Protective
Legatum - Book 1
Lulu M Sylvian
Copyright © 2018 by Lulu M Sylvian
All rights reserved.
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Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
Introduction
Driven, Legatum Book 2
About the Author
Acknowledgments
A construction worker with a proclivity for plaid shirts, who lived in a beat up old Air Stream, moved into my brain, and wouldn’t leave until I proved there was more to him than first impressions. I didn’t even know there was more than one story for the plaid wearing guy until his cousin showed up, and said “me too.” And before I knew it, I had a family that wanted their stories told.
Legatum, legacy. Thank you art history and mythology for giving my guys a rich complex background.
Thank you to Alana, Dana, and Lea for sciencing for me.
Thank you to my children who actually brainstormed and talked plot with me.
It took almost eight years before I realized this story in my head needed to be written. My husband knew years before I did, and was nothing but encouraging. So super thanks to him for the constant support.
Prologue
Morgan Palatine loosened the tie cinched around his neck. Weeks of wearing business suits made him feel as if he were being strangled by the thin strip of silk fabric. He felt confined. Confined by the tailored fabric he wore, confined by the human skin he walked around in.
He rolled his shoulders trying to release the tension that had been building for hours in the thick muscles along his neck and back. He could go months without shifting, but the past few weeks made it feel like years. He was not meant to spend his time in a leather chair at the head of a boardroom conference table. Morgan preferred to be hands-on, literally, when it came to work. He wanted steel-toed boots and rolled-up sleeves. What he really wanted right now was the freedom to be himself, this skin or fur.
A quick shift and a good hard run were his plans for as soon as he got home.
Home. His own bed.
That was it. That’s what he needed to do. He needed to step up the diplomacy games and open his family home, Mission Run, to the Aventine family. Invite them to spend the weekend in the hills, give them the opportunity to shift and relax. Maybe then their alpha would chill, and realize that this pissing contest was not necessary. The old guard had moved on, Morgan was not interested in maintaining a family feud or continuing a centuries old grudge match.
There were few enough of their kind in the world, and they were well hidden, even from each other. It made more sense to be on friendly terms with the Aventines. Morgan was more than ready to shake hands and call it good, but the Aventine alpha, Blackston, and Morgan’s sister Julia both seemed to think this accord needed to be full of legalese and have a consensus on the terms.
No, this was good. He would bring it up with Jinx in the morning. His household manager would know how to handle the situation. It wouldn’t take much to fit the entire Aventine contingent in. Only a few of them had transferred to the Bay Area, and most of them were really only here for negotiating terms of this accord. Nancy Aventine, Blackston’s wife would probably appreciate a nice weekend in wine country. She was the reason they were in California after all. Her illness brought her to the Stanford Medical Center.
Not that the Palatines were particularly territorial. It was mostly a formality, allowing the Aventine alpha and his mate to live in the region, and to prevent petty issues from snowballing.
Wolves liked to have space between themselves and the next family. Of course, the Aventines weren’t just any other wolf family. There had been a special level of distrust and hate between them and the Palatines. The deep down anger of sibling rivalry gone too far for too long.
Yes, a weekend out of the city, a weekend where everyone could relax and drink good wine was just what the doctor ordered. Aventine’s son, Roman, seemed like a decent enough guy, even if he was focused entirely too much on business, just like Julia. This would give everyone a chance to get to know one another in a relaxed more intimate setting.
Morgan barely registered the click click click of someone in heeled shoes walking quickly, as he continued his slow walk towards the parking garage. He should have hired a driver for the week. He should have gotten a hotel. He should have done too many damned things.
The stench of pot and body odor assaulted his senses. He would have ignored the kids if he hadn’t picked up something one of the punks had just said. Lone woman. Street kids. Not a good combination.
Morgan straightened his posture as he tuned his senses into the situation at hand.
He turned around and headed back to where he thought he’d heard the click of heeled footsteps heading. He turned another corner.
“You little turd! Give me back my purse!” he heard a woman shout. Heavy running footsteps headed in the opposite direction.
Morgan took off after the purse snatchers and then he heard her scream.
He backtracked, catching a glimpse of motion disappearing into a walkway off the street.
He turned a corner and saw a woman with short black hair pressed against the brick wall, a large knife held in front of her face. The assailant had apparently taken advantage of her distraction when the potheads ran off with her bag. Looked like this guy wanted more from his victim than just her handbag.
Morgan didn’t hesitate. In a single swift motion, he pulled the attacker from the woman and tossed him down the walkway. The man crashed into a group of garbage cans.
The assailant began to get up. “What the fuck? I’ll kill you for that.”
The woman was on him, and in a few well-placed kicks and a knee to the nose, he was knocked out.
