Her Lycan Lover

by Susan Arden

  Quinn awoke, his heart thudding beneath his ribcage. The bizarre images faded, but not quick enough to convince him he’d been asleep. Razor-edged and cutting him deep. He scrubbed his hand down his face, wiping away a sheen of sweat. He must have dozed off. Cold droplets smeared across the skin of his cheeks, sandpaper scruff under his fingers.

  He paced himself in transitioning between waking and dreaming. A shrink would check off night terrors and meds. Had he gone that route he would have been addicted to sleeping pills for a lack of sleep. Self-imposed insomnia to avoid his nighttime travels. Dreams or not, he journeyed into other worlds while he slept. Regardless of where he’d visited at night, in the daylight, his memory of the dream dissolved after waking. Right now, he fully recalled the dream and his past dreams with equal clarity. Night after night. For an eternity. As a Lycan protector he was relegated to immortality until he found his mate and kept her from harm. In his dream, he searched for his elusive mate. It was a search that kept him in a constant vigil should he actually meet her one day.

  The dream, or whatever it was, usually receded from his consciousness, leaving a black void with shreds to his memory. Fleeting images. So the same bittersweet dream came to him every night, pulling him back as the moon made its way across the sky, and then during the day, it faded into the farthest reach of his memory. Yet this morning, the dream was vividly entrenched in his consciousness.

  He glanced down at his hands. No blood stained his skin. Again, he’d lost her. For seconds, he fought to let go the memory of silky strands of hair. So dark they appeared blue black against his lover’s porcelain skin. Lips that chided him, sucking his tongue, stealing his breath under a blood red moon.

  The breeze sliced through the forest, wafting her scent of amber and patchouli.

  “Quinnlan,” she’d called out to him. His nighttime fantasy. She wasn’t a succubus as he had once believed. In his dream as he thrust into her, she wrapped him in her warm, inviting arms. He dove into her lush body each night. How could that be part of a nightmare where she ended up calling to him to save her? Then he recalled the scent that changed from heavenly to that of iron. Cloying. Blood.

  Her fragrance had wafted in and around the mountainside he’d covered half-crazed in search of her. Quinn inhaled as though he might absorb it one last time. Last night there had been baying wolves, shifters from other clans, and he’d stopped dead in his tracks. A bone chilling jolt had shot through his body. That had been new. He sat up in bed.

  “Shit,” he said sharply. Novelty in his dreams was not common. It was a sign of changes to come. He wrestled with the events before his memory decided to swallow up the surreal images.

  Last night, he’d fallen back on his hunches in the shadows. There was a wolf near him. Another difference in his dream. His hackles bristled recalling the warning sounded by the wolf pack sentinels. Not his pack. He traveled alone. Yips and barks could be heard off in the distance and then a collective pack howl became a unified, muffled cry. The hairs all over his body spiked at the memory. He exhaled rapidly, burning the oxygen from his lungs. This was getting downright absurd. The warning had been for him. Not his mate.

  He closed his eyes, unable to make sense of what this meant. Her voice followed him into sleep each night. Night after night, disturbing him, pleading and struggling, and then silence. Darkness. Cold. And he crashed into the morning.

  Today, his body felt stiff and he pulled back the sheet. Dried blood was on his upper thigh. An ugly scrap ran a couple inches down the side of his leg. He must have gotten literally falling down drunk last night. No, he remembered pushing a blonde off him and nearly getting stabbed. Fuck. That was insane.

  Grogginess didn’t normally lift until his third cup of coffee and shit, today he’d promised Shawn that the pleadings drafted for the conveyance of the Den would be ready to file. Shawn, a proud soon-to-be father of twins, wanted to step down from running the Den. Of course he’d needed more time for his family. The Den required a huge chunk of time to manage. A stud club for shifters was quickly becoming Quinn’s own personal hangout. His partner had been married for less than a year and already his best friend was turning into a man with strollers and car seats, and diapers to change. It seemed most of his close buddies were settling down. Mating and making a life that did not include group sex, alcohol, and avoiding sleep.

