Shifter Fated Mates: Boxed Set

by Mandy M. Roth

  “Doctor!” he shouted, still stuck in place by the sight of her. Part of him feared if he got any closer to her that he might actually act on the impulse to fuck her. Didn’t help matters that she was still shaking her sexy little ass. It was altogether too easy to picture her bent before him, his hands on her hips, holding her in place as he lined up with her wet core. His cock was painfully thick and hard, agreeing with how perfect the thought of being in her would be.

  He couldn’t recall a time in his long life when he’d reacted so fiercely to the sight and smell of a female. Yet, this one before him had his mind a puddle of sex-ridden mush and she’d not even spoken a word to him.

  Fuck. If he she talks to me I’ll come.

  Fuck. France did break me!

  I hate France.

  His cock pushed against his jeans, wanting to join in the dancing fun with her. The more she shook her perfect ass, the more turned on he became. She danced in a circle and stopped, her eyes widening when she spotted him.

  “Are you here to fix the sink?” she asked in the loudest shout possible for someone her size. Her voice slid over him, caressing his eager cock, nearly making him lose control. He had to bite his inner cheek to help before he did something extra embarrassing. That or just grabbed her and kissed her until she melted against him.

  Do it.

  He wanted to punch his wolf in the face.

  “Are. You. Here. To. Fix. The. Sink,” she repeated, still yelling, but this time punctuating each word as if he were the simple one. He’d have noticed someone holding a gun.

  “What?” Was she for real? He was holding a firearm and she wanted to know if he was there to fix her sink. He was totally and completely obsessed with a crazy woman. There were no two ways about it. She had to be nuts.

  Fucking sexy as could be, but nuts.

  He knew her specs. He’d read them, yet seeing her in person made him very aware of just how small she was in comparison to him. The alpha in him wanted to sweep her up and protect her from all the wrong in the world. Right now, he had to convince her that a big guy with a handgun in her living room was something worthy of panic, or at the very least, notice.

  She seemed oblivious.

  Striker’s tales of redheads came flooding back.

  Duke had a feeling Mercy would be totally worth any headache or insanity she brought to the table.

  “I can’t hear you,” she said before smiling wide—gifting him the same quirky smile she’d had in her photos.

  It rocked him to his very core. He wanted to kiss her. Didn’t matter that men were coming to try to kill them all. He wanted his lips on hers.

  Snap out of it.

  She removed her headphones. “Sorry. They’re noise cancelling. I actually tweaked them to sound out everything, not just a certain percentage. They work great.”

  He’d say so.

  “Are you here to fix the sink?” she asked, eyeing him carefully. “You’re not the normal fix-it guy.”

  He waited for her to freak out about a gunman in her bedroom. Granted, he was the gunman, but still he wanted to know she had at least minimal basic survival instincts. Apparently, the woman had none to speak of whatsoever. “What?”

  “The sink. It’s been acting up. You’re here to fix it, right?”

  “No,” he said, doing his best not to shout at her for being so clueless. “I’m not.”

  She wrinkled her nose, glancing over him slowly. “You’re incredibly fit. Has anyone ever told you that before? You have great bone structure.” Her gaze slid to a framed picture on her wall. “Have we met before?”

  Duke couldn’t make heads or tails of the picture on the wall. The thing looked like badly done modern art. She seemed pretty focused on it, before looking at him again.

  She sucked in a large breath. “Oh, you have a gun.”

  Finally.

  “Listen, Doc, we need to get you to safety.”

  Something in her expression changed. “You’re not with the Corporation, are you?”

  He shook his head. He didn’t know who the hell the Corporation was.

  She took a tiny step back. “You’re Jimmy’s friends and you want to kill me, right?”

  He lifted his arms to signal he wasn’t a threat. He wasn’t sure it actually worked. She seemed very engrossed by his sidearm. He offered as soft a look as he could muster. “Here. All gone, okay?” He slipped the handgun into his waistband. “My name is Duke and I come in peace. Listen, a group of men are gunning for you. I need to get you to safety. Are you okay with that?”

