Dragon's Secret Baby (Silver Dragon Mercenaries Book 1)

by Sky Winters

Preview of Secret of the Wolf: Silver Wolves MC

  “They’re having a party.”

  Saul Bennett, President of the Dire Wolves turned to look at his second in command, Haskin Sims as he spoke.

  “A party?” he repeated to the younger shifter, his grandson, in fact.

  “Yes. They are celebrating something,” Haskin told him.

  “What?”

  “I’ve no idea. We’ve lost all of our people we had inside their group.”

  “Then we need to get someone back in there and find out what is going on.”

  “And the attack?”

  “It goes forth. No matter what they think they have to party about, they are still at a disadvantage. In fact, they are at more of a disadvantage while they are all drinking and not minding their hides.”

  Haskin nodded and walked out, past where Grant stood quietly listening, along with several others. He hadn’t been with the Dire Wolves long, but had become far more trusted than he had anticipated when he had come here. It had been his intent to join up with the Silver Wolves, but they had rejected him. He understood. He was a stranger and they were forced to close ranks to protect themselves. Instead, he had turned to the Dire Wolves for a place in their club. It hadn’t been easy getting in, but they were larger in number and more willing to take a chance on a stranger. It wasn’t as if he had a lot of options with his past.

  “You can all go,” Saul had growled at the half dozen that had remained after Haskin departed.

  They had all begun to file out when Saul had called him out, telling him to stay for a moment. It caught Grant off guard, as he wasn’t usually privy to something one on one with the leader of the pack. He waited quietly as the door closed behind the others, still wondering what Saul could possibly want with him.

  “How long have you been with us now, Grant?”

  “Almost a year now I think.”

  “Do you have any ties outside this club? Friends in town, confidantes, folks that recognize you?”

  “What? No. I don’t think so. I keep a pretty low profile and stay away from town as much as possible. It’s not in my best interest to be recognized, as you know.”

  “Right. Of course. Good. That’s good.”

  “Is something wrong?” Grant asked.

  Saul stood looking out the window, seeming to think through something for a moment. When he turned, his face was dark, serious. Grant couldn’t help but note how gaunt the older man looked. There had been no rumors about his health, but he could see dark circles beneath his eyes. Perhaps it was just fatigue, but he seemed a bit less than healthy.

  “I need an inside man in the Silver Wolves. I need for you to get in there and be my eyes and ears.”

  “Me? I don’t think I can. They’ve already turned me away once. I told you that when I came here to you.”

  “Yes. Yes, you did. Your candor about how you had come to be with us was part of why we chose to let you in. I want you to go back to the Silver Wolves, find a way to get in with them. You’ll work it out.”

  “Of course. Yes,” Grant replied.

  Saul waved him away without further discussion. Grant left his chambers and walked down the hall to his room, wondering how he was going to manage getting into the Silver Wolves when he couldn’t before. He was completely lost in thought when one of the second lieutenants stopped by and barked at him.

  “Get up and get ready. We’re going in ten minutes.”

  “I don’t know if I’m supposed to now,” Grant began to say, but the lieutenant cut him off.

  “I don’t know what you are going on about, but I don’t have time for any bullshit. Get your shit together and join ranks.”

  Grant knew that he could tell him about the conversation with Saul, but he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to do that. Instead, he got up and got undressed, preparing himself to shift and join his brothers. A thought occurred to him. Why was Grant telling him to join a pack he intended to attack? If the attack was successful, there would be no need for anyone to be inside the other club. It was obvious that he didn’t think they would be successful in wiping out the other pack, so perhaps he only intended for it to be a warning.

  Ten minutes later, he was standing in the middle of the other wolves as they prepared to make their way toward the Silver Wolves clubhouse, prepared to take on an enemy that would never see them coming. He took a deep breath and then they were running through the woods toward battle. His heart raced as he jaunted through brush and bramble, the cool night air exhilarating as it cooled down his rapidly heating coat of fur.

  Soon enough, the enemy would come into view and everyone had their orders. This had been carefully organized. Well thought out and planned by all involved. Grant was built for battle. They all were. Still, he had lost his taste for it after what had happened to him before he had come here. His last encounter had taken everything from him - his home, his family, his future. Now, he was just another nameless stray that had fallen into a pack of animals more lethal than he had ever really considered himself.

  It wasn’t that he was skittish or had any fear of what was to come. Few would argue that he was one of the most powerful and vicious wolves among them when it came down to it, but it was more by reputation than anything they had actually seen. What they didn’t realize is just how much he had lost his taste for violence. He would do what he was asked to do. That was his job as a member of this pack.

  His thoughts drifted away as the clubhouse came into view. This was it. Inside the compound were less than a hundred shifters and they were being surrounded by several times their count. Their biggest defense wasn’t numbers, but security. The protective walls of their clubhouse would be their saving grace, but many would still fall and each attack would take out more of them until there were none. A howl filled the air as everyone came into position and there was a flurry of activity beyond the edge of the woods where they stood as the Silver Wolves guarding the exterior became aware of their presence.

  For those wolves, it was already too late.

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  “Going once? Going twice? Sold, to the gentleman in the double-breasted suit!”

  The auctioneer gestured to the winner with the silver body of the mallet before slamming it against the gray stone of the podium.

  “A fine choice, sir; I’m sure you’ll be more than pleased with this, ah, lovely specimen.”

