Red Hot Alphas: 11 Novels of Sexy, Bad Boy, Alpha Males (Red Hot Boxed Sets Book 2)

by Jo Raven

  “There are so many books here, I bet I’ll find something to read that will keep me occupied,” I say, hugging them good-bye.

  I cross the housekeeper’s path as I take the stairs to the bedrooms. “Would you be so kind to bring us some tea to Mrs. Wayworth’s room, please?”

  “Of course, madam.”

  As she heads toward the kitchen, I call: “Excuse me, I don’t know your name, Miss…?”

  “Sandra, madam.”

  Sandra is a petite woman in her late forties with a beautiful mane of auburn hair with streaks of gray that she wears in a loose bun. I saw her around at the reception—she was very efficient, and I’m glad to see she is part of the permanent staff here.

  “Thank you, Sandra.”

  She nods and leaves.

  I knock lightly on my mother-in-law’s bedroom door, hoping I am not waking her up from a much-needed nap. Yesterday was very difficult for her, and this morning when we had brunch, she barely said two words.

  “Who’s there?” asks a tired voice.

  “It’s me, Constance.”

  “Come in.”

  The room is dark, the only source of light coming from the door and a crack in the big, heavy drapes. I cross the room and open the windows and drapes wide. The weather is still very hot, but it freshens the stuffy air in the room.

  “Hello, Emily.”

  She is sitting in an armchair, and she looks so small and fragile that I’m worrying even more than before about her becoming ill. William’s death has been hard for all of us—me too, in an unexpected way, even more now that I know that he was my Binniboy—and we are going to need to face the future together and help each other through our grief and feelings of loss. She’s not eating much, which is concerning—she barely ate two grapes at brunch.

  “I have taken the liberty of asking that some tea be brought here. Can I stay and have a cup with you?”

  “Of course, Constance.”

  A few moments go by in silence. I don’t really know how to start the conversation.

  “How are you feeling today?” I ask her.

  I feel it’s my responsibility to make sure she gets better. Devon looks like a kind man, but he doesn’t seem concerned enough about his wife’s emotions and state of mind. Maybe he too is too grief-stricken to care anymore. People are sometimes deeply self-centered in the face of death.

  “I have been…I have been unable to stop thinking about William. I can’t…”

  “His death has been a real shock to all of us. Did we hear something from the people hunting the beast that k— that attacked him?”

  Emily frowns and shrugs, not wanting to expand.

  At that moment, Sandra comes in with a tray. The teapot is steaming, and I can smell the aroma: a Russian tea, with bergamot and citrus. She puts it on a small coffee table near Emily’s armchair and leaves us.

  I kneel in front of the table and pour us some tea in two beautiful china cups. I wish Sandra had thought about bringing us some sugar, milk or honey—I know that’s generally frowned upon by real tea lovers, but that’s how I like it. I’ll have to ask for some next time—this is my home now, after all, and I have to allow myself to ask for the things I want.

  “Thank you dear,” she says as I hand her one of the cups. Her eyes bear the mark of the non-stop tears she’s shed since William was killed. It was hard on everyone in the mansion—William seemed well loved by everyone around here—but I can’t begin to imagine how hard it must be for his own mother.

  “I was hoping you’d agree to take a walk with me later,” I say, eager to get her out of her bedroom. Of course, grief can’t be rushed, but I fear she’s going to feel worse by staying here alone and crying.

  “I can’t, Constance. I don’t want to. Everything around here reminds me of him. I don’t want to see the pond where we fed the ducks. I don’t want to walk down the hall and see his childhood bedroom. I don’t want people to tell me they’re sorry for my loss. And most of all, I don’t want to go anywhere near the cemetery…It all feels too real, and I’m happier here, in my state of half-denial.”

  “It’s not good for you, Emily—“

  “WHO CARES?” she shouts unexpectedly. “Are you the one to decide what’s good for me? Are you the grief police?”

