “It’s not funny, Shav. Please, please, be careful.”

  “I will. I promise. Now I’ve got to go thank Paige for getting me in.”

  “Alright. Tell her hello for me — and give her my number, just in case. Until tonight, être sûr.”

  Before hanging up, I repeat back the French phrase that means be safe, “Être sûr.”

  When I watched the comings and goings at the Denver Dollhouse, I saw Paige, an alum of my high school, use the employee entrance on a regular basis. She’s older — a senior when Val and I were sophomores and, though Paige and I didn’t have classes together, we were on the yearbook committee together. So, I followed her one night when she left the Dollhouse for an all-night diner across the street.