Wanted by the Alphas (An Extremely Sensual Paranormal Shifter Romance)

by Dawn Steele

  Conchita is in terrible pain. So much pain that morphine and all the cocktails of opioids and other painkillers cannot keep it at bay. Pain like this is not compatible with life.

  But Marco, Conchita’s eldest son, knows that with the passing of his mother, he would officially have to take over the drug empire his mother has built. He is not ready for this and the assassination attempts that would follow. So he is trying to keep her alive for as long as possible.

  Outside this hacienda, no one knows just how sick Conchita Ruiz is.

  Shannon has been feeling poorly for three months now. She has not been sleeping well and she has completely lost her appetite. She has lost ten pounds and her clothes hang upon her body as though it is a rack. Her normally lustrous hair is dry and listless. Her skin is pale and cold.

  It is almost as though the cancer has latched onto her soul and is bleeding her life away. She knows it is psychological – there is no real tumor in her body. But the dark blight upon her soul is very real, as if the shadow of death has passed upon it.

  Shannon turns from Damon in desperation.

  “Call your brother,” he says again. Pleasantly but dangerously. “Tell him you need to stay another night.”

  Shannon draws in a sharp breath.

  Think. Breathe. Keep calm.

  “I’ll call him,” she says in a shaky voice.

  “Good,” Damon says. He is a huge man. Mexican. Towering above six feet four. Dressed to kill. Unlike plenty of henchmen, he does not wear the proverbial scars of his trade. “Would you like to use the house phone?”

  “No. I’ll use my cell.”

  She turns to walk away for some privacy. This, at least, they allow her. So long as she does not leave the hacienda.

  She goes to a bathroom and locks herself in. Upstairs, Conchita is crying out in pain. Her cries can be heard all throughout the house.

  She dials Jared’s cellphone and is gratified when he picks up at first ring.

  “Don’t tell me,” he says.

  “They need me . . . for one more night.”

  “Damn it, Shannon. You have been saying that for the past seven nights. They’re going to kill you. She’s going to die, and you with her.”

  “I know. But they won’t let me leave.”

  “Not if I can help it.” His tone is grim.

  “No, Jared, don’t . . . these people have guns!”

  But he has already rung off. When she frantically tries to call him back, her call goes to an engaged tone.

  A knock comes on the bathroom door.

  “Shannon?” It is Damon. Pleasant but determined. “Conchita needs you upstairs.”

  *

  Midnight.

  Shannon is drained. She is in a little cot next to Conchita. The old lady is on a hospital bed, connected to infusion pumps filled with opiates. A monitor showing her heart rate has been put on silent. The fulltime nurse they have hired is outside, asleep. Conchita’s breathing is very ragged, and the whole room smells of sickness and decay. Trays of food sit on the table by the window, untouched by both Conchita and herself.

  The barking of dogs comes again outside. Furious barking.

  Shannon sits up. Her ears are pricked.

  More barking, and then comes the sound of whimpers, as if the dogs are being frightened into submission.

  Shannon’s heart is in her throat.

  She gets up and goes to the window. There are men shouting downstairs. It is as though an intruder has entered the grounds and the guards have been thrown in disarray. She can’t see anything but for the shadows of the trees.

  A gunshot goes off. Then two.

  In bed, Conchita groans.

  The nurse enters the bedroom, frightened.

  “Something is happening downstairs,” she says. “We are under attack. Is it a raid?”

  Shannon thinks she knows, but she can’t be certain. The hacienda is a closely guarded and very secret location, but you cannot rule out an attack by a rival Mexican drug gang.

  The nurse locks the door behind her and bolts it. She is trembling.

  “They won’t come in here,” she says, as though to assure herself. “We’ll be safe in here. They won’t harm a sick woman, will they?”

  If that sick woman is Conchita Ruiz, they might, Shannon thinks. Conchita’s ruthlessness with dealing with her rivals is legendary.