Morgan stepped back in appreciation of her skills. He opened his senses to see if there was more to her than met the eye. He had a hard time picking anything up from her. She wasn’t one of his, and not human either, nor vampire. Only daywalkers messed with his senses this way.
Morgan watched as she brushed down her dress and smoothed her short hair into place.
“You really didn’t need my help there, did you?” he asked.
“I would have figured it out eventually.” Her accent hinted at origins in South America. “But your assistance was most fortuitous.”
Morgan noticed long fingernails pointed like claws painted vibrant red as he engulfed her hand in his own. “Cyan del Fuego. And you are?” She raked him with a gaze that said I know what you are but not who you are
“Morgan Palatine, Ms. del Fuego. You really didn’t need my protection.” he said, recognizing her name. Cyan del Fuego, daughter of the local Del Fuego coven lord and head of Cyan Group, a potential client Morgan had been trying to contract with.<
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Cyan chuckled. “Against humans no. May I borrow your cell phone? Mine was in my purse that…” she nodded over her shoulder indicating the unconscious man behind them “…this idiot prevented me from retrieving.”
Morgan held up his hand, asking for a moment. He turned and picked her bag up from the entrance to the walkway where he had dropped it. “I managed to snatch this back for you.” He handed her the handbag.
“Why, thank you.” She linked her arm through his. “Now, Morgan Palatine, walk me back to my car and tell me why your name is so familiar. And not just because you’re the local alpha.”
1
A cacophony of angry honking and yelling caught Honey’s attention.
Not another idiot who thinks traffic on Cannery Row would behave like normal city street traffic.
She looked to see who would be so rude in this throng of tourism and froze. Fear and panic stopped her breathing as she recognized the angry man at the center of the commotion.
She couldn’t think; she couldn’t breathe. Her heart thudded in her throat. “Oh, God, not him,” she said, barely a whisper. Her hand went to her neck, clasping her protective charm, her personal amulet.
Through the front windshield of a low-slung, silver sports car, she saw the once loved angles of Bryce Maplecourt’s face, twisted into a familiar visage of rage. Only this time, it wasn’t directed at her. This time those piercing blue eyes were blazing at another hapless victim of his undeserved vitriol.
Air flooded back into her lungs as she gasped and spun around, angling herself to face away from him.
“He didn’t see me, he didn’t see me, he didn’t see me.” She repeated over and over again under her breath as she rubbed the small charm between her fingers.
Honey focused on her breathing, trying to calm the surge of adrenaline. He didn’t see me, and he would never recognize me dressed this way. Honey wore a comfortable old hoodie, one that had been broken in with years of abuse and washing, one that had mystery stains spattered on it and faded color. The Honey Bryce had known would never wear a hoodie, let alone one she purchased for a buck at a local thrift shop. No—she calmed herself—Bryce didn’t see me, and Bryce wouldn’t recognize me if he did.
Careful to keep herself turned away from the street, Honey carefully made her way through the crowd.
When she was half a block from work, she ran. The need to distance herself from Bryce increasing with each step.
She entered the crowded coffee shop and immediately headed to the back, through the office, and into the employee washroom/janitor closet. She slammed the door shut then crouched in the shower.
She had gotten away. He hadn’t seen her. No matter how much she repeated this mantra, she could not shake the panicked thought that Bryce had followed her, that he somehow knew she was here.
Her breathing came in gasps. She gulped in air as she stared at the door.
Her eyes widened and her stomach lurched as she watched the door handle turn.
A comforting hand stroked along Honey’s back as she emptied the contents of her stomach into the toilet.
“Shhh.” Lana’s voice soothed.
“You came running in here so fast that I came to check on you. Are you doing okay? How much have you eaten today?” Lana’s concern brought tears to Honey’s eyes.
Honey finished retching and stood. She rinsed the sour taste of sick from her mouth before facing her boss. She gestured towards her throat as she explained, “This isn’t food. This is panic.” It was important to Honey that Lana knew she hadn’t slipped back into old unhealthy habits. Honey swallowed hard, then returned to the sink to rinse her mouth again.
“I saw Bryce.” Bryce who had fed on her insecurities like a vampire.
“Oh, shit,” Lana murmured.
“I don’t think he saw me. It’s just…” Honey’s voice quavered. “It’s just I haven’t seen him since… Ya’ know?”
Tears rolled down her cheeks.
“You want to take the afternoon off? I can keep an eye out to see if he’s around?”
Honey breathed deeply. “Yes. No. I don’t know. I need to hang the show. I don’t want to be around people, but I can’t afford to take the time off.”
Lana nodded. “How about you put on some headphones and hang the show. I’ll get Joyce to stay later, and she can deal with people.”
Honey nodded.
“Stay in here as long as you need to. I’m here for you. You know that, right?”
