Soft Shatter (Wolven Moon Book 1)

by Dany Rae Miller

  Panting and wriggling, I work my hand faster and faster. With a moan, I find my ecstasy pretty quickly.

  Geez. I lay back and catch my breath. I giggle a little. What, oh what, would staid Nash think of his little Shav now? Masturbating while dreaming of having a threesome? I giggle louder. He’d be appalled.

  A sliver of dawn light creeps in the east window. I stretch and give up trying to sleep.

  Coffee.

  I throw the covers off.

  I know from searching last night that the only decent coffee in this apartment is buried in a moving box. However, there’s the main kitchen. I have no doubt it’s stocked with the finest coffee in the world. I pull on yoga pants and a t-shirt, and pad to the door. I punch in the security code, and screwing my eyes together against any ensuing noise, I open the door.

  Yay. No piercing alarm.

  The only lights are those I left on last night — in the hall and over the stove.

  The coffee machine is some obscure Swiss contraption with knobs, spouts and appendages that are completely foreign.

  Shit.

  I’m a dean’s list college student. I should be able to figure this thing out. I tap on the digital display to wake up the machine. It asks me to select a product — and, would you look at that, coffee is one of the options. Quickly finding a mug in the cupboard directly above the machine, I set it under the main spout and, fingers crossed, tap coffee on the display.

  The machine whirs and sputters. There’s a click and another whir, and coffee drips out of the smaller spout. Oops. I slide the mug over and catch the bulk of it. Oh. And it finishes with delicious looking gourmet coffee house crema.

  I sip. Oh, yeah. It’s so good, I actually moan.

  “So sorry I misjudged you, Swiss import.” I pat the machine and sip more. I take my cup and wander around the main level of the mansion until my brain cells begin working.

  I can’t tell if Ben made it home last night. Doesn’t look like it, but then again this place is huge.

  Going back to the kitchen, I make another cup of scrumptious coffee.

  Right now would be a prime opportunity to snoop if, in fact, Ben isn’t here. His car would be in the garage if he were. I hurry down the hall and punch in the security code. Carefully opening the door, I squint half expecting the alarm, pleased when it doesn’t go off.

  I peek into the gigantic garage. It’s empty save for my ancient Saturn parked two tennis courts away. My instincts were right. Ben hadn’t come home.

  Is it club business or the case that Nash is working that’s kept Ben out? Wouldn’t it be grand if the guys are working a lead having to do with Val? I hope so. In the meantime, I have to work my own angle — snooping on Cruz for whatever tidbits I can get.

  I set the mug on the washer.

  I don’t have my keys and this door may self-lock. In the laundry closet, I find a heavy jug of bleach. Perfect. I can use it to prop the door open. I tap the code to the garage again.

  Shit. I hope leaving the door open like this doesn’t set off the alarm by default. Better hurry. In bare feet, I race to my car.

  I grab my makeup from the seat and pop the trunk at the same time. The computer and lens boxes in arm, I scurry back inside and shove the jug out of the way to let the door fall closed.

  Whew. I feel as though I’ve just had an aerobic workout.

  The jug back in the closet, I hook a few fingers through the mug handle and take my packages upstairs to my apartment.

  The coffee is now lukewarm, but still delicious as I busy myself attaching my new lens to my years old Canon Rebel. Crouching down toward a corner of my living room window, I focus on Cruz’s place.

  Wow. I can even see the pattern on the wallpaper with this baby. I snap a few shots. Then, I move the view to the upper windows.

  My heart skips a beat when a blind opens on the window I’m focused on. I duck down and to the side. I don’t think I can be seen, but why take chances? After a moment, I peek up and train my lens on the window. Now I see that it’s not a window at all, but a French door. It leads to a side terrace and appears to be off a bathroom.

  I snap a few shots and my breath catches again when an almost naked Cruz walks into the frame. He’s wearing just a towel draped over his hips. The man stays in shape. Those are some impressive abs and pecs. Yes, indeed. My sex drive is alive and well.

