***
Though there were several young people in the children’s library, they were all dutifully quiet save one. Paper rustled as little fingers turned the pages in their books. A little boy over by the easy reader section was clunking the pieces of a chunky wooden puzzle into place. The pieces made muffled thuds and clicks as they were pushed into place, lightly scraping at the edges of the puzzle. Whooshes of arms swooping through the air came from a girl wordlessly flailing her way through a video game in the multimedia center. Lights and elderly monitors hummed as computer fans spun to keep themselves cool, so low and quiet human ears would have to concentrate to pick out the omnipresent background noise. To my left, tiny claws and a furry body were scrambling around.
Two hamsters were kept as library pets. They were named Zig and Zag and were in separate cages on either side of my desk. From the silence to my right, I assumed Zag—the female—was asleep. Zig could be heard climbing in the recycled newspaper bedding in the bottom of his cage.
I could smell both rodents, but didn’t find them to be particularly tempting prey. Animals kept in cages weren’t food. It was the chase that made prey worthwhile. My shifted form wasn’t much bigger than any standard house cat, but I preferred challenging prey when I hunted. Rabbits were a good start.
The hamsters weren’t the only thing I could smell. The wood pulp scent of several hundred books filled the air, a scent I had always associated with comfort. A hint of warm plastics and wires from the various electronics laid over the fragrance of paper. And then there was the sickly sweet bubble gum currently wafting up to me from the mouth of the sole child in the entire library who could not stay quiet.
“And then it ate the rabbit,” Abbie said, widening her eyes dramatically as she came to the climax of her story. Done with her tale, her mouth snapped shut to busily chomp on that gum. Her little jaws worked in almost the exact same way as one of the hamsters on a treat.
Black corkscrews pulled up in pigtails bobbed on either side of her head in time to her gum chewing. The hair ties holding her hair in place had little balls, which the elastic of the tie was then wrapped around. My mother had never had much interest in her children and my hair had been kept boyishly short all through my childhood so she wouldn’t have to bother with it. I liked the way the hair ties looked, but had no idea what they were called. I wondered if I would style my daughter’s hair like that. If I had a daughter.
Abbie’s skin was a similar golden bronze to mine, though our ancestry came from different parts of the world. Her father’s family was Filipino and Puerto Rican. He and I had chatted on occasion when he dropped her off or picked her up for story time. Her mother was one of those random white American mixes, with similar curls to Abbie’s except in light brown. My mother had come to America from Egypt and I had no real idea who my father was beyond the fact that he was white. I honestly wasn’t entirely sure if my mother knew either.
The onyx black mirrors of Abbie’s eyes anxiously watched my own gray ones, awaiting some response. I took a deep breath, trying to remember the details of her outlandish story.
“That’s very imaginative. I don’t think I ever heard of a tiger monster hunting rabbits before. Did you read that in a book?”
She pursed her lips into a frown as she shook her head, dark curls bouncing against either cheek with the motion. “It wasn’t in a book. I saw the tiger monster.”
I frowned slightly as I took Abbie’s book from her to check it out. She didn’t have a history of lying at the library or having trouble separating fantasy from reality. I wondered if she was doing the same thing at home and made a mental note to make sure everything was all right when her father came back from the main library to get her.
“You told me you hate kids, Fatima. Why surround yourself with them?”
That familiar voice chilled my blood. I looked up from the book, though my eyes weren’t necessary to confirm what I already knew. Dylan was standing behind the little girl. He had a mild smile on his face, one thumb casually hooked on his belt buckle. His jeans hugged muscular thighs, his soft gray t-shirt doing more to highlight the definition of his chest and upper arms than provide cover. He was missing the ten gallon hat and an oiled up chest, but otherwise he looked like he’d just stepped out of a sexy cowboy calendar.
The Oklahoma drawl to his voice added to the good ol’ boy illusion, but I knew he was more than that. I’d kept a tight lid on myself, but he hadn’t. He had told me about how he worked private security for the wealthy. He was faster and stronger and far more lethal than any mere bodyguard, but most of his work was focused on surveillance rather than diving in front of bullets, he’d said. He knew his way around all sorts of gadgets for turning a mansion into a fortress and what cameras might miss, his nose never did. It had been silly of me to think I could get away from him. If he wanted to find me, he would. He did.
His eyes were a soft green at the moment. Not the amber of his wolf form. That was good, but I’d heard enough stories of just how dangerous an angry alpha werewolf could be to distrust those eyes. Among the werewolves, it took attaining a special level of power—being alpha—to be able to partially shift. Cats didn’t have that limitation, as each of us was our own alpha. Almost all of us could partially shift upon reaching adulthood. We weren’t anywhere near as dangerous as the wolves, though. He could give control over to his wolf side at any moment and slaughter everyone in the library.
Natural wolves are just predators and don’t deserve the hate they’ve had heaped upon them by humans. Werewolves, on the other hand, are nature’s way of striking back at humanity.
