by L. V. Lane
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Epilogue
About the Author
Prey
Ravished
Omega Awakening
Bad Boss
Predictive
Trained For Their Pleasure
L.V. Lane
Copyright © 2021 L.V. Lane
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-922630-00-1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the author.
Prologue
Hazel
“HAVE YOU EVER kissed a boy?” he asks.
“Kissed a boy?” I send a surreptitious glance at the Alpha lad sitting beside me on the riverbank. “No, never,” I say.
I do not know Alphas well, other than the few who pass through Oxenford, our village, which sits on a thoroughfare between north Hydornia and south. My father is a smith and farrier, and his work is held in high regard. Although we are a small village, he gets plenty of work from the local city and those passing through.
“I’m too young to kiss a boy,” I say, repeating my father’s phrase back to the Alpha. I swear, Papa says it twenty times a day and more frequently of late since my body started to change. “I am only thirteen.”
I stare at the river. The lad sitting beside me is an Alpha, and a little older, although he is not yet a man. He is also so handsome that I think it borders upon beauty. His name is Fen, and I have seen him occasionally when he passes through with his stern older brother.
This is the first time I have really noticed him. And the first time we have spoken.
I’m also sure it is the first time he has noticed me . . . and my breasts, which he has stared at often in the short time since he arrived. I think he might have stared at them more than the whole of the rest of me. For reasons that elude me, I quite like that he looks at them with an expression somewhere between wonder and pain.
I sneak a glance, finding him staring at the river with a brooding expression. He sends a small branch sailing, and it lands in the river with a splash. A fat toad bounds out of the water, darting straight for us, only to avert course at the last moment.
I squeal.
Fen chuckles. It has a pleasing timbre, although I’m assuredly not happy that he is laughing at my expense.
“It is only a toad,” he says.
“I know that,” I say, glaring back. I am not scared of a toad like some weak, simpering lass, and I burn with indignation that he is thinking me so. My mother died three years ago, and I have taken responsibility for my younger siblings ever since. My father married again, but she is not a hale woman and is forever supping tonic for some ailment or other. “I was surprised, is all.”
Still smirking, he turns toward the river again. I have a strange feeling he does not trust himself to look my way without staring at my breasts. “I would not allow anything to hurt you,” he says.
There is a compelling quality to his words. Like he really would not allow anything to hurt me.
Since he is facing away, I allow myself an opportunity to study him. He is twice my size, tall, broad-shouldered and a barbarian, for he comes from the eastern clans. He wears only hide pants and boots, leaving his muscular upper body exposed. My tummy gets a little flutter as I watch his biceps bunch while he pokes about in the grass with another stick. I did not think a man, never mind a lad, could be built thus.
His stick stills, and he turns, catching me in the act of perusing him. Heat flames my cheeks, and my dress becomes tight across my breasts, making the simple act of breathing hard.
“You have hazel eyes,” he says. “Is that where you got your name?”
“All babies have blue eyes,” I say, feeling like I must be wiser for knowing this fact.
“They are very pretty,” he says.
That statement disarms all my thoughts. Now, he is staring at my eyes in a way that makes me breathless once again. I laugh. It is colored with nervousness at being complimented and caught staring at him earlier. “They cannot be that pretty, for you have not looked at them often.”
His lips tug up. “I am looking at them now, aren’t I?”
“Yes,” I agree. “But I think you would rather be looking elsewhere.” Happen, we would both rather be looking elsewhere . . .
His eyes crinkle at the corners with amusement. They are dark brown. I also think them pretty, although they hold an intensity that seems misplaced in one so young.
“You make me wish I had ten sets of eyes so that I could look everywhere at once,” he says, smiling. Then his smile drops and the intensity is back. “I want to kiss you. To be the first boy to kiss you. And I don’t know why, but looking at your eyes makes me want to kiss you more than when I was looking at your t—”
“Fen! I will tan your fucking hide if you are up to mischief!”
The roar is near enough to rouse the dead. We both start. It is the voice of the stern older Alpha. It is the voice of his brother.
“Fuck!” Fen mutters. Smirking, he rolls his eyes. Then he groans, and, capturing my face between his strong hands, plants a swift kiss upon my lips. “I am coming,” he hollers back before scrambling to his feet and hastening to his brother’s command.
I should go too. I have chores aplenty. Then there are my sibling brats who will be up to all manner of mischief without me there.
But I linger a little longer, for I do not want the spell broken.
My lips tingle. I brush my fingertips over them, imagining Fen’s mouth is still there.
When I came to the river, I had never kissed a boy. But now, I have.
I feel both older and yet, too young.