  Taking things out of a cabinet, his hips move and head bobs as though he’s listening to music with a quick beat. The bobbing continues as he slathers on shaving cream and stills when he begins to shave.

  Done shaving, he splashes his face with water and dries it. A man comes in the bathroom. A gay lover? A manservant? Whoever it is sets down a tray and leaves.

  Cruz goes to the tray, turning so that I get a straight on shot of his back. He has no tattoos that I can see, but there’s a vicious looking scar stretching from his top left shoulder across his entire back ending just over his right hip.

  Now I see that the tray holds a coffee service. He pours himself a cup from a silver pot, adds a dash of cream and pushes the French door open. There on the terrace, he sips and looks out over the landscape.

  For a heart stopping second, he looks over at Ben’s house. Again, I duck to the side of the window and peek just an inch or so around the curtain. I let out a sigh of relief when his gaze continues on.

  Cruz looks up at the sky, and, then, with a frown, down into his cup, his eyes flat and droopy. Through the lens I see the last thing I ever expected to see — an achingly lonely person.

  Finishing the cup of coffee in a final gulp, Cruz turns, moves slowly through the door and disappears inside.

  Training my lens on the other windows, I hope for a glimpse of Francisco, even of Val. Why Val would be there, I don’t know. Desperate sisters think desperate thoughts and do desperate things.

  On the camera, I scroll through the shots I got. Nothing significant except the few frames of Cruz. I study the close up of him staring into his coffee, at the profound sadness in his expression.

  Stop it, Shavone. Compassion isn’t warranted for such a ruthless alpha.

  I blow out a breath and get off my knees.

  Although more of Cruz’s place is visible from my living room, I opt to tuck the camera rig away in the master closet. With it safely stashed behind the leftover mens clothes, I head to the bathroom.

  The shower has several knobs. I lightly turn each separately to see which nozzles they control. A line of square body sprays comes on first. Nice. The second knob turns on the rain head nozzle and the third activates the sprayer mounted where a normal shower head would be.

  I shrug and turn them all on to get hot. I go back to the bedroom to gather my shower supplies. Then, I strip and, with great expectations, enter the shower. Oh, that feels good.

  “Mmmmm,” I moan and turn slowly to wet all my skin, and hair.

  I squirt organic body wash onto my washcloth, lather it up and glide it over my shoulder. My skin is still super sensitive from this morning’s fantasy. Wow. Amazing what sexual arousal can do to one’s nerve endings. I’m fascinated as a psych student and thrilled as a woman. Avoiding my crotch for the time being, I wash the rest of my body and shampoo my hair.

  Then, I wash between my legs. Oh, I moan, closing my eyes. Ben and Nash are right here in my imagination, and with them, it takes all of thirty seconds for me to come. Either my hormones are really, really raging or the guys are really, really great imaginary lovers. I smile. Oh, if they only knew.

  Cleansed, dried and dressed, I tuck the new laptop under my arm and head back to the main kitchen in search of breakfast as well as a third cup of coffee.

  I eat a Greek yogurt and some grapes while perusing the enormous walk-in pantry — fully stocked with just about every ingredient, gadget and small appliance a cook could ever want or need.

  A stack of premium baking pans catches my eye.

  Oh. A cake. I’ll bake Nash a cake for his birthday. I can redeem myself. This one w
ill taste far better than the one I made when I was twelve.

  I select an apron from a hook and gather the ingredients for Mom’s simple chocolate cake.

  The kitchen is a dream to work in — so much counter space. I find a powerful stand mixer that pops up from below complete with every conceivable attachment, and there’s a multitude of professional grade tools stuffed in every drawer.

  Once the cake is in the oven, I clean up the tools I used.

  May as well make use of the time home alone to snoop for clues about Houston and Val. Where to start? The den. It’s just to the left of the massive fireplace. I sit in the chair at the desk and open the right file drawer. It’s totally and completely empty.

  What?

  So is the left one. That’s bizarre — or maybe not since Ben just moved in. The upper drawers hold the usual notepads, rubber bands, staples and the like. The pencil drawer has what you’d expect — writing instruments, a ruler and a magnifying glass. Nothing unusual.