“Here you go, Abbie,” I told the little girl softly as I passed her the book. She walked away with a confused look on her face, checking over her shoulder as she passed Dylan. The lower ranked wolves could pass for human when they were calm, but alphas exuded an aura of power. They had to concentrate to keep it under control and Dylan wasn’t doing a damn thing against it. Most likely that was for my benefit.
His golden brown hair was a little shaggier than it had been the last time I’d seen him in his human form. His face was still as beautiful as ever, though. Lips still perfectly, kissably full. Nose still finely chiseled. His square jaw added age and power to his face, tapering to a sculpted chin with a faint dimple in it. There was something perpetually boyish in his face, charming in that playful sort of way. Yet it wasn’t all fun and games in that beautiful face. He stepped forward and braced his hands on the counter, then leaned in close to me. I felt the hair on the back of my neck automatically stand on end, but stayed right where I was, forcing myself to meet that heavy gaze.
“I never said I hate kids. I said I didn’t want kittens. You must have misheard me.” My voice was calm and even, despite the fact that every instinct I’d been born with was screaming at me to run or scratch his eyes out.
He raised his brows at me, then looked around the children’s section of the library with theatrical surprise. “Clearly.”
The last time I’d seen him, he’d been heading out into a snow storm to hunt for us. He’d wanted to provide for his family and some stupid canine loyalty had pushed him to decide that it included me. The hormones of my breeding season had been dying down at that point and no longer being caught up in my desire for him meant that I could stop and think. Thinking had led to running. That had been four months before and I’d assumed I’d never see him again. I’d certainly hoped I’d never see him again. Crossing paths with a werewolf after running away from him simply wasn’t a smart thing to do.
There was no hatred in his face at the moment, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to be subject to his wrath. Dylan had been unquestionably dominant. Gentle, yes, but that was when I was doing what he wanted. Dominant wolves didn’t much care for being defied.
“What do you want, Dylan?” I asked, keeping my voice hushed.
“You know what I want.” His eyes flicked downwards and he leaned in a little more, trying to see down my body behin
d the counter.
For a moment, I considered trying to hide it from him. Not every breeding led to a pregnancy and, as far as I knew, there had never been a successful mating between a wolf and a cat. It would be completely believable for it to have just not taken. But with him here in person, trying to hide it would just prolong the inevitable. Even with most of my body behind the counter, he could still see the way my breasts had nearly doubled in size and were riding high on my chest with the promise of a mother’s milk. With a sigh, I stepped back from the counter so he could see me clearly. One of my hands automatically moved down to smooth over my swelling belly in a protective gesture.
His eyes were glued to my stomach as if it held the secret to the universe. Hell, maybe it did. “Do you know which it is?”
He wasn’t asking about the baby’s sex. “No. I’m not even sure how to tell that at this point.”
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Book One in the Captive to Egypt series...
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Exiled princess. Priestess. Midwife. Warrior. Eili of the Hittites has had to don many roles in her life, but now she faces her most daunting one: a hostage to the Pharaoh. To keep her village of refugees safe on the border of Egypt, she gives herself to Prince Itamun as a willing captive, all while keeping her true identity secret. But the dominating prince with his unearthly golden eyes is more of a temptation than she can stand.
Blessed by Anubis with the ability to become the jackal, Itamun has his own secrets to keep and desires that can never be fulfilled. Intrigued by Eili's defiance, Itamun vows to tame her for her own safety. Yet could she be the one to finally give him what he needs and change the course of history?
***
The desert breeze did little to cool Eiluhepa, belly flat against the roof of the hut. Drawing the bowstring too soon would fatigue her arms. Muscles would shake as their strength was taxed, so that her shot might fly wild or fall short. Knowing this, she held the bow and an arrow, but waited. Even knowing why she did it, waiting turned her stomach like rotten goat milk.
The Egyptian soldiers were approaching the village, looking somewhat disconcerted to find it apparently abandoned. Some of the damage from the raids was still visible and she wondered if they had known about them. There were only around fifty of the soldiers, which instantly put her on edge. Her village’s scout had said the Egyptians’ numbers were closer to a thousand. Either the man was an idiot, or this was only an advance guard. So long as the rest of the army wasn’t going to circle around and catch all of the villagers who had fled, then utter disaster might still be averted. Her own death would be a small price to pay for their safety.
Eiluhepa had been a child when the Pharaoh had first attacked the Hittite nation of Hatti. The battles had continued intermittently with neither nation ever fully gaining the upper hand. It was to be expected in some ways, as they were two kingdoms that were far too close to one another. Yet Eiluhepa had learned that far worse than being on one side or the other was to be caught between the two.