  For a complete, up-to-date booklist, visit www.MandyRoth.com

  The Dead Tell by Jaycee Clark

  Book One in The Dead series.

  Some people talk with the living, some speak with the dead…

  Paige Holcomb enjoys her life in New Orleans. Friends she considers family, a man she can’t figure if he’s a friend or more, and of course the others. The others being those who aren’t breathing and who gravitate to her for help. Why she’s cursed, she’s never figured out, but help the ghostly women she will.

  Nothing much shocks homicide detective Mike Killian, but the stubborn woman he’s been after constantly manages it. Paige gives wary a whole new meaning and he’s given her space and time. But he’s done waiting. She’s his and it’s time she came to terms with that.

  When the ghosts of murdered women start visiting Paige, Mike will do whatever he must to keep her safe while she learns to use her ability to help stop a murderer before it’s too late.

  The Dead Tell Excerpt

  He turned the woman’s head just a smidge to the side. There. That looked right.

  It had to be right. Had to look perfect. Art should always be perfect, after all. Otherwise, what was the point? Art might be open to interpretation but bad art was bad art and he wasn’t about to be accused of being a sloppy artist.

  The blood from her wound pooled around her on the cool, lichen-stained marble. She might have cared if she was alive.

  But she wasn’t.

  That was fine with him. Her mewls and cries had gotten on his nerves. He’d had to put the tape over her mouth again just to get her to shut the hell up.

  Look how that had turned out.

  He should have known better. The adhesive had left an area that he could easily see. The area around her mouth, those perfectly wide, plump lips, was now marred with redness. He hoped it wouldn’t ruin the final image.

  It would have to work, though. Unless he got makeup?

  No. He shook his head. He wasn’t going to screw up her natural beauty. It had taken him too long to find her to begin with. She’d been perfect in almost every way.

  The clothing fit her perfectly, didn’t it?

  The cemetery wasn’t cold tonight, but then it hardly ever got truly cold here in the Big Easy.

  The scent of her blood mixed with the dirty scents that always permeated the city—mud from the river, too much garbage, and human waste.

  He stepped back and took several photos, then looked at the scene.

  No, she still wasn’t right. He glanced around, tapping his finger on the edge of his camera. He’d have to hurry. Too many more flashes and someone was bound to come along to see what was going on. He’d rather have set her up in his studio. Granted, he had taken some photos of her there, but they were more work-in-progress types, not the finished, final product.

  He’d decided the photos needed more. But he’d already planned what to do with her.

  It had taken him almost an hour to get her to look just right.

  She lay on her side, her arm outstretched, palm up. Her eyes had been open in previous photos, but he’d shut them when doing her light makeup; she’d needed mascara—lashes should be seen. Dead eyes were just dead. There was no life in them, no soul, no animation.

  Dull did not go well with his artwork.

  His artwork was great. He’d be great!

  This would be great.

  The angel who swooped ove
r her, stood atop an above ground grave; the stone warrior was missing a wing.

  He rather liked that as well—added a touch to the whole effect. He scanned back through his Nikon 5100’s photos, the high-dollar digital camera one of his prides and joys.

  But he’d needed it, needed to capture his ideas. Now he used it as he pleased.

  Her white dress was stained, but not too much. He’d made sure to dress her after. After he’d ended it all. The scarf around her neck hid the wound he’d given her. A quick, fast slice. Not completely across her throat. How clichéd would that be? He’d only needed a small slice, just at the jugular. As fast as her scared heart had been beating, it hadn’t taken her long to bleed out, especially inverted as she had been. He’d learned inversion helped to keep things clean.

  Even from here, he could hear revelers, probably on their way home from Bourbon Street.

  He glanced that way, knowing he shouldn’t be here. The cemeteries were curfewed, but he didn’t care. He was too important for anyone to bother, though they might call the cops. He rather hoped not.

