The Pack Rules Boxed Set: The Complete Series of Wolf, Bear, and Dragon Shifter Romances

by Michele Bardsley

GRETCHEN WALKED BEHIND Rafe and his two brothers as they crept through forested hill toward the shining chrome and wood mansion above them.

  Two hours earlier, three SUVs filled with werewolves, Rafe, and Gretchen had met up at the offices of Pearson Security. She had to admit that waking up in Rafe’s arms had been wonderful. He was affectionate, unafraid to wrap his arms around her or tickle her ribs to make her giggle.

  As they entered the back rooms of Pearson Security, Rafe’s brothers, Gabe and Mike, had greeted their oldest brother with the sort of affection that encapsulated the term “bear hugs.”

  Rafe hadn’t argued when Gretchen said she wanted to be part of Kaylie’s rescue. Instead, he showed her how to load and aim the .9 mm pistol now holstered on her hip. She was already falling hard for the bear shifter, and this gesture really clinched the deal. Now, she wore the same black outfits as the rest of the Pearson clan—including a heavy bulletproof vest wrapped around her torso. The Shadows were taking lead on the operation, disposing of the posted guards while the Pearson brothers and Gretchen breached the house.

  They each had an earpiece tuned in to the same frequency. Small mikes attached to their collars allowed them to communicate quickly and effectively. Everyone would be able to hear what was going on with everyone else.

  The guards—twelve in all, came to quick and silent ends. The werewolves took positions around the house, prepared to annihilate anyone stupid enough to run out of the manse and threaten them.

  Gretchen and the bear brothers went up the driveway to the side door Gretchen had told them about. Mike kicked the door, and it shattered inward. Its wood and glass was no match for the bear shifter’s sheer strength.

  The mudroom led into the massive kitchen. Gretchen got a vague impression of steel appliances and granite countertops as they ran through it. The dining room was clear, and the next room was a massive living area with multiple seating arrangement and a fireplace so huge, three people could stand upright in it.

  “Clear,” said Mike. “We’ll go through the rest of the downstairs, you two go up.”

  Mike and Gabe took off, and Gretchen followed Rafe up the elaborate wood staircase.

  The first four bedrooms on the upper floor were empty. She assumed the double-doors at the end of the hallway led to the master suite.

  Gretchen heard the baby’s wails interspersed with tiny barks. She froze.

  Rafe cursed. “He’s in there with her. Stay behind me.”

  Shaking and fearful, Gretchen followed Rafe down the hall. He busted open the doors, his pistol firing before she could even enter the room.

  Two men lay dead on the floor. Sitting on the massive four-poster bed was Rand. He was dressed in a suit, his dark hair slicked back like a movie mobster’s. His malicious grin was all teeth and no conscience. He held Kaylie against his chest, and by the baby’s cries, Gretchen knew Kaylie was in distress.

  “Come any closer, and I’ll kill her.”

  “Your daughter?” scoffed Rafe. “After everything you did to get her back?”

  “I can make more babies.” Rand looked down at his daughter and grimaced. “I don’t really want reminders of my whore wife.” His glance took in Gretchen. “You’re the one who took my child.”

  “She was given to me,” said Gretchen. “She’s mine now.”

  Rand’s heavy black brows lifted in mock surprise, and he laughed. “A human? Really?”

  “The human responsible for your brother’s death,” she said.

  That put him off-guard. Rafe crept closer, his gun trained on Rand’s skull. Gretchen followed, feeling helpless. How could they get to Kaylie before Rand did something to hurt her? The big werewolf could snap her little neck with ease. Fear pulsed at the base of Gretchen’s spine.

  Rand stroked Kaylie’s hair as he spoke. “Vivian killed Trent. He wanted to mate with her, and instead of doing what she was put on this earth to do, she murdered him. I had to make her pay for that. And I did, believe me. Every single day.”

  Fury welled up inside Gretchen. “You’re going to rot in hell, right next to your asshole brother.”

  Anger and sheer force of will propelled her around Rafe and toward Rand. He didn’t seem alarmed by a human coming at him, and certainly didn’t expect Gretchen to slap him across the face as hard as she could.