  Jesus Christ. His life was on a downward spiral. Forget finding a mate—not with what he encountered each night. The dreams had gotten worse. Much worse, leaving him with few options except to drink and fuck them into submission so that he could fall asleep and stay asleep for a couple of hours without walking around like a zombie the next morning.

  He’d put aside what most people his age were into. Family, tradition, finding their place in a pack. At least, his family had learned to accept his decision and were probably better off not being privy to how their youngest son spent a portion of his trust and his time during the evening. Sex clubs, parties, and any little hot number that happened to breach the city border, particularly within the LoDo section of town was fair game in his book. Throughout it all he’d had the dreams. Hazy at first and now more and more prominent in details and the lingering effects.

  He inhaled, shaking loose from the weight of the dream, and glanced around the room. The sight kicked up his headache. He needed a shower and a gallon of coffee.

  He bounded from the bed just in time to hear an ear piercing, “What the heck?” coming from the hall. In about five seconds, Sherry would be blazing a path into this disaster.

  He exhaled a silent holy shit, peering around the private room where he’d crashed last night. Lingerie was draped over the door knob. The scent of sex and shifters soured his stomach. Simon and Jeremy’s naked bodies sandwiched a brunette. Quite well from what he remembered. Thank god it was someone else’s party for a change, but hell, it was a sea of naked arse cheeks… both male and female. Empty bottles, cups, and shot glasses littered the floor. The fan moved in a lazy circle, stirring the hair of some of the women.

  Standing by the bed, naked and sporting a hard-on fell outside any rational plan of how to greet Sherry as the Den’s manager. With zero chance of finding his trousers anytime soon, he casually reached down and lifted a pillow and placed it in front of himself at the same time she opened the door. Standing arms akimbo on the threshold, she shook her head. All the while her eyes moved about the contents of the room.

  “I did not get the weather report that a tornado had torn a path through Denver and stopped in this room. Really, Quinn.”

  “I was just getting dressed. Give me a sec, love,” he said.

  “Too late. The damage has been done.” She marched nonplussed, right up to him, color high on her incredible cheekbones, stared him straight in the eye and whispered, “A moment of your incredibly valuable time.”

  She turned and walked out the doorway. Quinn watched her exit, then rolled his eyes. Shite. He was about to have his arse handed to him. He followed to the doorway.

  Sherry held up her hand. “That’s good enough.” She spoke evenly between perfect white teeth. “Have you lost your bloody mind, Quinn? Since when is hitting on a client and then asking her to leave commonplace? I have a complaint on my desk and a threat to go to the press, and you being the owner only makes this all the juicier. Not acceptable. Ten minutes and I want to discuss our damage control plan. In my office. Owner or not, you hired me to do a job. Something’s got to give.”

  “Sherry, doll. Anywhere you’d like me, I’m more than amendable. All I’ve ever asked was a time and place,” he murmured, inhaling her strange fragrance.

  “Don’t.” She raised one finger. Index.

  He deserved another—one over.

  “I’m simply being agreeable.” Chuckling, he struggled to put aside the unsettling sensation. Was it embarrassment? The feeling so novel, he couldn’t place it. Preferring to laugh out loud as a cover, he refocused on lovely Sherry’s face. Her smoot
h skin turned a deeper shade of haughty rose that stole the breath from his body.

  “Last thing. Mr. Rothschild, since when did the Den become a hotel?”

  “Party ran over,” he muttered. She bent down and picked up a champagne flute from the carpet. When the hell had she grown so intoxicatingly beautiful? For the first time in his life, he regretted being naked in full regalia in front of a woman. Sherry provoked him to… he couldn’t put his finger on the word. Protect came to mind. Impossible. He must still be drunk. Sherry kicked-ass—everyone’s at the Den—and needed a protector like a hole in her incredibly lovely head. She set the glass on a table, arched a brow in his direction. “You’re early,” he said defensively.

  “That’s hardly a plausible reason why we’ve a roomful of sleeping clients.”