  He should have bought his lights. The lighting was all wrong for this scene. It needed sharper shadows in a few of the photos. He wanted the light and dark. The good and evil. The innocence and the guilty.

  It had taken him forever to figure out how to pose her.

  And now that he could, the flashlight just wasn’t doing it. He couldn’t get the photos he wanted in his studio. He needed a cemetery. An area of death, to add the finality to it. Give it an edge.

  He wondered how many people would understand, would see that she wasn’t really dead.

  That was, if he showed his art—he wanted to show his art. He wanted to share it with the world.

  However, he wasn’t quite ready, but he’d get there. At least he no longer left the bodies he’d practiced on in the dumpsters. But really, they were just practice. Practice made perfect.

  It wasn’t like they’d be missed. Not really.

  This one might. Might. He picked her up yesterday on her way home from work. He’d followed her. Approached her.

  God, his hands had been sweating, he’d been shaking but she apparently hadn’t noticed. She’d been distracted by a dog.

  He’d planned this scene in his head for weeks, and then he’d seen her. The Muse had chosen her for him.

  Perfection.

  Almost.

  The lighting was just off.

  He frowned and wondered if he waited until almost dawn if that might help.

  Might. It would lighten. He could still sneak out. With the ball cap and shades, it wasn’t like anyone would recognize him. He could climb up and hide behind the angel. Keep watch over his newest work.

  Next time, though, he’d have to better plan. How to get the next one inside a cemetery while there was enough light would be tricky. He’d have to look into that and see what he could find out. Maybe a smaller portable light? Better than a flashlight.

  Or a smaller, out of the way cemetery.

  He sighed and bent down, clicking off the flashlight. Then he slung his pack over his shoulder and climbed up onto the grave, settling against the angel. On the night, he could hear the street cleaners already out washing away the night’s sins, a scuffle and an argument.

  He’d leave them to it. He was waiting on the light.

  Next time though, he’d plan better, figure out a way to get her in with the light perfect, maybe late in the day, with enough light left. Use the old bellows camera with the plates. That would be wicked.

  He grinned.

  Next time, he’d make it perfect.

  For a complete, up-to-date booklist, visit www.JayceeClark.com

  Barbarian Prince (Dragon Lords) by Michelle M. Pillow

  Futuristic Dragonshifting Romance

  Breaking up was never so hard...

  Going undercover at a mass wedding as a bartered bride, Morrigan Blake has every intention of getting off the barbaric planet just as soon as it’s over. Or, more correctly, just as soon as she captures footage of the mysterious princes rumored to be in attendance.

  After a euphoric night, Morrigan discovers her spaceship left without her, and Ualan of Draig is claiming she’s his wife. It’s not exactly the story this reporter had in mind. And to make matters worse, the all-to-seductive alpha refuses to take no for an answer.

  Being cursed by the Gods was never so frustrating...

  Prince Ualan is prepared to follow dragonshifter tradition and marry the woman revealed to him during the Breeding Festival. When the stubborn, yet achingly sexy, Morrigan refuses to accept their shared fate and his supreme authority over her, it is all he can do to keep from acting like the barbarian she accuses him of being.

  Barbarian Prince (Dragon Lords) Excerpt

  Ualan bowed to the king, before dragging his stunned bride from the stage like an insolent child. Morrigan stumbled behind him, her lips tingling full of sensations. Without the haze of the crystal, she was confused. Her logic told her to yell, her body told her to leap into his arms and demand he do it again. Thankfully for Morrigan’s self-respect, her logic won.

  She was led into the shelter of the nearby forest, glad to be away from the crowd. Well, led was maybe too light of a word. Ualan practically dragged her stumbling behind him.

  Strange yellow ferns passed under her trampling feet as Ualan followed what could only roughly be referred to as a forest path. Various woodland critters shuffled away in fright, bizarre creatures that Morrigan was forced to ignore in their haste. A purple bird flew past her head, and she automatically tried to jump back out of its way.

  Ualan, misunderstanding her movements, clearly thought she tried to escape him. He gripped her tighter.