  “You bitch!” he thundered. “How dare you!”

  Gretchen snatched the baby right out of his hands. That’s when she saw he’d been hiding a gun underneath his precious, innocent daughter. She whirled away, clutching Kaylie tightly against her chest. She heard the report of two bullets.

  Rafe yelled, “No!”

  Then she felt like she’d gotten punched in the kidneys. She staggered, her breath going out of her as she fell to her knees. She swayed, staying upright, determined to protect the little werewolf in her arms.

  The next thing Gretchen heard was a hair-raising, animalistic roar … she’d heard that sound before on nature shows about grizzlies. She moved forward until she reached the far wall, then she turned and leaned against it, twin aches blooming across her back.

  A brown bear stood fully on its haunches, and raked its claws through Rand’s chest. The werewolf had been trying to change into his other form, his face a mask of both human and wolf, but the bear’s rage was too much.

  Rand fell back onto the bed, his chest a bloodied, pulpy mess.

  His eyes went wide and then glassy, and he stilled.

  Gretchen blew out a shaky breath and closed her eyes. It was over.

  “Gretchen?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Let me check.” She crouched forward and Grant felt along her backside. “Thank God. The bullets are in the jacket, not in you. You’ll probably have some spectacular bruises.”

  “It was worth it.” She looked up at him and blinked. “Why are you naked?”

  “I shifted, sweetheart. Clothes never make the transition.”

  “Rafe!”

  “Over here.” Rafe slid the baby out of Gretchen’s arms and handed Kaylie to one of his brothers. Then Rafe scooped Gretchen into his arms and gently cradled her.

  “I can walk.”

  “No, you can’t.”

  “I wouldn’t argue with him,” said Mike. “He’s a stubborn bastard.”

  As Mike and Gabe walked ahead of them, both cooing at the baby, Rafe looked at her. “You’re safe, Gretchen.”

  “I only feel that way with you,” she admitted. “Is that weird?”

  “Nope. And if I have anything to say about it,” he said, kissing her on top of her head, “that’s the way it’s going to stay.”

  Honey Bear

  1

  WHEN THE DOUBLE-FUDGE triple-layer chocolate cake detonated, Amelia Delacorte stared in utter disbelief at the carnage decorating the top of the display case.

  She didn’t remember making the batter with an explosive. Had she switched out canola oil with nitroglycerin?

  Oh, you’re hilarious, Amelia.

  Licking chocolate from her lips and swiping dessert debris off her face, she ducked down and examined the underside of the refrigerated unit. Had the machine somehow murdered her four-hour homage to all that was chocolate and delicious? It didn’t look homicidal—or even slightly annoyed. The refurbished unit could be cranky on occasion, but it had never killed a cake.

  If the damned fridge was dying, she was screwed. She’d barely been able to afford the older used model. Starting over, again, meant scrounging and scraping. This time, she’d started anew in a city where people went to get lost on purpose. In Las Vegas, Nevada nobody cared who you were or where you came from. Or so she continually hoped.

  She’d put every dime she had to open Devilish Delights. Creating confections was the only activity that had kept her sane for the last five years. Making and indulging in baked goods might’ve kept her ass round and her curves … well, curvy, but every moment she baked a cake, made gooey brownies, or chocolate-fied evil fruit—was a moment stolen from him.r />
  The monster.

  No. She wouldn’t devote a second more to his memory or to the terror still within her—a dark and breathing thing that lived in the raw wound of her soul.

  Amelia shook her head. Maybe she should blame it all on Sunday. Sundays always seemed to suck for her. She’d been in the kitchen since three a.m. and here it was just a little after seven, and she’d been basking in dessert triumph—and finally, finally felt tired enough to attempt sleep on the cot she kept in the back.

  Then BAM!

  Cake destruction.

  She bent lower and slid open the thin plastic doors to examine the unit’s sides, still trying to unravel the confectionery implosion mystery. Next to her, the thick, creamy Cherry Berry Cheesecake made an odd ffffft sound.

  She looked over, and noted the gouge in the cheesecake’s side and the odd ripple across its once pristine top. Before her brain processed the meaning, her instincts were screaming at her to Move! Run! Now!

