Rescued & Ravished: An Alpha's Conquest (A Paranormal Ménage Romance)

by Sophie Chevalier

  “DANE MACALISTER!”

  She started; Dane didn’t. He held her tighter.

  “Who is that?” she whispered. The voice was angry—accusatory—animal.

  “Stay inside.” Gently, he pushed her away and strode to the cabin door; but, unable to listen—too concerned for that, and, dimly, too curious—she followed him. Still, when he stepped onto the front porch, she did stay behind in the doorway, nervously clutching the frame.

  There were men in front of the cabin. Some held torches—she could smell the resin burning. Others wore shag cloaks over their flannel and fleece. What century is this?

  The one in front was strangely twisted, scrawny. His hair was long and lank and grey. One of his eyes was white.

  But he frightened her the most.

  “Dane MacAlister,” he rumbled, a surprisingly deep, robust voice for such a lean, warped little man. “There’s a woman here. A human woman. We smell her.”

  “She’s mine,” Dane said, his voice hard. Ginger stared at his back.

  “She can’t be yours,” the strange man hissed. “It’s forbidden.”

  “She’s mine,” Dane repeated, with a note of scorn in his voice.

  “You flout our laws?” the crooked man asked, with badly disguised glee. “Did you hear that, brothers? A lawbreaker. Yet this lawbreaker wishes to lead us! Who knew, all along, that he did have a mate? And it was this?”

  “Leave, Gunnar.”

  “You can’t make me, boy. You’re not Alpha yet.”

  “You’re on my land,” Dane growled—a real growl, like a wild thing. Ginger gripped the door frame more tightly, terrified. What was all this? “My turf. I can make you leave. It’s within my rights.”

  “You speak of rights? Lawbreakers have no rights! Especially a lawbreaker like you. A man who couples with a human woman is the lowest of the lo—”

  “Get out of my territory!”

  Ginger backleapt into the cabin, horrified—Dane had said that, but it didn’t sound like his voice. It didn’t sound like any voice at all. It was a raw, furious snarl—feral.

  “Roar if you want, child, I am not scared!” Gunnar crowed. “It’s you who should be afraid. I will resurrect the old ways, boy, when I am Alpha! There will be punishments for defying clan edict. There will be no more softness, no more leniency—no more mixing with inferior races, like feeble, pathetic mankind. We will be great again—powerful! Consorts like yours will have no place. And weak men who choose such consorts will have no pl—”

  There was a roar. A real roar.

  Ginger screamed. She couldn’t help it. Because there, right in front of her eyes—her disbelieving eyes—just feet away, on the edge of the porch—Dane changed.

  He was a man. And then, explosively, he was not. He was something bigger, something fiercer—he was thousands of pounds of woolly muscle, a behemoth—a bear.

  A grizzly bear. Five feet tall at the shoulder. Hump-necked. Flat-headed. Huge incisors; thick breath that misted the air as he roared, and roared, and roared. Powerful, pan-sized paws, sharp with four-inch claws.

  A monster.

  The grizzly that was Dane rushed at Gunnar, who also changed—Ginger screamed higher, louder—to become an unkempt, flat-backed, hissing little black bear. Dane swiped at him, a warning strike; Gunnar flattened to the ground, growling shrilly, spitting. He darted forward just as Dane took a lumbering step back, and nipped one of his forelimbs; the men Gunnar had come with gasped and pointed.

  Dane raged. Snorting, blowing froth, he charged the twisted, mean-looking black bear, who darted unevenly away—right into the watching ring of men.

  Ginger had seen enough. She slammed the cabin door, panicking, her mind blank; clumsily, she fumbled with the door lock—but it was too much, she couldn’t understand it, nothing added up, not even the door bolt—and she turned and ran for the inner rooms.

  A bedroom. That would do. She slammed the door, and this time the lock made sense to her. She bolted it, then slid down against the door as if her weight would keep it closed. After a minute, she realized how absurd that was, and scrambled under the bed—even knowing that that was no less absurd.

  Muted through the layers of pine board, she could hear baying and roaring and shouting. She curled up in a ball and waited for it to end—if it would ever end.

  Chapter 9

  The night was still. No sound but the cabin settling, woodily, and the hushed, muffled creaking of the trees in the wind.

