The Alpha Men's Secret Club 4: Intrigue: A Shockingly Hot BBW Paranormal Shifter Romance

by Steele, Dawn

  No, he was doing the right thing. He was staying away from Kate and buying himself respite. If this thing actually worked on him, that was.

  Connor fastened the metal electrodes on either side of his temple. Each was the size of a silver dollar. The electrodes were connected to a machine with displays.

  “Are you ready?” said Connor.

  Yes.

  No.

  Rust nodded.

  Connor flipped a switch, and everything in Rust’s world exploded.

  12

  It was Kate’s first time at Bellevue. As the white walls of the handsome brownstone building drew up, she had to remind herself that this was a hospital for the criminally insane, no matter how pretty the surrounding trees were and how delicate the flowers fluttering in the sprightly breeze.

  So Rust worked here before with his father. What horrors had he seen within these walls? What horrors had he subjected himself to now?

  “Why did he check in as a patient?” Kate asked Hector, who was driving them.

  He seemed as distressed as she was. “I don’t know, Ms. Penney.”

  “It’s got nothing to do with the fact he’s depressed, does it?” Michaela demanded. “I mean . . . he dumped Kate here, and that has to be the stupidest move anyone can make. Maybe depression is a symptom of stupidity.”

  Kate was very pale. “No. He checked himself in because of all this . . . all that has been happening to him. He thinks he’s guilty of murdering Teddy Mitchell.”

  She couldn’t tell Michaela about the shifters, of course. But she knew how Rust’s mind worked now. It all tied up.

  Hector parked the car in front of the building.

  “You can’t just go in to see any patient you like, Ms. Penney,” he warned her. “They are very particular about their visitors.”

  “I know what I’m going to say,” Kate said, breezing out.

  Michaela followed.

  They went to the front doors, which were closed. What did one do in a place like this? Ring the doorbell? There was indeed a doorbell by the large doors, and Kate pressed it.

  A bell sounded in the echoes of the hall within. Kate heard footsteps as someone came to the door.

  A man in hospital whites opened appeared.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “You have a new patient, Rust O’Brien. I would like to see him,” Kate said boldly. “I am his girlfriend.”

  “I’m sorry, Ms . . . ?”

  “Penney.”

  “Ms. Penney. But only registered relatives are allowed to visit the patients.”

  Kate peered into the interior beyond the male nurse. Unlike other hospitals, this one did not have a reception. Instead, a great hall branched out into several corridors. She could glimpse other attendants walking around.

  She said, “I want to see Connor O’Brien then. It’s important. I have facts pertinent to the Teddy Mitchell murder case.”

  Michaela added, “You told him, girl.”

  The nurse hesitated. There was not a single person in New York who hadn’t heard about the murder by now.

  “Wait here,” he said, “I’ll get Dr. Connor O’Brien.”

  *

  When Connor appeared, Kate thought his expression seemed a little worried. Or was it her imagination?

  “Kate,” he said warmly, holding out his hand to shake hers. “Good to see you again.” He glanced at Michaela. “What are you doing here? You mentioned you had news for me about the murder?”

  OK, so that was a ruse.

  “Hello, Dr. O’Brien. This is my best friend, Michaela, come to New York.”

  “Hello.” Exchanges and pleasantries all round.

  Michaela held Connor’s hand for a tad longer than normal. The gleam in her eyes was appreciative. “Might I say you’re one fine-looking man, Mr. O’Brien?”

  “Michaela!” Kate hissed, jabbing her best friend.

  “Oh, but he is. Every inch of him.”

  Connor smiled. “Thank you, that’s very kind of you to say so.” He looked at Kate. “Why have you come?”

  “Please, Dr. O’Brien . . . is Rust all right?”

  He glanced at her, and then at Michaela, as if to say ‘How much does she know about us?’

  Kate gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head.

  “What have you heard about Rust?” Connor said evenly.

  “Only that he’s checked himself in as a patient here.”