  I almost spill the cup of tea I have in my hand. I look at Emily; her eyes are wide and wild. Her hands are shaking, and the cup in her hand rattles against the saucer. In all my life, I have never seen anyone not behaving properly—adults of our standing are good at hiding their thoughts and feelings. Usually.

  I feel the tension rise in the room. She’s still very defensive, and I’m sure that if I insist on this path, she will react poorly. She’s right, anyway: I don’t have to be the be-all know-all about grief—I’m not, really. And in any case, this is not my place. This may be a more suitable job for her husband.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” I say, getting up and leaving my cup of tea on the coffee table, “I need to rest. These last few days have been stressful for all of us.” The polite way to do things is ingrained in my mind, and the only socially acceptable response to a meltdown is to remove oneself from the situation in order for the other person not to feel embarrassed about their behavior later.

  I close the door on my way out, quietly, and stand for a while in the hall, waiting for my heart to calm down. I feel sick to my stomach knowing how much my mother-in-law is suffering. There is nothing that I can do for now, it seems, but I will have to be careful and make sure her state of mind does not worsen over the next few days.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  FLAME

  After dinner, I go out for a walk, happy to be alone at last. The weight of everyone’s melancholy is adding to mine, and I can’t deal with it for now. I need my mind to wander somewhere else, far away from the death and grief—for now.

  My footsteps bring me to the cemetery though, without my even deciding to go there. Just when I had decided to think about something else…William’s death is everywhere, tainting everything. I’d resent it, but somehow I understand that, living in his mansion, there are no places I can go to and make mine, not yet.

  I walk to William’s grave, deciding it’s as good a place as any other to find some peace and quiet under the big cedar tree that towers above his tomb—it will allow me to think without being disturbed. The grave keeper’s tools are still lying against a tree, not far away—I suppose he has come back to finish his job earlier that afternoon. That jackass! The cemetery doesn’t really seem tidier, I notice, bothered.

  At first I’m not sure what I’m seeing when I approach. The sunlight is slowly declining, and though it’s still bright, my eyes have a hard time making out what is happening. A huge, swarming mass is slowly moving around William’s tomb.

  I take a few more steps and crouch to examine what’s happening, and then I get it: those are pine processionaries, the little caterpillars that walk in nose-to-tail columns in the woods. It’s not unusual to see them near cedar trees as they feed on their needles—or so I read with my teacher during my biology class when I was younger.

  What is weird is that they’re not going anywhere: they’re walking in circles, following each other around the grave. There are quite a few concentric circles, too, not just one—it looks like a traffic jam on a roundabout. They’re meant to follow each other, so the first one probably has circled around the tomb and found another, and now they’re stuck in a loop.

  There are so many of them that I’m rather disgusted by the sight, even though I’m rarely afraid of bugs—or any animal, for that matter. But I guess I can’t let them stay like this. I grab a stick from the ground and break the circle, forcing some of them to change direction. I’m quite proud of myself because it seems to work—they all begin to scatter away, still in a line, clearing the space around William’s tomb.

  I grab a low branch and climb into the cedar tree, looking for a comfortable place to sit. I’ve been climbing trees my whole life—it’s always
been a way for me to feel free despite all the protocols and rules I had to adhere to.

  The view from here is amazing: we’re on top of a small hill, which means I can see quite far away from just a few meters up.

  On one side, there are the woods, where the hunters are probably still looking for that beast that killed William. Behind me is the mansion, looking old but strong—an imposing place that I’m going to live in, maybe for the rest of my life. I feel lonely and cold despite the scorching heat.

  And in front of me, down the hill, there are fields as far as the eyes can see. The sun is lowering in the horizon, making my whole world orange for a few minutes.

  I feel like crying so much, and this time I’m letting myself do so, accepting my feelings of loneliness, of sadness, of loss, pain, anger…

  A butterfly flaps its wings, passing by—one of the electric blue ones that remind me so fondly of my Binniboy. I raise my hand as it comes closer, secretly hoping it will land on me…and it does. It opens and closes its wings, gathering the last sunshine rays of the day. It’s so beautiful I am almost scared to breathe.