  She wasn’t sure how long it had been. Everything smelled like timber and dust and mattress must and sweat. She tasted salt—she’d bitten her lip deep enough to break the skin.

  Footsteps. She knew they were footsteps, quiet and dull as they were. She froze against the floor.

  The footsteps were slow—searching. Discerning. Like they were looking for something—someone—her.

  They stopped outside the bedroom.

  She held her breath.

  A light knock.

  “Ginger?”

  Dane’s voice. Dane.

  “Ginger. It’s me.”

  Stiffly, very slowly, she wriggled out from under the bed—but she didn’t open the door. She half-sat, half-crouched on the bed; it sank under her, the mattress squeaking.

  “You’re in there. I know.” The doorknob turned, but the bolt was drawn. “You locked the door?”

  “What are you?” she asked, her voice flat.

  No answer. Then: “Please let me in.”

  “What are you?” she repeated.

  “My clothes are in there, Ginger.”

  “Tell me what you are!” She lost control, grabbed a carved bear off the nightstand, flung it at the door. It hit hard.

  “I’d ask you not to break my things. Please.”

  “Answer me! What are you?”

  “What am I?” A silence, heavy. “A skinchanger. A shapeshifter. You saw that.”

  “A shapeshifter?”

  “I have two forms. You’ve seen both, now. There are no more.”

  He sounded tired. For the first time, she wondered if he was hurt. Hadn’t Gunnar bitten him?—Bitten. It was all so surreal.

  “Are you going to kill me?” Her voice broke. Why was this happening? She just didn’t want—she didn’t want him to lose the Amazon account—she—she…

  “God, no. No, Ginger.” He sighed. “Will you let me in?”

  “Why should I?”

  A pause. “It’s my bedroom… and I’m cold.”

  She gripped the bedspread. What were her options?

  None. There were no options. It was obvious now that if Dane was a skinchanger—well, then everyone else on the island was, too. Hunter, Catríona, the unseen fiddlers. Gunnar, of course. She was surrounded. And if she couldn’t trust Dane, then she’d never get off of Storm Isle alive.

  Because if she was prey, then she was prey—she’d never outrun them, or outfight them; she couldn’t hide from them; she’d never manage to steal, much less steer, a boat. No. She needed his protection.

  And if she couldn’t have that, if he was going to attack her—no. No. She had to trust that he wouldn’t. She just had to.

  Stiffly, she stood, crossed to the door, and unbolted it.

  He opened it, gently. Slowly.

  Instinctively, she took a step back. He didn’t step after her, but stood in the doorway—as if waiting for some sign from her, or for her to invite him in.

  For a moment she was frozen, staring at him; but once she was convinced he wouldn’t lunge at her, she let her eyes wander up and down his body.

  There was blood, but not that much. Not so much that she needed to be afraid for him—just minor bites, messy and raw on his naked skin. He was dirty, soily, especially his feet and hands. His smell was sweaty, earthy, with a bite of copper—the blood.

  There was no real sign he had ever been a bear. No proof.

  A bear. It just seemed so impossible.

&
nbsp; “Ginger.” His voice was soft.

  Hesitantly, she raised her eyes to his again. They burned the hottest gold she’d ever seen.

  “Sit on the bed, Ginger,” he said, quietly. “I’ll explain everything you need to know.”

  She frowned, but finally, uncertain as she was, she sidestepped to the mattress and sat down. Her fingers gripped the bedspread, white-knuckling as she clenched the quilt.

  Dane moved to a dresser under a window—a finely made thing, cherrywood—and opened a drawer. She couldn’t help but admire the steely muscles of his thighs, the hardness of his hips—and, lasciviously, the size and girth of his manhood, even soft. Her brain filed the image away to fully appreciate later, when she wasn’t so exhausted and so frightened.

  Gracefully, he stepped into a pair of loose pajama bottoms—just for decency’s sake, she realized. For her sake. As if his nudity could further upset her. It was the only nonupsetting thing around.

  Instantly, despite everything, she wanted to grip the waistband and pull the pajama pants down—pull them off.

  “There are a lot of us, Ginger, and more than one kind,” he said, pulling on a shirt; her mood soured even more as his muscular chest and deep-cobbled abs disappeared under thin grey cotton. “More than one clan.”