  Both she and the nurse huddle together in a corner of the room, listening with growing fear. Gunshots puncture the air, seeming to get closer and closer to the locked bedroom. Rabid growls from a large animal intermingle with the cries of men.

  Please, Shannon prays, let everything be all right.

  There comes a thud on the door, and the entire frame shakes. Finally, the door splinters apart. The nurse shrieks as a very large black animal – the size of an enormous lion – stands at the doorway. It is a panther, and yet not a panther. Something about it is terribly intelligent and ancient.

  Its growl sends reverberations through the walls. Heat radiates from its body, and its breath is rank with blood and human flesh. Shannon runs her frightened eyes over its body and notes the torn flesh where the bullets have pierced.

  Oh please don’t let him be hurt.

  On the bed, Conchita flutters open her eyes.

  “Anubis,” she whispers in a surprisingly clear voice, “have you come to take me?”

  Shannon knows what she must do. She shakes the nurse’s grip from her arms and runs to the panther.

  Hold tight, it seems to say to her.

  With the blood rushing in her ears to mask out all other sounds, she leaps into the panther’s back and grips its thick black fur. Its sleek muscles bunch beneath her and it flies towards the open window. Shannon closes her eyes. Her mind is a void as her entire being is concentrated on just holding on and staying on the creature’s back.

  The panther leaps out of the window and into the cool black night.

  For one preternatural moment, Shannon is flying.

  With a loud thud, they land on the ground three floors down. And then they are off, flying into the night and above the six foot wall with its barbed wire.

  STORIES

  It some ways, it is a catharsis for Shannon to be able to tell someone what happened. But she leaves out the part about the panther. That is not her story to tell but Jared’s.

  Kirk listens avidly until their food arrives.

  “We better get some chow in you,” he says.

  Shannon eyes the spread. Sweet and sour pork is served together with a plate of stir fried vegetables. A bowl of steaming hot rice is laid down for them to help themselves.

  “It smells very good.”

  “It is very good.” Kirk picks up a pair of chopsticks. “Do you know how to use chopsticks?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Try it.”

  She picks them up and fumbles with them. He laughs. It is a rich, hearty laugh, full of baritone and meaning.

  “Here, let me show you how.”

  Across the table, he gently takes her hand and positions the two sticks between her fingers. His hand is warm, and she suppresses the delicious but unbidden thrill running into her knuckles and palm from his contact.

  Get real. He’s your boss. And you’re dating someone just as gorgeous, if not more.

  At least, she thinks she is dating Lucien.

  “There is an art to it,” he explains. “Some people end up holding them all wrong. The basic function of chopsticks is to shove as much food into your mouth as quickly as possible. That’s why rice is eaten off a bowl and the food on the dishes is already cut up for you.”

  He demonstrates. She tries to follow, but ends up dropping her piece of pork on the table.

  They both laugh.

  Kirk signals for the waiter again. “Can you bring her a plate and a fork and spoon, please?”

  “I’ll get it right,” Shannon avows.

  As they eat, Kirk asks more about her powers.

  “When did yo
u know you were different?” he says.

  “When I was twelve. I came into puberty. I had a cat named Marnie. She was bitten by a dog, and I was crying because I thought she was going to die – she was hurt so bad. So I didn’t know what to do, and I picked her up and held her and cried all over her. I felt this warmth in my hands, and suddenly Marnie was wriggling again and trying to get out of my grasp. The wounds on her back and belly were closed up.”

  “Did other people know this about you when you were growing up?”

  “Only my brother, Jared. I . . . I didn’t want to be different, so I told no one.”

  She remembers going out into the woods, picking up small wounded animals to try to heal them.

  “As I got older, I wanted to try my healing on different living things. And so I volunteered at a Hospice. I tried to heal all the old and sick folk there whom no one had any hopes for recovery. That is when I realized my powers had limitations. I can’t heal cancer. It takes too much out of me. I can’t mend strokes. I can’t make the crippled walk again. I am not God.”