There were three chariots among the Egyptians, with two men on each. The rest of the soldiers were on their feet. The majority of them wore nothing more than the simple shenti, the typical dress of Egyptians. The shenti consisted of a linen scarf wrapped around the waist and between the legs as a loincloth. Some of them wore something more, which looked similar to the kilt that Eiluhepa and Hittite men wore. The Egyptian version of the kilt was draped and folded decoratively, drawn up slightly in the front with no fear of accidentally exposing their manhood to danger because of the shenti beneath.
Despite being a woman, Eili had long ago decided she would dress as the men, for convenience and the freedom it afforded. When her husband had been alive, no man dared to look at her legs, for fear of what he might do to them. Now she had to put them in fear herself.
On one of the chariots there was a tall, powerfully built man with closely cropped dark brown curls like a sheep’s wool and a strikingly sculpted face devoid of hair. All of the Egyptian men Eiluhepa had ever seen were clean shaven, so his smooth face wasn’t unusual even if it would have marked him for a boy among her own people. The hair on the man’s head was unusual, though. Most of the other Egyptians she had encountered shaved their heads. Only one other man was in the chariot, controlling the horses, for there was no room for more men. The Egyptian chariots looked laughably small and flimsy in comparison to what the Hittites used in battle. The tall man wore a kilt with a decoratively cut tunic over it, his sword a sturdy iron one instead of the more common bronze that most Egyptians carried. One of his hands rested idly on the hilt of that sword as he looked around with a casual arrogance. He looked to have recently left youth behind, maybe two or more years older than Eiluhepa, but his dress and his manner instantly marked him for what he was. Eiluhepa turned her bow toward the handsome commander. If they took out this small group of them, it would at least give the rest of the village more time to flee. The chances of defeating close to a thousand Egyptians were poor at best, but they could delay them.
“Spread out,” the tall one said in the foreign tongue as he drew his own sword. “They’re here somewhere.”
Apparently having decided his chariot was of little use with no one to charge, the commander stepped out to search with his men. The soldiers broke up into small groups or men by themselves as they began pushing their way into huts. The commander went toward the nearest hut to rip down the flimsy hide covering the doorway. He was distracted, with his back turned toward Eiluhepa. It was perfect.
The silence was punctured by the hum of the arrow. The commander ducked into the doorway and spun in his crouch, the arrow burying itself in the dried mud of the hut. Weapons slid from their sheaths, soldiers quickly falling into a defensive position, but their commander was already raising his hand to gesture to them.
“Hold,” he ordered his men, before raising his voice. When next he spoke, it was in Nesili, the Hittite language. It had an accent to it, but was unmistakable. “If you give up now, we won’t have to attack. Give Pharaoh his tribute and we’ll offer protection from anyone else who may come.”
“Back to the underworld with you!” a voice called from the far end of the village. The bushes rustled, as did the trees. There could have been a dozen men hiding themselves there, though Eili knew there was not. It was a weak distraction, to draw the attention of the Egyptians so they did not notice the archers laying on rooftops just as Eiluheupa did. They all waited, arrows drawn and ready to set loose.
As the rest of the Egyptians turned their focus to the foliage, the commander’s eyes swept across the village, then paused. Eiluhepa felt her heart skip a beat as the commander’s startlingly pale yellow eyes locked with her own. She might have sworn she met the eyes of a jackal.
“Shoot them!” yelled the commander, pointing to the archers a second before he ducked through the doorway again, narrowly missing two more arrows.
Eiluhepa didn’t bother with wasting another arrow, already sliding down the back of the hut. She prayed her companions would survive the Egyptian archers as she raced between buildings. There was a window sans shutter at the back of the hut the commander had ducked into. Eiluhepa knew, because it was her own home, achingly empty these days. She slid through quietly, then dropped to the ground in a crouch, an arrow drawn. It wasn’t a large space inside and the Egyptian would have a difficult time hiding from her.
She began to move slowly forward, careful to keep her steps light. The commander was near the doorway, waiting until he could move without being pinned down by a stray arrow. Eiluhepa straightened for a better shot at the other man, determined to not miss.
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Other Books by Lilith T. Bell
The Claimed by an Alpha Series
Cat and Mouse
Like a Cat in Heat
Once Bitten, Twice Claimed
Lost in Heat
Fighting Like Cats and Dogs
The Captive to Egypt Series
Taken<
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About the Author
Lilith T. Bell lives in the upper Midwest with her cat and garden. She daydreams of mermaids and pirates and is always thinking ahead to the next story.
If you have enjoyed this book, please consider leaving a review. Reader feedback helps greatly in choosing what to write next.
Copyright © 2017 Lilith T. Bell
All Rights Reserved
Book Design by Selkie Publishing
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events, and locations are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.
This book is licensed for private individual entertainment only. The book contained herein constitutes a copyrighted work and may not be reproduced, stored in or introduced into an information retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electrical, mechanical, photographic, audio recording, or otherwise) for any reason (excepting the uses permitted to the licensee by copyright law under terms of fair use) without the specific written permission of the author.
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