  “Clan?” she repeated, dully.

  “Yes.” His voice darkened. “Clans. In fact, you find yourself in the middle of our annual conclave. Our gathering of the clans.”

  “‘Our’?”

  “Us. The skinchangers. Bear shifters. Werebears, even, if that makes more sense to you.”

  Ginger laughed—humorlessly—but he wasn’t joking. He waited until she was finished.

  “We’re the western clans. There are packs from Oregon, Washington, Northern California… mauls from Western Canada’s Manitoba, British Columbia, Alberta—Saskatchewan. Even a celebration of polar bears from Alaska.” He closed the drawer he’d gotten the shirt from. “Some of the Nova Scotians come, too. They were disinvited to their own gathering, out East… a long story.”

  “Stop,” she said, overloading. How many days before Laila decided she was missing? Maybe only one; but did she know where Ginger was? She hadn’t told her—or anyone. Idiot.

  He didn’t stop. “No, Ginger. You need to understand where you are, and what danger you’re in.” Mercilessly, he went on: “Every six years, we assemble. We hash out our issues. We make decisions. We choose new leaders. It’s a volatile time.”

  “Let me go home,” she cut in. “It has—it has nothing to do with me, I—”

  “But it does now.” He was watching her; gauging her, she realized. For what? “Ginger, I’m competing to be an Alpha. Do you know what that means?”

  “No,” she said, rubbing her arms, fear-cold.

  There was a long pause. Finally, he crossed the room and sat down next to her on the bed.

  She wanted to recoil. She wanted to flinch back, to reject him. But the heat of him, his closeness, his gold-eyed, masculine beauty—it calmed her instead. Impulsively, she melted into his arms, overwhelmed. He’d always been kind to her, always known what to do and what he wanted, always been in control. Couldn’t he fix this? Couldn’t he?

  “Aren’t you repulsed by me, Ginger?” he asked, lowly. “Aren’t you afraid?”

  “What’s an Alpha?” she prompted him, too tired to answer those questions. Her head sank into his lap. What have I gotten myself into?

  “Just what it sounds like. A leader. A chieftain. We have Alphas for each clan, but also an Alpha of the West. A high chieftain, if you like. That’s what I’m fighting to be.” His hand moved lightly through her hair; she closed her eyes, enjoying the hard heat of his thigh against her cheek. “I have rivals. Gunnar—Hunter. And now they think you’re mine. My consort. My lover, Ginger. Do you understand?”

  “No.” Faintly, she heard a barred owl’s Who-cooks-for-you? Who-cooks-for-you-all? hooting from somewhere outside, deep in the hemlock and spruce forest.

  “By ancient law, if it’s found true, I’m not fit to be leader. I’m barred from competing. I can’t be Alpha.” His hand tightened in her hair, almost painfully. “But it’s worse for you.”

  “Worse?” She sat up.

  “Ginger,” he said, raising her chin with his thumb. His look was so intense, so concerned, and so fierce that her stomach dropped. She could see the animal again, gazing out of his otherworldly eyes—right below the surface. “I’ll do whatever I can to protect you. I swear.”

  “From what, Dane?” From what?

  “Understand, Ginger,” he said, very low, his voice just hot breath. “No human is permitted on Storm Isle. No human is permitted to witness the conclave. No human is permitted to mate with a shifter.”

  Her heart was thudding in her chest. What is he getting at?

  But covered in a sudden, icy sweat, she knew.

  “A human is permitted none of those things… on pain of death, Ginger.” He cupped her face, protectively, as hot fear rushed her body. “Gunnar is going to want you dead.”

  Charmed by the Growls

  (Alphas of Storm Isle: Part 2)

  By Sophie Chevalier

  Chapter 10

  Ginger blinked awake. It was morning: sunlight shafted in through the cabin windows. She could hear the crystal song of a thrush.

  A cabin. A thrush.

  That’s right. That’s right. She was in the Gulf Islands, in Canada.

  And surrounded by bear shifters.

  Including Dane.

  Blearily, she sat up, ran a hand through her thick, wavy hair, and stretched; her shoulder popped.