Honey nodded again.
Lana had been there ever since she first ran. Lana, who offered a job, guidance, and friendship.
Honey wouldn’t turn tail and run away, she wouldn’t do that. She needed to prove to Lana, and to herself, that Bryce and fear no longer controlled her. Her past did not dictate her future.
*
Morgan stepped into the locally-owned coffee shop, The Corner, looking for an afternoon shot of caffeine and enough calories to carry him through to dinner. He opened his senses to the smell of hot coffee, expecting the aroma to fortify his energy and calm his nerves. What he didn’t expect was to be assaulted by the distinct tangy scent of fear and panic.
The strong emotions came from a woman on a stepladder…a woman with the most perfect ass he had ever seen. Her panic had caught his attention; her shapely form held his stare and distracted him from what originally drew his eyes to her. He couldn’t help himself but to stop and watch the ass. It was pert, would fit his palms perfectly. The rest of her shape was perfect as well. The long back immediately above tapered to a narrow waist and curved up to slender shoulders and long delicate arms. A messy bun of strawberry blond hair topped off this vision. Morgan had an overwhelming urge to fight for her, to wrap her in his arms, and shield her from the horrors that had scared her so badly.
He shut down the extra senses he had opened, clearing his head of his protective tendencies. Shaking off the overreaction to her fear, he continued to focus on the female who held his attention. She reached forward trying to level a large, unframed painting. Her reach lifted the back of her purple shirt, exposing a thin slice of skin and revealing a wide and extremely colorful tattoo. Morgan immediately found himself wanting to see the full extent of the body decoration. Did it merely accentuate the small of her back or did it swirl around and caress her hip bones as it wound its way to her lower abs? Did it twine down one of her legs and hug her thigh or did it reach up her back and wrap around her shoulders?
A sharp “like what you are looking at?” from another of the coffee shop’s baristas brought him back to reality and his purpose for seeking caffeine.
“Uhm, yes I do,” he said with a glance at the barista and a quick clearing of his throat.
His gaze shifted back to the woman on the stepladder. She turned her head and stared at Morgan. Her pale grey-green eyes slightly squinted as she looked at him but widened as he made eye contact with her. She had sharp, high cheekbones and a delicately pointed chin. She was beautiful and belonged in paintings, not hanging them. And she shimmered. A soft golden light surrounded her.
Morgan shook his head to clear his vision. Uncharacteristically self-conscious, Morgan ran his hand through his hair. Julia had convinced him to cut his shoulder-length hair for an important meeting. She had said it would make him appear more professional. Now it grew in an uneven shag, either needing a trim or time to allow it to grow out. He preferred the longer length; he was giving his hair time. He also hadn’t shaved for a few days. Nothing like roguish stubble graced his chin; his beard was a scraggly mess. Unkempt, and in dusty work clothes, Morgan was painfully aware he was not making a good first impression, and it was suddenly very important to him that he do so. He would have to step up the charm and charisma.
The woman grabbed the level she had been using from the top of the canvas then jumped from the ladder and stood in front of Morgan. He noticed her exceptional height for a woman, even so he was still much taller. With the level grasped in one hand, she crossed her arms, tilt
ed her head to one side then pointedly turned her attention to the other woman, and walked away.
Morgan knew he had been basically caught red-handed, staring at her backside, but in his defense, it was a very good ass.
Morgan watched as she walked past her coworker and disappeared into the back of the shop. He felt as if he had just been tag-teamed, passed off to the next player. He smirked. Fitting treatment for his blatant ogling.
“So you like art?” the other woman asked. Older, she had short, spiky black hair. Bold red-framed glasses emphasized her piercing blue eyes. Her eyebrows were raised and her expression said, convince me.
Without skipping a beat, he said, “I don’t normally like Abstract Expressionism, but, there is something about how this artist uses the gradation of color as a form of movement that you can follow. You see there in the upper left corner, how the color seems to move and descend toward the middle of the canvas?” He gestured to the referred-to areas on the canvas with his hand. “There it expands and the darker colors sink to the lower portion of the canvas. The artist is clearly demonstrating despair. But see, there in the middle towards the right. There is a spark of yellow, and you can follow it rising to the upper right corner of the canvas where there is an explosion of light and movement showing joy and hope.”
“You aren’t a friend of Finney’s. I know all his friends, so you aren’t here for the art. Or are you? You interpreted that piece perfectly. I swear you even used Finney’s exact words.”
“Yeah, I actually came in for a cup of hot strong caffeine but got distracted…” His eyes followed the graceful fluid motion of the pale beauty as she walked past the counter carrying another oversized painting into the front of the shop, “…by the…ah…art show.”
Protective: Legatum - Book 1 Page 1