  “No, indeed,” Kirk murmurs.

  “But I can definitely take away pain. I can cool down fevers and stop infections from spreading and inflammations from getting worse. I can knit bone – inch by painstaking inch. I can close up wounds and lacerations. I can make joint stiffness go away. I can make everything better, even though I can’t heal what is terminally ill.”

  “You have a great gift, and you have chosen to make good out of it.”

  She finishes her bowl of rice. Kirk was right. The food is incredibly good.

  She says cautiously, “You mentioned earlier that you had personal experience with people with my kind of gifts, but they used them for anything but healing. What did you mean by that?”

  Kirk grows silent. His chopsticks pause in midair.

  He finally says, “I can’t tell you exactly what happened, because I don’t know myself. Except that I lost my brother not too long ago under mysterious circumstances.”

  She is intrigued. That must be the brother she saw in the photographs.

  “I’m so sorry. What happened?”

  There is a long-drawn silence where she can see that Kirk is debating how much to tell her. Just as she had left out the part about Jared’s metamorphosis earlier because it is not her secret to tell, he is doing the same – weighing how much to leave out.

  He says, “I wasn’t here at the time, so I can’t really piece together what happened. My brother was out in the woods. He was a lover of the great outdoors. He was found dead . . . in a circle drawn with chalk on the ground.”

  The hairs on the back of Shannon’s neck start to prickle. She knows what he is going to infer to next.

  WITCHCRAFT.

  Kirk says, “There were no stab wounds or bullet wounds or anything to suggest he had been physically mauled by animals. So I can only conclude that he was done in by witches.”

  “Why witches?” she asks. “Why not something else?”

  He pauses.

  “I don’t know if you have heard the rumors, because no one likes to talk openly about it.”

  “I have heard about the Walkers, yes.”

  “Good. Then you know.”

  “But the Walkers have ancestors who were accused of witchcraft.” She suddenly has the urge to defend Lucien. “It doesn’t mean they are involved in witchcraft today.”

  Again, Kirk hesitates. Then he shakes his head.

  “I shouldn’t have told you anything. Sorry. You shouldn’t be involved in our family feuds.”

  She is already involved. She thinks.

  “Does your family have a feud with the Walkers over your brother’s death?”

  If they do, it’s a pretty big feud, she thinks. Enormous. Enough to kill over.

  But he doesn’t want to say anything further on the subject.

  “How’s the sweet and sour pork?” he asks instead.

  She senses his mood shift, and she acquiesces.

  “Delicious. Maybe I’ll ask the cook for her recipe.”

  “It’s a closely guarded secret.” He laughs.

  As are many things in Dolphin’s Bay, she thinks.

  The rest of the evening is filled with pleasant chatter and work discussions. The time flies, and before she knows it, she has a call on her cellphone.

  Lucien’s number flashes on her display.

  “Excuse me, but I’ll have to take this,” she says.

  “Boyfriend?” he says lightly.

  Is it her imagination, but does she detect a tone of disappointment in his voice?

  “Not yet. We’re still feeling our way.” She gets up from the table and grabs her phone to run outside.

  “Lucien?” She closes the door behind her. It is chilly outside and she has forgotten to bring her jacket, but after knowing what Kirk Fitzpatrick feels about the Walkers, she doesn’t want this conversation to be eavesdropped upon.

  “Shannon.” The way he says her name – in that smoldering, sexy tone of his – makes her stomach go aflutter.

  “I’m having dinner right now with my boss. Can I call you back later tonight?”

  “Your boss?” Jealousy immediately comes into his voice. “Kirk Fitzpatrick?”

  “It’s a work thing.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Lucien doesn’t sound sarcastic about this, merely practical. “Shannon, you should really be careful about him.”

  “But why? He’s a doctor, for goodness sakes. You’re telling me to be careful about him and he is telling me that his family has a feud with the Walkers over the death of his brother.”