  The “specimen” he was referring to was the slim-bodied blonde in red silk bra and panties, and black manacles standing in the middle of the stage. She’s certainly a cute one. Kieran looked at her bare, slender legs, which she crossed as she stood in an attempt at modesty. She was a slip of a girl, her straw-colored hair tied back in a thick French braid and her arms crossed over her small, pert breasts.

  But, just like all the others, not my type.

  With a slow, sweeping gesture of his arm, the auctioneer beckoned the girl to leave the stage. She nodded. Her face was tight with fear; her blue eyes were wide and shimmering, which Kieran could see from his seat dozens of feet back from the stage.

  Docile, timid, and willowy. He traced the circular rim of his drink with a long, graceful finger. I’ll leave those girls for the Ukrainians.

  And, as though on cue, the buyer, a stocky man wearing a pin-striped double-breasted suit and with oil-black hair slicked into a tight sheen stood from a seat closer to the front.

  I should’ve known when he said “double-breasted;” only the Ukrainians would be tacky enough to go for a look like that.

  The Ukrainian walked toward the stage and extended his hand toward the woman he had just purchased. By polite instinct, the girl, who couldn’t have been far out of her teens, extended her own, but was abruptly stopped by the lack of length in her chains. A murmur of laughter swelled from the crowd.

  “No matter,” said the Ukrainian in a thick accent, his low, bass voice tinged with a rich, Slavic accent echoing throu
gh the hall, “there will be plenty of time for formalities later.”

  He then gestured toward one of the guards in slim-cut, tailored suits who stood on either end of the stage. They dashed over and undid the chains; the manacles fell to the stage with a heavy thunk. The girl stretched her now-free arms and legs.

  “Come, child,” said the Ukrainian, pointing to the empty chair at his table.

  She nodded with apprehension before stepping off the stage with the timid, shy steps of a baby deer and taking her seat next to her new owner, who put his heavy, burly arm around her and pulled her close.

  Leave it to the Ukrainians to be unable to wait even a minute before getting their hands all over the fresh meat. Kieran shook his head and took a slow draw of his drink.

  “And for our next item, please welcome this lovely young lady, new to our fair city by way of Des Moines,” said the auctioneer in his clear, buttery voice.

  The next girl was brought onto stage by one of the suited guards. Where the previous girl was slim and fair, this girl was shapely, with a rich, olive-colored complexion. Her coal-black hair fell around her face in straight, symmetrical tresses, and her lips were full and painted with a shiny lacquer of dark red lipstick. And unlike the last girl, who seemed fragile and frightened on stage, this one seemed to enjoy the attention; she put her hands on her hips and shifted her weight from one foot to the other while winking and blowing kisses to the audience, the thick metal of her chains clanging together.

  Does this girl not understand the nature of the predicament she’s in? She must think we’re some collection of rich dilettantes bidding on a companion for the weekend. She’ll learn.

  Kieran then cast his gaze toward the Italians, who chatted in quiet but lively tones among each other, probably deciding who had bidding rights on the young Mediterranean beauty on stage.

  Bored, Kieran threw back the last dregs of his drink, letting the bitter tang of blood mixed with rich, caramel-toned whiskey loll over his palate. As he scanned the room, he caught the gaze of Drugi, one of the vampires from the Polish society, and one of Kieran’s only friends outside of his own society of Irish. Drugi raised a slim, small glass of vodka; a crimson streak of blood looked like a small vein in the otherwise clear liquid. Kieran raised his own empty glass, which Drugi noted with a wry grin. Drugi tossed back his shot, and then gestured with sharp points to one of the serving staff, then to Kieran. Within seconds, another drink was in front of him.

  Kieran gave a nod of thanks to Drugi, and took a sip. The time seemed to drag; none of these women appealed to him. They were the same collection of dull-eyed Midwestern cast-offs and prissy rich girls living on their father’s American Express cards as every other year.

  “Eh? You gonna pick one or not?” Ian slapped Kieran on the side of his thigh with the back of his hand.

  Ian was Kieran’s closest friend in the Irish society. They were turned at around the same time, and having someone just as new to the world of the undead as you could be all it took to create a bond like this.

  “When I see one I want, I’ll bid,” said Kieran, his voice laced with traces of an Irish brogue.

  “Yeah, the same thing you say every year, then you go home with nothing. Such a picky one, you are.” Ian waved his hand in a dismissive gesture.

  The previous girl had been won and led off the stage; the nods and shoulder-slapping in the Italian group indicated that one of them was her new owner.

  “Our next girl, well, she’s really something special.”

  Kieran suppressed a yawn and checked his watch, not even bothering to register the time.

  “Bring her out!”

  The glass of whiskey was in front of Kieran’s face, blocking his vision, when the girl came on stage. When he lowered it, he was struck in his seat. His honey-colored eyes narrowed, and his slim, but full, lips curled up in one corner.

  Something special, indeed. Kieran reached for the polished ivory handle of his bidding sign. There’s a first time for everything…

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  About The Author

  Sky Winters is drawn to writing paranormal fairy tales with bad-ass shapeshifters. She likes her heroes and heroines to be the unexpected ones, and their passion to be steamy! She writes these sizzl'n and surreal tales for you, late at night, when the wolves are howling from her Northwestern home.

  If surreal romance with shapeshifters is your thing, you best sign up for Paranormal Romance Publishers email list, and grab a copy of “Wolf Babies” for FREE

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  * * *

  [LR1]What happened to backroads?

  [T2]Did he quit making sculptures when they moved?

  [T3]He was described as stoic previously, which means he isn’t the passionate, emotional type.