  Another butterfly passes by, landing on my knee. And another, making a loop around the branch I’m sitting on before flying up to me. I look around, and there they are: the electric blue butterflies of my childhood memories. This is not the tree where I saw them when I was younger, but they have definitely found me. Do they know this is a hard time for me? Do they know I make a connection between them and Binniboy? Is the Universe trying to ease my pain?

  A lot of them fly around and land on me or on the tree’s bark. My tears have dried on their own, and I laugh softly, allowing myself to feel happy for a moment, for the first time in days. Who would have thought such a sound would come out of my lungs after what happened?

  The butterflies stick around for a few minutes, close enough for me to look at them in detail and revel in their beauty—and then a little breeze encourages them to fly away, one by one. When they’re all gone, I close my eyes, lean against the tree, and try to keep the memory of that moment dancing behind my eyelids. One beautiful memory to make up for all the unhappy thoughts in my head.

  When I open my eyes again, I realize I have been nodding off. Thanks to my many years of climbing trees, I have kept my balance and have not fallen out. The night is a bit darker than the night before, but I still can see where I’m going as I get down. I can see the mansion’s lights, so I know which way to go to get back home.

  I jump down when I get to the lowest branch, which is about a meter and a half high, but I have thought I was more nimble than I actually am, and my foot turns at a wrong angle as it touches the ground.

  I swear silently and sit on William’s tombstone to check my ankle. It hurts, but not too much; I should be able to get back to the mansion on my own, if I’m careful.

  A sudden bluish light behind me makes me turn around. A little blue flame is dancing on William’s grave, not two feet away from me, producing a little hissing sound. It’s mesmerizing.

  I have read about this—it’s what they call St. Elmo’s fire, or a will o' the wisp. It’s a little flame, believed to be created by the gases that emanate from a decomposing body. I’d rather not have thought about that, but that’s the way life is … Everything goes back to the earth. It’s actually quite beautiful, in a way.

  I reach over to the flame, trying to feel if the air around it is warm, but the small blue light dances away when my hand gets close. I reach again, and the light recedes again, as if it has a mind of its own. But gases don’t have a mind, it cannot be avoiding me on purpose. Maybe my hand creates a movement of air that makes it oscillate and chases it further away?

  I hear a whisper. Constance.

  I get up quickly, despite my ankle protesting.

  “Is someone here?” I call into the night. I look around but can’t see anyone—there’s just that blue light, moving to and fro. It starts expanding, becoming bigger and bigger. Its change in size is frightening, but it is not warm, and I reassure myself that this light should not set the trees on fire.

  I’m wondering if I should call for help. I can’t just run back to the mansion, my ankle won’t let me go quickly. I’m afraid something will happen—or even worse, that I’ll get someone to come here and that the light will be gone for good. Oh, that would be great … The madam has gone crazy, they would say. She is seeing ghosts. Meh.

  I have no idea what to do, so I take a step back toward the mansion. The blue fire jumps off the tombstone toward me. It’s almost as big as I am, now.

  Constanssssssssss…

  That whisper again … it’s coming from the fire. For a moment, I thought it was the hissing from the flames, but this time I’m sure it has said my name.

  “What are you?” I ask the fire. I’m not feeling afraid. I feel pretty confident it won’t hurt me—it could have already, but hasn’t. I’m overwhelmed by the beauty of it, and my head is full of questions.

  It hisses again and crackles, growing yet again quickly in size. It now is bigger than me, and it illuminates a large part of the cemetery. I thought I couldn’t be more surprised, but I almost fall on the floor as I’m stepping back when it grows arms and its base splits to make two legs. It is now human shaped—is this an attempt at communication?

  “Constance.”

  This time the sound is more human-like. The fire raises a hand toward me, beckoning me to it—to him? Its shape sharpens again, and I’m starting to see human features. A nose. Eyes. Hair. It’s all still fire, but there is a person under there, there is no doubt about it.