  Amelia yanked her head away from the unit, glancing up just long enough to see the spider-webbing holes in her shop’s front window. There’d been no sound. None. But that didn’t change the ominous fact that someone was shooting at her.

  She dropped to the floor and wiggled across the checkered linoleum. Sweat beaded her brow, and her heart tripled its ragged beat.

  Oh, God. Oh, crap. Oh, fuck.

  She made it to the swinging door that led into the kitchen. The minute she pushed through, she popped onto her hands and knees and fast-crawled across the floor. Her jeans acted like an overachieving Swiffer gathering flour and bits of chocolate, and oh yeah, that egg she’d dropped.

  Hysteria nipped at her. Well, now her pants matched her T-shirt. Yep. Her clothing had taken a real beating. Ha, ha, baker humor. Not good, Amelia. You’re losing it. Cake dripped down the side of her face, and she realized her hair was full of frosting.

  Terrific.

  She reached up and put her hand on the knob to the back door. It led into the alleyway, where she’d parked her rusty, but reliable Beetle. Her bakery was located in a small shopping center that housed five or six local businesses—everything from beauty supplies to souvenirs. Unfortunately, most of those businesses opened late on Sundays, so she couldn’t hope anyone would be around to help.

  The keys.

  Shit.

  Her car keys were in her purse—the purse she’d stowed in the tiny pantry where she kept bulk ingredients.

  No way in hell was she going to risk going back toward the bullets.

  The wall next to her exploded.

  She screamed, jerked open the door, and crawled into the alley. Terror made her limbs quake and ghastly chills rippled through her. Ironic, since the desert heat made itself known, even at this early hour. Living in summertime Las Vegas was nearly the same as living on the sun—at least for uninitiated.

  The screech of metal garnered her attention. To the right, she saw a big, bulky man dressed in a black T-shirt, black cargo pants, and military boots exit a business about ten yards away. He carried a trash bag and a sour expression.

  “You suck!” he yelled through the still opened door.

  A rumbling laugh echoed into the alley, followed by a, “You lost the bet.”

  She knew him. Sorta. He and his brother ran the bodyguard service, which she thought was code for “male strippers”—especially given their outrageous good looks and impressive muscles. They’d come in a couple of times and bought her out of honey cinnamon rolls. She had more of a thing for the dark-haired one with his chocolate-brown eyes.

  Which was so not important right now.

  Shivering so hard now her teeth chattered, Amelia didn’t even have the sense to get to her feet. She shuffled toward him, keeping low to the ground, terrified that the shooter would burst out the back door and kill her. Her palms scraped against the rough asphalt, and her jeans rubbed together at the juncture of her thighs.

  Big Dude must’ve heard something because he whirled around and drew a scary-looking black gun, which he aimed down at her.

  She almost passed out.

  Okay, so he’s probably not a stripper.

  He took in her appearance, his expression flickering with surprise and suspicion.

  ”You’re really a bodyguard?” she asked.

  His brows lifted. “Are you in trouble, miss?”

  “My name’s Amelia.” She swallowed hard. “Someone’s trying to kill me.”

  “Gabe!” he barked.

  The other man came to the door. He wore practically the same outfit, except he’d opted for black snakeskin boots. He took one look at the situation and unsheathed his gun. “Go,” he said. He did a sweep of the area, aiming in the direction of Amelia’s bake shop.

  Brown Eyes put the gun into its holster, leaned down and offered his hand. “I’ll protect you.”

  She had to give the guy credit. He’d taken her at her word. Grateful, she reached up and grabbed at his long, thick fingers. He pulled her up and twirled her around so that his backside was toward the perceived threat. Securely ensconced by his brawny frame, Amelia felt her knees liquefy. He held her tightly, and for the first time in five long years, she felt safe. She gripped his muscled biceps and held on for dear life.

  Her rescuer took her inside the building and Gabe followed, shutting and locking the massive metal door behind him. Amelia was agog at its security—it looked as though it belonged on a bank safe.

  “I’m guessing no one gets through that,” she said, her voice trembling.