  I wake up the computer on the desk. The document files are practically empty. There are no photos, no music — even the trashcan icon is empty. Either this is a brand new computer or it isn’t used much.

  I move back to the great room. It would help if I knew what I was looking for. Photos? Maps of Houston? GPS coordinates? Scribbled notes?

  My head hurts. Even if I did stumble onto something, would I recognize it as significant? I take a deep breath and abandon the search.

  In the kitchen, I perch at the breakfast bar to work on my laptop. The fall semester textbook requirements should be posted on DU’s website.

  I tap on the Internet browser and wait.

  You are not connected to the Internet, it says.

  Shit.

  The wi-fi is locked and I don’t have the password. Sliding my phone from my back pocket intending to call Ben, I hear the garage door open.

  chapter twenty-two

  AS I COME in from the garage, I’m hit with a fabulous smell that wakes up my tired ass. “Is that cake?” I shout down the hall to the kitchen.

  “Yes.” I pump my fist. “I struck gold and oil with my new roomie. I fucking love cake.” I walk straight to the most beautiful thing in the world for a deep kiss.

  Instead of participating, she tenses.

  “What’s wrong?” Using both hands, I tuck her hair behind her ears.

  “Um” — she looks so nervous.

  “Um, what?” I tilt my head to gaze into her face.

  Did she and Nash do it? Asshole. We had a deal.

  She closes her eyes, guilt rolls off her.

  Fuck. Guess she is a one man woman and I lost. I drop my hands and step back to the fridge.

  “Don’t hate me please,” she mumbles.

  I push things around on a shelf rather than look at her. Taking a container of milk, I open it and drink straight from the carton. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

  “Ben?”

  I close the carton, set it back in the fridge, and turn to face the woman I want more than I’ve wanted anything.

  “You’re so fucking sweet, Shavone, no one could ever hate you. You and Nash have a history. I just” — I stop. I’ve never been jealous in my life.

  “The cake is for Nash,” she blurts out.

  I snort. “I gathered.”

  “I’m sure he’ll share with you.”

  He likes sharing, kitten. Too bad you’re not into that.

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I should’ve made one for you, too.”

  I lean on the counter. “I’m glad you’re making use of the kitchen. He said you’d love it.”

  “Nash did?” A fist flits to her hip. “When did he say that?”

  Fuck.

  She slips off the stool and walks to me. “Ben?”

  “What?”

  Her eyes narrow. “Did you and he collude on me moving in here?”

  I nod slowly.

  “When?”

  For a split second, I consider lying, but decide not to. “About five weeks ago when we bought the place.”

  Her mouth drops open. “Did Nash set us up to meet at the bar?”

  I nod again.

  “That son of a bitch.” She slams her little hand on the counter and promptly winces. She shakes her hand. “I’m going to kill him.”

  I sandwich her hand between mine and rub. “Stop.”

  “I’m such an idiot.” She looks at the floor instead of me.

  I bend my knees to look up into her face. “You’re not an idiot.”

  She swallows and blinks super fast.

  Ah, fuck. Don’t you dare cry on me.

  “You said he had to drag you to the bar.”

  “Yeah, he did.”

  She tries to take her hand back, but I don’t let her.

  “Kitten.”

  “Just let go.” She yanks hard and goes to the other side of the kitchen. “The bar. The flirting. It was all fake just to get me here.” She raises her hands at the house.

  “What?” I’m stunned she’d even think I could fake what I feel for her.

  “Well, congratulations to the both of you for fooling the desperate student. What a joke.” She waves her hand at me. She is pissed. I can almost see steam coming out of her ears.

  “You think I’m a joke? I’ve got a pit the size of the Grand Canyon in my gut right now.”

  “What-the-fuck-ever,” she hisses through her teeth.

  “Hey!” I bark. “Just because he forced me to do this” —

  “He forced you?!” Her eyes shoot knives.