  “He told you that?” Incredulous.

  Careful, she tells herself. Lucien doesn’t know about her healing powers.

  “Yes. He says it’s common knowledge.”

  There comes the sound a sharp breath on the other side.

  Then: “Please, Shannon, stay away from him. I know you can’t really stay away from him as much as I would like you to because he’s your boss, but don’t have anything to do with him for more than necessary. I know I sound like a jealous boyfriend – ”

  Boyfriend! Her heart leaps at his first mention of the word.

  “ – but I know things I can’t tell you about the Fitzpatricks. This feud . . . my family was unfairly blamed over the death of Kirk’s elder brother. But trust me on this – we didn’t have anything to do with it. I swear it!”

  “Lucien, it’s all right – ”

  “No, listen to me, please. Are you listening?”

  She forces herself to calm down although her pulse is starting to race with his outburst. “I’m listening.”

  “Don’t get involved in this, OK? Don’t ask Kirk to tell you anything, and don’t ask the same of me either. All this happened long before you came here with your brother. It doesn’t mean if you date one of us and work for the other that you have to get involved with every aspect of our lives.”

  He pauses.

  “I don’t mean that to sound as a brush off because it really isn’t. It’s just that all of our families have secrets that are buried so deep that it’s best people outside never know of them. Just as you and your brother probably have secrets that are best kept under a lid. Just let it go, OK, Shannon? Trust me when I say it’s the best for all of us.”

  She doesn’t say anything.

  “Shannon, did you hear what I said?”

  She pulls in a deep breath. “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry I yelled.”

  “You didn’t yell. You were just trying to make your point.”

  He laughs mirthlessly. “Well, yeah. But please heed what I just said. It’s important. Promise me you won’t ask anything about our family feud anymore from either of us. Promise.”

  She doesn’t know if she can keep that promise. It isn’t as though she’s nosy by nature. It’s just that she has this sinking premonition that she and Jared are going to get deeply involved, and the more she knows about what happened between the Walkers and the Fitzpatri
cks, the better.

  Still . . . it is only a premonition.

  “I promise,” she says.

  “Great.” He is immensely relieved. “I’ll let you get back to your dinner. I’ll call you later, OK?”

  “OK.”

  “We’ll have more sex over the airwaves.”

  She laughs. “Phone waves.”

  “Miss you.”

  “Miss you too.”

  He clicks off, leaving her to mull over what he said.

  When she returns to the table, her skin is flushed even though the air was so chilly outside.

  “Everything OK?” Kirk says mildly.

  “Sure.”

  “Great.”

  He doesn’t ask her anymore about who she is dating – probably doesn’t think it’s any of his business – and she is grateful for it.

  THE FOREST

  It is late when she gets home. She sees the front door ajar. She parks, looking around for Jared, but she doesn’t see him.

  She kills the engine, grabs her purse and gets out of the Toyota. The night is still but for the rustling of the wind in the trees.

  “Jared?” she calls.

  She walks inside. Jared’s clothes are on the floor in an untidy heap, and she immediately knows what happened.

  “Damn,” she mutters beneath her breath.

  She supposes she shouldn’t blame him. He can’t very well shut the door in his panther form. But he can well take his clothes off outside and shut the door behind him, right?

  A semi-distant growl alerts her. The sound is coming from the forest at the back of the house.

  “Jared?”

  Other snarls permeate the air, as though a pack of animals has suddenly descended into the woods behind her house. Now she is alarmed.

  She breaks into a sprint outside. She remembers the stories of how old man Pullnam was killed.

  Jared!

  The woods are dark, but she is guided by the light of the moon dancing between the foliage. Brushing aside everything Lucien told her about going into the forest alone, she races towards the sounds. Rabid animals are fighting one another; it would seem from the growling and snarling. She almost stumbles over tree roots in her haste but her feet manage to pick themselves up in time.