I want to kiss a boy again. But only that boy. I want to learn more about the softness of his lips and the tickle of the scruff where his beard is starting to grow. I want to pet all the gleaming muscles. I want to explore all the dips and ridges. I wonder how much stronger such a lad must be compared to me, yet how gentle he was when he cupped my face.
I want to experience things I do not yet understand.
I know kissing leads to rutting. My father is a blunt man who has warned me more times than I can count about lads and their propensity for rutting.
I am too young for rutting. That is for once a lass is married. But I do not think I am too young for kissing.
There is a spring in my step and a lightness in my soul as I return to the cottage. I hope that Fen and his brother have reason to pass through Oxenford often, and that if they do, he might kiss me again.
Only, the Goddess has other plans, and the war with the Blighten sends many men away. I do not see Fen or his brother again. After a while, I cannot even remember the young Alpha’s face.
Then on my eighteenth birthday, as is expected, I marry a Beta male.
CHAPTER ONE
Seven years later…
Jack
IT HAS BEEN a good while since I visited the more civilized parts of Hydornia. In the eastern wilderness known as the Hinterlands, my home is a far more barbarous place full of warring clans. I wouldn’t have ventured so far from my homelands now had my sister not insisted. She married herself to a fancy lordling a year ago and currently resides in an equally pompous home. With the arrival of a babe, she begged me to visit so that I might meet my nephew.
It has been a miserable year full of conflict, raiding, and other, deeper pain.
Deciding to take a break from my woes, I can admit that I enjoyed myself.
Now, on my return journey, my horse, Sable, pulls a shoe. There is a bit of damage where it came off, but I know of a good farrier and make a detour to Oxenford.
Unfortunately, this means I won’t make it back home today. But better a short delay now than Sable court further damage.
As the king of a barbarian clan, I don’t often ride on my own, but on occasion, needs arise where I must. Despite the shitty year, I love my sweet sister and her games to drag me from my melancholic state. It worked, although I’m loath to give the brat credit lest she begin her quest to see me mated again.
And besides, this trip has provided an opportunity for my younger brother, Fen, to step up to his duties toward the clan.
A year to a widower seems like a long time, and yet, no time at all. I’m still an Alpha in my prime. I’ll take a mate again when I’m ready.
I’m not ready yet.
I miss my mate and the woman she was before her body turned on her. It’s not unusual within the clans for a man or woman to take on multiple partners. I know the weak westerners think of us as strange. But even so, it is a practice only done where it’s the desire of all involved parties. Lesa tried to encourage me to take a second mate. But I knew it was not a natural inclination in her to share me, nor did I desire another. So, I refused. I’m not the kind of weak Alpha to toss a woman aside because she can’t carry a child. Our first stillborn took a toll, and no others would catch.
It troubled Lesa.
A lot.
With the death of my parents, she provided a loving influence for my younger sister and brother. I sometimes wonder if her sweetness turned Fen into the troublemaker he is.
I smile to myself as the first cottages of Oxenford come into view. It’s true that Fen is nothing but trouble and exhausts me with his antics at times. But he also gave me a distraction when I needed one. And a reason to be.
Sable whinnies. He’s impatient and doesn’t like being kept to a walk. I pat his neck. “Nearly there, lad.”
The high street is a dusty, cobbled affair. A few faces peer at me from doorways, whelps scramble to their mothers, and farming folks tip their heads at me in deference. I’m an Alpha and a barbarian, and I look as much.
Ahead is the sign for the farrier, just as I remember it. I wonder if Pike is still running it. The old goat must be close to sixty now. A widower long since. I seem to recall he’s had two wives over the years and at least a dozen whelps. When I last saw him, he was well on the path to becoming a crotchety old bastard who enjoys the company of a beer and his buddies, and who is happiest wielding a hammer at his forge.
Each to their own. As the nearest farrier to my homelands, I have called on his services on occasion. He is good with a horse, and his work is of excellent quality.
“Hell and damnation, lass!” The roar comes from the open workshop door. “You’ve put the fucking forge out!”
Smoke wafts from the entrance. I cannot see the ‘lass’ responsible for this calamity, but I recognize Pike’s voice, and it puts a smile on my face.
“You told me to toss it on!” This voice is feminine and ripe with stress.
“The coal, lass. Not the fucking water!”
“How was I to know which bucket you meant?”
Two muscular arms emerge from the smoke-filled workshop, waving frantically. Their owner, Pike, follows, coughing. Looking about as he finds clear air, he frowns before rushing back into the workshop. He returns, dragging a skinny waif with him, his fist wrapped around her collar.
The lass thrashes about, trying to escape his hold. They are both coughing.
“You’ll crack my fucking forge!” he roars, shaking her about.
“I am sorry!” she wails back.