  “Ow,” she yelled at him. He only walked faster. She tripped on something she couldn’t see. It might look like nothing but ferns up to her ankles, but there was debris underneath the thick groundcover.

  Coming to a clearing by a narrow stream, he finally released her hand. He spun around to glare at her. “What do you think you were doing?”

  “Me?” Morrigan gasped. She pulled her injured wrist to her waist. The beauty of their surroundings was lost on her. She only saw red.

  “If you ever try to humiliate me in public again, wife, I will break your neck, do you understand?” Ualan growled.

  “I am not your wife. You drugged me, you accursed cave dweller, with that wine and the crystal. Admit it!”

  Fury raged in his eyes. Oh, he was livid.

  Well, so was she.

  “Don’t you dare try to deny it!” Poking him in his very unmoving chest, she shouted, “I felt it as soon as I broke that crystal. What kind of sick people are you, slipping drugs on unsuspecting women?” Lowering her tone like a simpleton, she mocked, “Oh, here, take this drink, you’ll like it,” before finishing in a furious rush, “You’ll only wake up nine months pregnant and married to a serving boy. But hey, he needed a wife and couldn’t be bothered with finding one the way most normal aliens do.”

  Ualan didn’t move.

  Not satisfied with poking, she slapped the dragon on his chest hard. “No thank you, cavemen. Not this girl. I am on the first flight back to New Earth and you can’t stop me. You tricked me and—”

  “You chose,” he growled angrily, grabbing her by the arm and shaking her. His eyes swirled with golden lava. “Your will was free. I did not trick you. The crystal showed me to you and you chose to be my wife.”

  “I chose to go. I told you that. You said you understood!” Morrigan screamed, trying to tear away from him and failing. Angry tears threatened to spill from her eyes. She did not want to be stuck here on this backward planet, forced to live in a damned tent.

  “You chose to be my wife,” Ualan stated. “You cannot take it back.”

  “Wife?” Morrigan repeated. He was like talking to a stone. Despite their anger, he was devilishly handsome when he looked at her all fiery like he did. Her heart skipped a little in her chest. The whole plane
t must be insane. Who really got married after one night and less than a hundred words?

  “Yes, wife,” he insisted. “We have been chosen—”

  “If I hear one more time that I was chosen, so help me…” Morrigan’s words cut into him. She shook her fist at him in warning. Taking a deep breath, she tried to be calm. “We are not married. Stop saying that we are. We aren’t going to live together. I am not going to bear your children. I am not going to cook for you, or rub your feet, or do any other mundane housewife tasks, you overbearing—”

  “What was last night, then, if we are not married?” His words were soft, but the hard razor-edge was unmistakable. He glanced around the small clearing and frowned. “Come. I don’t want to be overheard.”

  Morrigan looked but didn’t see anyone. He pulled her further into the trees, heading away from the stream. When they were deeper in the confines of the forest, he leaned over her and kissed her.

  It was a searing, probing, claiming kiss that shot all the way to her toes. Morrigan struggled, not daring to let him end the fight like that. Not again. This Morrigan wasn’t drunk or drugged. Just as abruptly as he took her mouth with his he let it go.

  “Last night was,” Morrigan hesitated, finally managing to break free of his hands. His taste stung her lips. “It was…nice. But it didn’t mean I was signing on to be Mrs. Caveman. I have a job. I have a life. It’s a good life and it doesn’t include you. I’m sorry, Ualan, but your crystal was wrong. Go dig yourself up a new one and next year you’ll have better luck.”

  “Nice?” Ualan questioned in disbelief. He rolled his eyes to the tree branches, spouting out a lot of words she couldn’t understand. By his tone, Morrigan guessed it was better her implanted translator wasn’t able to decipher them.

  She watched his stalking movements, momentarily distracted by the strength in his form. Suddenly he turned to her, pouncing forward to trap her against a tree. The bark poked her back sharply, but it was more forgiving than the hard male chest pressing against her delicate breasts.