  “You know what I mean. He’s my alpha.” I run a hand through my hair, trying to calm down. “Look. That instant attraction to you in the bar was not fake, alright?”

  My wolf wanted to take her then. I should have listened to him, should have worked that last kiss harder. But, no. Even though she was as turned on as I was, I had to be a gentleman and let her set the pace. I blow out a frustrated breath.

  “You’re incredibly sexy, Shavone — too bad for me that you’re also incredibly innocent.”

  So much for the ménage fantasy. Nash’s instincts about her were right.

  “I am not innocent,” she snorts.

  “Oh, yes you are. Compared to us, you’re a saint.”

  “Us?”

  “Me and Nash.” I look at her sweet face. “You’re twenty-two and have had, what, three maybe four sexual partners?”

  My lucky cousin being the fourth?

  Pursing her lips, she calms some. “I’m not ashamed of who I am.”

  “I didn’t say you should be. You’re just” — I search for the right word — “chaste.”

  “Chaste?” She laughs. “I may be inexperienced, Ben, but I’m not chaste. I’m a witch, we believe physical pleasure is normal, wholesome, a good thing.” She shrugs her shoulders.

  “Yeah. That’s the cock tease part of your personality. Damn, girl. Watching you lean over that pool table in that short dress, the fire in your goodnight kiss, I was one horny wolf.” Her flirting and the fact that my beast attached to her made it frustrating as hell when she shut me down. “I was so sure you were going to fuck me, and then, poof, my wolf and I had blue balls.”

  “I’m sorry about the way I behaved. It was out of character for me.” She blushes. “I really do believe sex is healthy, Ben. It’s just — making love is” — she shakes her head, her eyes getting glassy. “I’m sorry.”

  I walk over to her. “I know.” I stroke her head. I love how soft her hair is. The fact that she calls it making love and I call it fucking says a lot about how different we are.

  The oven timer dings. I let her out of my arms.

  “Maybe we should eat this one. I could make another one with a special colon-cleansing ingredient for Nash.” She opens the oven and puts a toothpick in each of the pans to test the cakes. Done, she sets them on the counter, and stares at the pans.

  “Nash said you’re a stubborn one.”

  “Did he?” She gets a
ngry all over again.

  Good. He didn’t stick to the plan, why the fuck should I? He didn’t mark her, and I’m not above stealing, not where Shavone is concerned.

  “Hey. I almost forgot. I’ve got a surprise for you.” My southern drawl is full on. “I don’t know if you like contemporary soul singers, so it’s okay if you don’t wanna go.”

  I reach in my back pocket for a pair of tickets, handing them to her to read.

  “Corinne Bailey Rae?”

  “Uh, huh, tickets for tonight’s show.”

  “I thought it was sold out.”

  “I pulled in some favors. You like her?”

  “Yes!” She bounces up and down. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” She launches herself at me.

  I catch her, laughing. “Alrighty, then.”

  She squeals happily.

  “This is a sight to see. An excited Shavone.” I kiss her on the lips and set her on her feet. “I have a date with you.” Fuck. I haven’t had an actual date in a decade.

  Holding the tickets out to me, she frowns. “You should take someone you really want to go with.”

  I scrunch my forehead. “I really want to go with you.”

  “But you said that Nash coerced you to flirt with me.”

  I frown. “Damn it, Shavone. That is not what I said. What do I have to do to get through to you? I said he forced me to go to the bar.”

  Forced me to come back to Colorado to help protect you.

  “I don’t want to force you to do anything.” She searches my eyes.

  “You’re not.” I kiss her soft lips, caress her face. “Although, you do have me looking forward to a normal relationship.”

  “As opposed to abnormal?” Her brow scrunches up.

  In the last five years or so, I’ve only had short-term BDSM fuck-fests. She doesn’t need to know that, so I just nod.

  “Maybe it was the way you talked about Monbeau. No girl has ever cried for me.”

  “I’m sure someone misses you.”

  I snort. “Not likely.”

  “Oh, c’mon. I wouldn’t be surprised if you left a whole string of broken hearts in your wake, Sir Benjamin.”