  “Who did you hear it from?”

  The last thing Kate wanted to do was to get the ultra-kind Hector into trouble. “Please, Dr. O’Brien, it doesn’t matter at this stage. Is Rust all right?”

  He favored her with a long stare. He said pointedly, “Didn’t Rust break up with you?”

  “If you love someone as much as I love Rust, Dr. O’Brien, the last thing you’d do is to walk away from him when he’s in trouble.” For the second time that day, Kate felt her eyes well up with tears. She must be recovering. “Please . . . I know he doesn’t want to see me, but I haven’t given up on him. I deeply care about what happens to him. I always will. The last thing I’d do is turn my back on him when he’s in trouble.”

  Something inside her had to be so broken that her heartfelt desperation came through on her face and her voice, because Connor paused to study her. His features softened.

  “I’ll take you to see him,” he said. “But only you, not your friend. I’m sure you’d understand.”

  Oh, yes. Kate did. With her stomach sinking, she wondered what had happened to Rust.

  “You go ahead, girl,” Michaela said quickly. “I’ll be fine out here.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’ll keep company with that cute male nurse over there.” Michaela winked and made a beeline for his direction.

  “You’ve got a great friend there,” Connor observed. “Great friends are a rarity. Make sure you keep them close. Now come with me. Perhaps you can be of help.”

  *

  Kate followed Connor down the corridors of Bellevue. They passed nurses and attendants and doctors and other staff, all who paid her no heed. From somewhere in the bowels of the hospital, she thought she could hear screams.

  “Where are the patients being kept?” she asked.

  “In their cells.”

  “Do they all have individual cells?”

  “Most of them.”

  “Is Rust being kept in a cell?”

  For answer, Connor’s features grew grave.

  “He is a patient for another reason,” he said, pushing past a door which said ‘PRIVATE’. “I think you know that reason.”

  Kate stepped into the hallway.

  Here, the corridor branched off into rooms, whose doors were all shut. This seemed more like a hospital wing than what she thought an asylum should be – with cells of listless, wandering patients who would look at you out of vacant, dead eyes.

  Connor led her to a door at the end. Kate’s chest was filled with dread. What would she see behind this?

  “Go ahead. Open it,” Connor said.

  Kate grasped the knob. She noticed the chain and padlock outside the door. With her pulse fluttering at her throat, she opened the door.

  When she saw what was behind it, her heart stopped.

  13

  Lance held up the analysis of the pubic hair and looked directly at Geraldine.

  “Is this his?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “Do we have enough evidence to get a warrant for his arrest?”

  “The evidence may be circumstantial,” Lance said.

  “Pubic hair planted at the scene of the crime of an animal attack,” she said. “It may be a signature.”

  “He’s not a serial killer.”

  “Not yet.”

  Lance caressed his jaw. He was conflicted about the case. It was strange. Beyond strange. A seemingly animal attack by a yet-to-be-found large feline. A pubic hair scattering in the wound of the deceased.

  “Has the claw analysis come back?”
he asked Geraldine.

  “Let me check.” She turned to her computer. “Yes, it has. The gouge marks are consistent with a large feline animal.”

  “What are the felines that size?”

  “Lion, tiger, cougar, jaguar, leopard, cheetah, puma. The animal is large. More probably lion or tiger.”

  Lance said, “We searched Aaron Mitchell’s estate. There’s no wild animal sanctuary. We combed the woods. No signs of any felines there.”

  “Someone could have brought the feline from somewhere else.”

  “There’s something we’re missing here. Something . . . unusual.” Lance could sense himself getting close . . . and yet not close enough to see the truth.”

  “There are no missing animals from the zoos or the circuses. I checked. Meanwhile, do we arrest Rust O’Brien?” Geraldine raised her head.

  “He has no alibi. His DNA was found on the scene of the crime. He had a motive. Sort of.” Lance grimaced because he was not really sure. “Let’s get a warrant.”