  “That’s right,” said the man who still held her. “And no one gets through us, either.”

  2

  MIKE PEARSON FELT Amelia quake in his arms. Despite the fact he knew they were in the safest place in Vegas, he couldn’t quite bring himself to let her go.

  They’d been calling her the Honey Lady, and she might be amazed to know that he and Gabe had discussed their mystery baker at length. Ever since she’d set up shop a month ago, they’d proposed theories about her origins that involved the Witness Protection Program or the Underground, a covert group that scurried women and children away from their abusers and gave them new lives. Her polite distance, her lack of friends, the way she arrived at work from different directions and always parked in different places—all spoke of someone in hiding.

  Speculation, of course.

  Mostly, though, he and Gabe argued about who would get the last of the woman’s to-die-for honey cinnamon rolls. Like any bear shifter worth his fur, he had a weakness for honey. And the Honey Lady had a magic touch when it came to making sweet concoctions with his favorite ingredient.

  Just last night at dinner, he’d called dibs on the girl—an act that had gotten him a head whap from his mother for being “a sexist asshat,” and a dark look from Gabe because Mike had claimed their baker before he could. Gabe was a sexist asshat too, but he honored the dibs tradition.

  Ever since their younger brother Rafe had found true love in the form of an adorable human female and the werewolf baby they were raising together, Mike had developed more than a yen to settle down with the right woman. He wanted bear cubs, too. Hearth and home.

  That’s what Amelia felt like right now in his arms.

  Like home.

  “You’re squishing me,” came her breathless voice.

  “Bear hugs,” he muttered.

  “What?”

  He released her.

  Amelia, still quivering, let out a breath that sounded like the softened echo of a scream. Her fear emitted a pheromone powerful enough that it nearly forced him to shift. His bear side sought to lay claim to this woman. So much so, that he had a tough time keeping his claws sheathed. He wanted to annihilate whatever threatened her. She smelled good, too. Part of it was the heavenly scent of chocolate cake smeared in her hair—but the other part was her, clean and soft and fragrant like warm bread and lavender tea.

  He cleared his throat. “Let’s get you settled, Amelia.” Reluctantly, he backed away from her. �
��Then you can tell me why someone wants you dead.”

  MIKE STOOD AT the door to the conference room and watched Amelia sip on the bottled water he’d gotten from the break room’s fridge. He’d directed her to the restroom first to wash her face and brush cake out of her hair, which, he noted, she’d pulled into a ponytail. Now, she sat at the conference table, assessing her surroundings. He watched her gaze dart around, taking in every detail. The decor, from the black-cushioned chairs to the big screens that took up the back wall, was designed to impress. He could see her curiosity about the room’s purpose. She had an open, trusting face—a face with distinctive beauty. Call him horny, but the smell of dessert lingered all over curvaceous Amelia and made him hungrier for a taste of her. Down, boy. Instinct told him she was searching for an exit, planning her escape. He believed Amelia was quite good at disappearing.

  The question was why.

  “You have a very disconcerting stare,” she said, meeting his eyes. “You don’t blink.”

  “Everybody blinks.”

  “Hmm.” Her gaze trailed over his chest and down his abs, and he got the distinct impression she was wondering what he looked like naked. The urge to show her was strong enough to make him swallow a groan. He didn’t dare adjust his jeans against the pressure of his engorging cock, but if she kept looking at him like that, the erection would soon be full-on and obvious. Bear shifters were well endowed. It was the nature of being a beast.

  She looked away, nibbling on her lower lip. “I’m sorry about your shirt. I’ll pay to have it cleaned.”

  “I own a hundred of these things,” he said. “They’ve been messed up by a lot worse than cake.”

  “Hmm.” She drank more water, and Mike noted that at least her hands had stopped shaking. “Thanks for believing me.”

  “Who’s after you?”

  Amelia flinched, but didn’t answer. She folded her hands onto the table and stared at her ragged fingernails. Obviously chewed. Being on the run and looking over your shoulder all the time could wear quickly on anyone. He suspected Amelia was a resourceful woman, especially if she’d managed to keep a killer at bay.