I bite back a laugh, for it’s no joking matter if she has tossed a bucket of water onto a hot forge. Yet, I’m drawn toward mirth in a way I’ve not been in a long while. The sight of the smoke ravaged young woman I fear will imminently receive the disciplining of her life offers joyful entertainment.
Still mounted upon Sable, I clear my throat to gain their attention.
Both heads turn my way. Pike finally stops shaking the lass.
“Jack!” His smoke-grubby face splits into a grin. “You’re looking hale. Did you find yourself another mate?” He pauses to frown at the lass whose collar he still grasps in his massive fist. “Go and get some ale an’ stew for our guest, lass. An’ wash your hands an’ face afore you go inside!”
The woman huffs and dares to roll her eyes before stomping off. Dismounting, I tie off the reins.
The last time I passed through here was not long after Lesa’s death as I escorted my sister to her new home. Deep into my grieving, I can only imagine the dour facade I must have presented.
“Nay, no mate as yet,” I say. “Sable pulled a shoe. I managed to remove it, but it caused a bit of damage.”
“Aye, I’ll have a look at it,” Pike says. “The lass is a nightmare. I’m too old to have brats under my feet.” He nudges his head to Sable. “Right foreleg?”
Skimming a broad hand down the leg, he lifts the hoof to inspect. “Not too bad. Do you have the shoe?” Releasing the hoof, he gives Sable another pat as I pull the shoe out of the saddlebag.
“Aye,” he says, running his fingers around the rim. “Might be able to reset it, or I can fit a new one if needs be. You staying the night, or do you need me to see to it now? Might take me a while to fire up the forge again. I told the lass to get stew to get her out of my way afore I strangle her. But company’s always welcome.”
My lips tug up. “Happy to stay and share some stew. How could I refuse? Who is the lass?” I don’t want to pry into the man’s business, but I’m struggling to assimilate that he’s taken a third wife, and such a young one.
“Daughter,” he says with a sour expression. “Hazel. By my second wife. Goddess rest her soul—her mother was an angel. Not a bit of her passed on to the brat excepting the way she looks.”
He throws a glance over his shoulder. “Hazel! See to our guest’s horse,” he roars.
The cottage door is flung open, and a slightly less bedraggled version of his daughter emerges.
She is pretty. Blonde hair spilling over shoulders, pert little nose, and cupid bow lips. Small for a Beta, but even in the plain pants and shirt, I can see that she has curves.
Hazel. I remember a shy lass peeking at me around her mother’s skirts on occasion before her late mother passed away. I also seem to recall Fen getting up to mischief with her by the river when she was still far too young for such things and Fen obsessed with the newness of rutting.
It was not long after our parents died of the pox and a difficult time all around. Fen was forever getting into scrapes. Between his propensity for fighting and the rutting, it was fair to say he turned feral for a while.
The fighting has
been tempered a little—he is still obsessed with rutting. Although, I cannot say I blame the lad for urges which are normal for any man and Alpha.
I remember white-hot panic assailing me when I realized the pair of them had snuck off while I’d been busy chatting to Pike. In truth, Fen has never once stepped over the line with an innocent lass. As per my orders, he keeps to the more mature womenfolk of the clan who know what rutting is about and can handle an Alpha’s rough ways.
Still, as an older brother who has been the responsible adult in his life for many years, I allow that I have at times been overly cautious.
Lost in thought, I realize I have been staring at the lass for too long. Thankfully, she is busy glaring at her father, and he is glaring at her. A sooty smudge marks the tip of her button nose. She looks adorable despite her frown.
I’m surprised when this plainly dressed lass stirs a tightening in my groin. And a little embarrassed for she must be well past an age where a lass is married, and I do not prey upon other men’s wives or mates.
“What the fuck are you wearing, lass?” Pike demands, planting broad fists at his hips. “No wonder I can’t marry you off when you’re always lookin’ like a lad. Go an’ change into a dress afore you see to the horse.”
His words pique my curiosity. A short laugh escapes me as Hazel about faces and stomps off back to the house in a huff.
“Goddess save me,” Pike mutters as he heads for a giant barrel and pump before his workshop. Here, he fills a bucket and cleans the worst of the grime from hands, arms, and face. He scrubs himself dry on a rag before motioning me to accompany him into the cottage.
The rough wooden door is swung wide as he enters. It’s not intended for an Alpha, and I need to dip my head to pass.
Inside, it’s darkened with the turn to evening. A single lamp has been lit hanging from a ceiling hook. The grand fireplace is crackling with a blackened pot above, emitting the rich smell of stew. A bedding nook sits to either side of the fire, rough curtains drawn across. It is plainly furnished, with benches to either side of the great table. Dried herbs hang in clumps from the ceiling rafters, adding to the pleasant smell.