  14

  Kate walked into the room, which hosted a basic hospital bed. Rust was lying on it, and he looked dazed and confused. He was wearing a hospital gown and a sheet was draped over his body. His forearm still wore an IV line which was unattached to a drip.

  Moira O’Brien was at his bedside. His hand was clasped between hers. She looked up.

  “Kate,” she acknowledged.

  “What happened to him?” Kate said softly.

  Rust’s parents exchanged glances with each other. They were probably wondering how much to tell her.

  Moira said in a gentle tone, “Rust had an ECT, Kate. I’m sure you know what that is.”

  As a psychology student, Kate certainly did. She was stunned.

  “But he wasn’t depressed,” she said.

  Was he?

  “I’m sure he told you why he had to leave you,” Moira said. “Here in Bellevue, Connor has experimented on some forms of resistant bestial behavior in our kind. ECT works . . . sometimes. It reconfigures the brain’s cathecolamines and dampens the over-enthusiasm. Rust thought it best to undergo such a procedure to see if he may be saved.”

  “And is he?” Kate could not take her eyes off Rust. “Is he saved?”

  Rust’s eyes were cloudy, out of focus. His other hand – the one not clasped by his mother – was restlessly writhing.

  Moira turned back to her son.

  “We don’t know . . . yet,” she said. “He doesn’t know who I am.”

  Kate’s heartstrings twinged.

  Connor moved closer to his son. Concern mirrored his face.

  “Rust?” He laid a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Rust . . . do you know who I am?”

  Rust turned his head to stare up at his father. He did not say anything.

  “How long has he been like this?” Kate said.

  “Two days.”

  Two days!

  “Is this supposed to happen?” she said.

  “Most people recover within hours,” Moira said. “But we’re not most people. And Connor had to give him a higher voltage than what a normal human being can take.”

  Kate was terribly afraid.

  She said, “Is this supposed to happen to your kind after ECT?”

  “There haven’t been many ECT cases, Kate. Rust’s uncle and Connor’s brother died of a fit shortly after he had ECT for the same . . . problems,” Moira said. “But Rust’s great-grandfather, who had it in the sixties, survived till a very old age.”

  “It can go either way,” Connor said. “But Rust gave me his informed consent to try. He thought that he had nothing to lose.”

  Kate crept to Rust’s side. She stroked his forearm.

  “Rust?” she whispered.

  He turned to her, unseeing, and her heart sank.

  She said to Moira and Connor, “Would you mind if I . . . stayed around him . . . to try to make him better?”

  Rust’s parents exchanged glances.

  Moira said, “Of course, Kate.”

  *

  Kate clasped Michaela’s hands.

  “I have to stay,” she said. “I don’t know how long I need to be here for Rust, but I will stay for as long as it takes.”

  “You can’t stay here forever, girl. You’ve got classes to attend.”

  “I’ll take a leave of absence.”

  Michaela looked worried. “You won’t get enough credits. Not to pass anyway.”

  “It’s OK. I’ll repeat the year.”

  “Are you sure? He mightn’t even recognize you. He mightn’t even snap out of it, and you’d have given up college for nothing.”

  “But he needs me.”

  “He wouldn’t have done the same for you, girl.”

  “You don’t know that. He’s done plenty.” Kate thought about why Rust stayed away from her. For your own safety. And now he gave himself up to the ECT and an indeterminate outcome for everyone’s safety.

  The part of her mind which was still insecure whispered to her: Are you sure he just isn’t looking for a way out – away from you?

  Michaela looked at her helplessly, and then the two best friends enveloped each other in a hug that went on and on. Both of them had tears in their eyes when they finally parted. They both knew Kate wasn’t coming back to college, and Kate had the sense that it was permanent.

  “I’ll call you,” Kate said.

  “You do that,” Michaela said fiercely.

  15

  They moved Rust back to his old bedroom in the O’Brien mansion. Kate asked Moira’s permission to move in with him with her suitcase and all.

  Moira gazed at her. “You’re a good girl, Kate. I don’t know if my son deserves your love.”