  “W—William? Is that you?” Am I going crazy? I must be!

  “Thanks for freeing me from that circle,” he says, stepping my way once more. The hissing is lower now, and the brilliance around us is dimming.

  “Binniboy?”

  William is right in front of me. Despite the little flames still rising from him, I can see his face as clear as in the light of day.

  “You remember?” he says, eyes wide open.

  I’m dumbfounded at the way he starts the discussion—as if him being here talking to me was perfectly normal, and that the fact of me remembering how we used to be as kids was the main thing to be surprised about.

  “I-I did not. I did not recognize you, either before or during the wedding. I had forgotten all about you … It was so long ago … My mom has revealed who you were— er, are … earlier today when we visited you— er, your tomb…”

  He reaches out and puts his hand on my arm. As I suspected from the lack of warmth radiating from him, its contact is not burning me. It’s almost cold, weirdly. I try to stay proper and not look down, but I can’t help it, and my eyes take him all in. He is ripped and…well…My body is not indifferent to the shape of his.

  “I have never forgotten you—all those years. I’ve always wanted you. At first, it was in a childhood-love kind of way, but already very powerful. As the years went by, I wondered how beautiful you grew up to be. I started to imagine us being together again, and I knew I’d want you in a more grown-up way.”

  He raises his hand and caresses my cheek.

  “I hoped I could touch your face and tell you everything. I hoped you would remember what we had when we were five. I am so happy you agreed to be my wife.” His face grows closer to mine, his lips brushing mine softly.

  I have very contradictory feelings. I know I should be afraid, but my heart is jumping in my chest at the idea that my childhood sweetheart—my husband, actually—has transcended death to be with me. At this moment, not much else matters but his lips moving on my mouth.

  The cold of his hand and lips are living warmth inside of me, and I find myself leaning into the kiss. William does not need more than a hint, and he wraps his arms around me with passion, transforming our sweet kiss into a fiery one.

  When William ends the kiss, I gasp for air as he goes on trailing my jaw and neck with kisses, his powerful arms constricting around me. What’s happening? What am I do
ing? I can’t think about anything other than his touch right now. My hands are in his hair, right in the middle of the flames, encouraging him to go on discovering my skin.

  He lifts me up in his arms, all carefulness cast aside, and lays me on his tomb. The stone feels cold under me, but I’m radiating passion and pay it no mind.

  “I want you, Constance,” he says. “I am going to make love to you right here. I’ve been waiting to do this for so long. I’m not a little boy anymore. I want you to see me how I am now. You’re mine. I’m going to make you mine.”

  His deep masculine voice resonates within me, and I realize that he is a man now.

  I sigh as he unbuttons my shirt and traces the shape of my breasts with his hands. His teeth tug at my bra, exposing one of my nipples, which he takes into his mouth. His mouth trails back up to my neck and earlobes, making me go crazy. Everywhere he touches me, he leaves little blue flames innocently dancing on my skin.

  The shy girl inside of me seems to be lost. The daring part of me, the one I treasure so much, is now in full control, and I slither my hands down his back, not stopping them until they’ve hiked the hills of his ass. I bring him closer to me, wanting to see his face again. I can feel his manhood against me, pushing on the fabric over my most sensitive parts.

  One of his hands finds its way under my skirt, feeling my leg and thigh. The light fabric is hitched up, and he gazes down at my small white cotton panties. He groans, sitting up between my legs and staring. “I want you so much. You have no idea how much it takes for me not to rip those panties off and take you savagely.”

  “Why don’t you?” I ask, breathless, blood flowing to my cheeks as he speaks.

  He cups my breast, looking at it with desire, and asks: “You never…Did you ever…”

  I look at him, waiting for him to finish his sentence.

  “Have you ever had sex?” There is a kind of vulnerability on his face as he awaits my answer. “You can tell me the truth.”

  Some of my shyness comes back, I don’t know why. “No, never.”