  Apparently he’d fallen asleep for a couple of hours and it had to be no later than seven. “What the devil are you doing here anyway?” He should have already texted one of the room attendants to come and help clean up this mess and wake the others.

  “I heard an earful about your evening,” Sherry snapped, hands bracketing her tiny waist.

  “Helluva night,” he said, peeling his attention from her shapely legs. He glanced over his shoulder, catching the scene on display within the mirror hanging on the wall of the room. A couple of ball players from Denver’s team were fully unclothed and in plain sight. He pulled the door closed behind him. “You should leave. We can talk downstairs.”

  “Don’t try. We both know precisely the state of that room and Jesus. Quinn, you’re wearing a freaking pillow. Meet me downstairs. Bring clothing. I mean come clothed.” She spun around and sauntered down the hall. The sway of her curved hips hypnotized him until the slam of the stairwell door hit center in his brain where a hangover was currently housed.

  She was killer with her skintight suits that framed her perfect arse and her refusal to smile. He doubted she’d give him the time of day had they not been required to pitch in and assist in the running of the Den in Shawn’s absence. What would happen when Shawn’s absence became permanent? He needed Sherry to manage this place so he could do his day job. Stepping on her toes, never a good idea in his world. She sure as shite didn’t need his help. Sherry could run the place with her eyes closed minus any need of oversight.

  He shook his head as he went back inside the room, tossed aside the pillow, and searched for his trousers. Piles of clothing were strewn around the room, a mixture of men’s and women’s belongings. Same vista, different day.

  A moment of rambling and he was dressed in smoke laden clothes. Nice and easy minus socks. Almost out the door, except a shiny patch of metal snared his attention. He bent down for a closer look. A lighter. He picked it up. On closer inspection the thing was fashioned out of 14 karat gold. He studied the rose insignia. Probably some sorority and it belonged to one of the woman. He laid it on the nightstand.

  Exiting the room, he focused his thoughts on his day ahead now that sunlight had breached the horizon. Sunrise was his favorite time, when the remnants of the night generally faded. But today, the memory of his dream had plagued him upstairs. After seeing Sherry this morning, his dream lingered longer as though some door had been left unlocked.

  He ran his hand over his face. Definitely, the coating of grim he had going on required a shower. Quinn scratched the stubble covering his jaw. And a shave might be in order considering he had court not to mention Sherry. Damn, it was getting late. He pulled out his phone and texted the cleaning crews to get someone up straightaway to sort out the remnants from the party. Heading down the backstairs to his office. Once his phone was in hand, it would take an act of surgery to disengage but heck, this was the life he’d carved out for himself. His own law firm and several lucrative businesses kept him on his toes.

  No reception in the stairwell. He pushed open the door on the first floor. Four bars on his screen and he pressed the icon for Eleanor, his secretary. Somewhere, maybe inside the restaurant, he heard Sherry conversing with the staff. Cautiously, he walked down the hall, reading a text from his secretary. He needed to speak with Eleanor, but held off dialing. No need to draw attention to himself and provoke her highness into another display of her self-righteous talons.

  As he turned to go into his office, he glanced down the hall. Sherry was standing with her back to him, talking with the chef. Daylight spilled in from the front room windows just beyond her. Curvaceous, petite and a fireball—she was the goddess of distraction in his book. The silhouette of her body cut a perfect hourglass figure through the lighting coming down the hall. His brain stuttered.

  Sherry was all woman.

  And a damn mystery.

  Might be one of the few people he actually knew who kept things on the down low. Sherry was virtually stealth on her desires, except for the clues from her body language he mooched. She was all business. Every lovely inch and he’d regarded her from afar too many times to mention. Easy for her to keep to her ivory tower frost. He finished dialing once safely within his office.

  Eleanor would be driving, on her way to the law firm. She’d worked for him so long, she had keys to each of his residences and authorization on his bank accounts, and she played interference with his family on a routine basis.

  She answered. “I was just about to ring you.”

  “Please tell me I’m not on at 10 a.m. in front of O’Connor.”

  “You’re not,” she exhaled. “It was moved up to nine.”