  “Everyone deserves love, Mrs. O’Brien. Especially your son.”

  Moira smiled. “I do believe he loves you. Doesn’t mean he knows how to show it, though.”

  I’ll get through to him, Kate avowed.

  Rust did not speak much. He slept most of the time for those first two days. When he awoke, it was to stare listlessly at the wall. He had to be coerced to eat and drink. He could walk around the room, and when he did, he paced around restlessly, almost bumping into objects. He recognized no one and did not speak to anyone.

  When he slept, he had dreams which made him cry out.

  Kate was worried about him. She was afraid the ECT did something to his shifter brain – made him into a living zombie. She slept beside him in his bed while holding his hand and listening to his labored breathing in the dark.

  She had to do something! He was so alive, so much larger than life! He couldn’t stay this way for the rest of his life. She wouldn’t let him!

  Despite being not much more than a glorified zombie, Rust was still beautiful to look at. His face had taken on a pale, ethereal look, and he seemed almost angelic – like what a fallen angel would resemble. As he gazed out through the window, his mind churning with goodness-knows-what, the light reflecting on his almost perfect features, Kate felt her heart contract with desperate love.

  “Rust?” she said, cradling his face tenderly in her palms. “Rust . . . do you remember me?”

  His green eyes clouded over. He was breathing hard and his nostrils flared.

  “Do you remember this then?” She leaned over and kissed him on the lips.

  He did not respond, and so she was kissing his hard, unyielding mouth. Her heart clenched.

  She did it again and again. Over and over. It was like kissing a cold, beautiful statue. Like kissing Michelangelo’s David.

  Her hands explored his chest beneath his thin flannel shirt. She could feel his hard nipples underneath the cloth. Perhaps if his mind could not remember her, his body would. She kissed him again, brushing aside her distress when he did not kiss her back. Her hands reached for his buttons, and she undid his shirt, exposing his smooth chest.

  He still did not respond. So she peeled away his shirt and undid his trousers in a similar fashion. He wore nothing underneath. She should k
now. She dressed him. His cock was not hard . . . but it was not completely soft either. She grasped it. There was a certain turgidity of the flesh there, which was promising.

  She groped it and squeezed it and massaged it. Back, forth, back, forth. A desperately administered hand job in a heartbreaking situation. She caressed his tip, rubbing the crown in the way she knew he liked. His crown was always so sensitive. So susceptible to excitement.

  She bent her head and placed her mouth on his cock.

  She could hear him breathe sharply.

  Surprised but pleased, she raised her head to look at his expression. His eyes were still blank and uncomprehending. But his nostrils were flared and he was breathing harder. His body was starting to respond to her.

  She circled her mouth around his cock again. Her mouth welcomed the familiar comfort of his flesh, which was beginning to harden – and harden rapidly. She quickened her movements, sliding her mouth up and down his cock. She plied it with licks. Gentle licks. Harder licks. Extremely wet licks.

  She was getting excited herself. Her pussy contracted and her juices pushed out.

  She stopped fellating him to pull her blouse over her head. She slid down her shorts and took off her panties. She was not wearing any bra.

  “Rust?” she said. “Look at me. Touch me.”

  She thought she saw a glimmer of recognition in his eyes. Or maybe she only saw what she wanted to see.

  Undaunted, she took hold of his hands and placed them on her breasts. Her nipples were already hard. His hands folded and grasped her breasts.

  “That’s right,” she said. The elation surged within her. She was not sure if his response was a purely physical one. “Feel them. Remember them. You loved sucking them.”

  She was in the unusual position of being the sexual navigator now.

  His grip was rougher than usual, without his usual temperance. But she still hungered for his touch. His hands groped and kneaded her generous breasts, seeming to find solace in rubbing her nipples with his palms. He had soft, uncallused palms. The palms of a sophisticated man. A university professor. But his needs and his touch were focused, infused with a hunger that was primal and bestial.