  Thinking about last night chilled her to the bone. She wished it had been a nightmare; a delusion, even… but the memories were fresh and real and she knew it had all happened: boating to Storm Isle. Trekking through the woods. Finding Dane. Watching him skinchange into a grizzly—and fight Gunnar.

  Awful.

  Stiffly, she flipped back the covers and crawled out of bed. She was still dressed in yesterday’s outfit; her jeans’ waistband had made a painful imprint on her tummy while she slept.

  The pine-plank floor of the cabin was cold under her feet. She turned around to make the bed, but couldn’t bring herself to touch the chenille comforter when she saw its print.

  Bears.

  The pillows, too! Bears!

  Irritated, she left the bed a slept-in mess and padded toward what looked like a bathroom.

  It was. A lovely one, en suite. Of course Dane had a nicer bathroom in his cabin than most people had in their houses.

  Sanded pine-board walls and flooring. A hickory vanity, granite-topped, with double sinks. Stained glass pendant lights with pinecone and pine-needle motifs. A sliding-door, wood-paneled shower, and, tucked in an alcove against a three-sided bay window, a step-in stone-brick tub.

  She refused to be impressed. Not with anything Bear Dane owned. Not anymore.

  Huffily, she turned on one of the sinks. The water was cold and fresh, and she started splashing her face to wash off. If only I had a cleanser. And some moisturizer.

  When she glanced into the antler-lined mirror, she looked pale and strained; there were shadows under her long-lashed hazel eyes. At least the sharp, chilly water was waking her up…

  But then she started noticing the accessories he had on his vanity counter. Bear-shaped toothbrush holder. Bear-shaped soap dish. Bear-shaped lotion pump. Bear-shaped tissue box.

  “Oh my gosh, Dane,” she hissed. “Come on!”

  She reached for a towel, saw they were bear towels, and recoiled.

  Stomping back out into the bedroom, she found her socks and pulled them on, then steeled herself to explore the rest of the cabin. She couldn’t stay in his bedroom for the rest of her life, hating his bear paraphernalia—she had to nerve up and find him. If he hadn’t mauled her last night, he probably wasn’t going to this morning, and she needed to talk to him.

  “Gu
nnar’s going to want you dead.”

  Involuntarily, she shuddered.

  She opened the bedroom door and found herself in a short, woody little hallway. Moving down it to the right, she ended up in the cabin’s comfortable main room.

  It was low-ceilinged, with pine-boarded walls and a stone-fronted, grated fireplace. Plush, top-grain leather sofas faced each other across a cottonwood coffee table, quilts folded over their backs. Everything smelled like fresh lumber and oakmoss.

  One end of the room ended in big, triangular picture windows underneath a timber, steel-braced support truss. Outside, just past the glass, hemlocks, red cedars, and twinberry shrubs shivered in the wind. It was a beautiful sight.

  But she didn’t have time—or energy—to admire it now. She turned and strode toward where she could see the edge of a kitchen around a log post. Food smells hit her; was Dane cooking?

  Cautiously, she peeped around the post.

  It was a charming kitchen—wood island, wood bar stools, wood counters, top-of-the-line appliances, semiflush ceiling lights with bear shades—and Dane was cooking. The way her heart went pudding-soft at the sight of him irritated and alarmed her.

  Forget about him, Ginj! He’s a fucking monster. Just get out of this alive.

  “Come in, Ginger,” he said, without turning away from the glittering stainless steel stove. “I’m sure you’re hungry.”

  She was, now that he mentioned it. But how had he known she was there? He hadn’t turned around, and she hadn’t made a sound. He probably smelled me, or something freaky like that.

  Suspiciously, she moved to one of the bar stools—they all had painted grizzlies on their seats—and, hopping up, sat down.

  Dane turned to glance at her. He certainly didn’t look feral, supernatural, or ursine this morning. Not at all.

  In fact, he looked maddeningly normal in jeans, Sorrel boots, and a navy button-down. Normal, and maddeningly gorgeous. The sun pouring through the kitchen windows turned his light brown hair and stubble blond; his eyes, gold and umber, were brightened to the color of hot butterscotch. She couldn’t help but love the way his broad shoulders pulled at the seams of his shirt, love the way his top buttons were undone, exposing a cut of muscle and a dusting of chest hair.