  “By whose damn authority?” he asked, tempering his roar.

  “By the judge. Where are you?”

  “Not far. My office in LoDo. I’ll need you to have the file delivered. No time to swing by the office.”

  “Since you called and you’re up, I think that can be arranged. Or have you yet to retire for the evening?” Her chiding laughter made him button his lip. “Your parents are in town this weekend. You have a dinner reservation at the club.”

  “You’re in rare form. Why on Earth are they coming to the Den?”

  “Stow it, Hercules. I’ve yet to lose my marbles. I reserved a table at Ledges. Your father wants to get in a round of golf.”

  “Christ El, you nearly scared ten years from my life.” He tugged off his shirt and scanned the daily news on his computer screen. “I’ll need a couple of my clubs repaired. The iron is busted and one of the woods cracked. Any more surprises this morning?”

  Sooner or later, his parents were bound to make a showing. They’d queried him on several occasions about the businesses he owned in LoDo beyond his running the family law firm.

  His whole family was on a need to know basis and what he provided was sketchy at best, especially about the Den. He’d filled them in on the various restaurants and galleries to keep the conversation away from the shifter club. Still, somehow they seemed to know he had a finger in the Den and didn’t let it rest, not when their sterling reputation was at stake. They’d taken to calling his ventures ‘mad hobbies’ as if he were a teenager and LoDo a passing phase. Only the law firm was considered serious. And only because his father and uncle were partners. Quinn fully expected to hear something about growing pains during their visit. So not humorous considering the time he’d spent roaming the Earth.

  “It was good to hear you get ready to howl.” El snickered. “I’m in the firm garage. I’ll send the file to the Judge’s chambers. Then you’re clear until noon. Meeting with the board. Probably in preparation of your father’s visit,” she mused out loud.

  “I suppose. Nothing we can do. He’ll go ballistic. Same as last year. Same as next year.”

  “Buck up. The firm is in good standing. Three jury verdicts this year alone. You recouped with some new companies. You’re not responsible for a worldwide nose dive in the economy, Junior.”

  “Did anyone tell you you’re priceless, El?”

  “I hear better with vacation time. Say next Thursday?”

  “Fine. Take one of mine. You deserve it. M
eanwhile, I need for you to pull some property records. The old Carrigan warehouse. See what activity is going on? What properties are changing hands, if any? That sort of thing.”

  “Will do. Anything specific you want? Comparable properties? You’re not thinking of buying another building over there?”

  “Enough to say I had an offer and now… I’m curious.”

  “Okeydoke. I’ll get your file over and work on the warehouse. Remember, O’Connor’s son plays for Denver. Punter. I’ll have your clubs taken for maintenance. You cracked one the last time they were serviced. Titanium. Think you can watch it?”

  “That depends on the conversation this weekend.” He laughed, remembering the last time he’d swung his wood and it had fractured. That happened often. If he didn’t pay attention, he’d habitually break objects with his Lycan strength. “Good bit of info. Thanks.”

  He gingerly tossed the phone onto his desk and kicked off his shoes on the way to his private bathroom. Once inside he removed his trousers. Shit, he needed to text El about his dry cleaning. The door to his office opened and he stopped midstride across the carpet.

  “Silk boxers? Better than a pillow.” Sherry stood on the threshold. “Jesus, do you own clothing befitting your profession?”

  “Do you know how to knock is the better question? Cause from where I’m standing, you’re the one that keeps barging in today.” He backtracked toward the bathroom, cursing himself for another biting comment, but his snappy remark had prevented Sherry from noticing his leg. He hopped on one foot while yanking on his trousers and stuck his head outside the doorway as he zipped. “Is this about the restaurant?”

  “Among other things. I thought I heard you talking in here.” Sherry’s cheeks colored.

  “I was speaking with Eleanor. I’m running late.”

  “I’m waiting for you, too. You’re not the only one with a life in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “Ten minutes isn’t up.” Returning to his office barefoot and bare chested, he tunneled his fingers through his hair. “I’m jumping in the shower and I’ll be straight along.”