Alphas for the Holidays

by Mandy M. Roth

  Samael gave a howl of protest that was quickly turned to a yelp as Valefur tightened the whip.

  Selina’s heart hammered against her ribs at a frightful pace as Asmodeus pulled her near.

  “This won’t hurt,” he said softly.

  His lips were warm against hers, and at first nothing felt different. Then it began, a warming sensation that started in her throat. She could feel his power moving through her, coursing through her veins. It was like a strong shot of whiskey, intoxicating and sinuous, yet it burned.

  “It is finished,” Asmodeus said as he pulled back from her. “How do you feel?”

  Selina looked down at her hands. She glowed from the inside out, like Asmodeus had that first night when he emerged from the fire.

  “You’re beautiful,” Valefur said from behind her. “It was my honor to witness this, but I must be returning with the prisoner.”

  “What do I look like?” Selina asked, reaching up to check for horns.

  Valefur smiled and nodded toward Asmodeus. “The wings should only appear when you work a spell. Other than that, you’ll look the same.”

  “The initial glow will fade in a few hours,” Asmodeus explained. He turned his attention to Valefur. “Thank you.”

  The blond demon smiled again as he tore open a portal with a wave of his hand. Selina stared in awe of his power as Valefur forced Samael through the portal. In a flash they were gone.

  “That portal thing was pretty impressive,” she said.

  Asmodeus shrugged. “I taught him everything he knows.”

  Selina flexed her wings enough to get a look at them. They appeared to be made of smoke, but felt as solid as any other part of her.

  “Those should fade soon too. I could keep this form for a while if you like, so you won’t feel alone, or I could take my human form again.”

  She looked him up and down. “Leave the horns,” she said teasingly.

  “Kinky.”

  The playful tone was gone from his voice as he said, “You have freed me. There are no words to thank you for that.”

  Selina pulled him close, overcome with emotion. “Words are not what I had in mind.”

  The End

  About Tracey H. Kitts

  This multi-published New York Times and USA Today best selling author has been writing stories for her own entertainment since she was a child. Tracey has always been drawn to the macabre, with a fondness for anything with fangs. She writes what she enjoys reading in the hopes that others will enjoy her stories as well. Her main goal as a writer is to put emotions into words. She wants people to feel something when they read her work.

  www.traceyhkitts.com

  Wolf’s Consort by Celeste Anwar

  About Wolf’s Consort

  Pack Wars 1

  Paranormal Holiday Romance

  Chapter 1

  Louisiana snow—rain in this part of the country’s mild winter--pounded on the tin roof of Cyril Chauveau’s hundred-year-old home. Long leaf pines shuddered beneath the torrential onslaught, but Cyril paid little heed to the storm roiling outside. His attention fixated on the enemy of his coyote clan—Killian Sauvage, Alpha of the Red Wolves.

  Behind Cyril stood his brood of sons: Etienne the eldest; Grayson; and his youngest son Bastien. His daughter Alyssia was not present, as tradition bespoke the meeting to be held between the males of his pack—females held no sway amongst these matters.

  Killian Sauvage stood with his brother Antony and his cousins Alessandro and Baptiste Devaux. They were all of a similar height, build, and coloring—all with nearly jet black, wavy hair; eyes that glittered with hidden agendas; and dark, swarthy complexions from logging their lands and gaining a fortune. Lands that should have belonged to his family had not his grandfather lost most of his holdings in a backwoods game of chance that left them reeling for generations. Cyril had spent much of his life regaining his pack’s dominion over the south—chasing the sniveling Red Wolves back to regain control of this parish.

  “You mentioned bartering a peace agreement for Christmas, Killian,” Cyril began, touching his fingertips together in a steeple. “What makes you think we want peace with you?”

  A muscle ticked on Killian’s jaw, and Cyril smiled with satisfaction at the opportunity to provoke his enemy. So far they’d kept bloodshed to a minimum to avoid incurring suspicions of the police.

  “My clan grows weary of attacks on operations.”

  Cyril feigned shock. “And what has that got to do with my clan?”

  Killian ignored him. “We have a quota to fill before the holiday. I will agree to hold back retaliations if you can agree to the terms.”

  “And what would those be?” Cyril asked, narrowing his eyes. He sensed his sons’ growing tension behind him.

  “Give me your daughter through the holiday. I return her unharmed to you. You carry on with your machinations after the new year like old business.”

  Cyril barked a laugh. His sons joined in and stopped as Cyril’s mirth ceased. “Why on earth would you want her? She’s hardly your type. Dumpy and weak. Have you even seen her? This is a trick. What do you really want?”

  Killian smiled a feral, white toothed grin that flashed in his soulless black eyes. “Peace, Cyril. A brief reprieve, nothing more.”

  “You sure you aren’t looking for a consort? The way I hear it, everyone’s been asking when you’re going to make pups.”

  “When and if I take a consort will be no business of yours.”

  Cyril slowly tapped his fingertips together as if contemplating the proposal, but he was not. He rather enjoyed knowing his pack had made themselves a nuisance enough to the red wolves to garner talks of a peace treaty at all. And as much as he loathed his daughter’s sniveling disposition, she was still his only daughter, and he wasn’t about to turn her over to the red wolves and risk the girl breeding an unwanted pup. Not that he pictured Killian or any of the others having interest in Alyssia—she was too meek and fat to garner much attention. “I’ll have to take this into consideration. You’ll hear from me. Bastien will see y’all out.”

  “I need an answer now,” Killian said.

  “Then it is no. No, you cannot have my daughter. No, we will not agree to a temporary truce.”

  Killian returned Cyril’s smile that didn’t quite meet his mirror black eyes. “I thought that would be your answer. You prefer war. So be it.”

  Etienne waited until the brood retreated with Bastien to speak. “Do you think this some kind of trap?”

  “Of course it’s a trap.

  “He sounds like he came out just to be insulted,” Etienne said.

  Cyril snorted. “They don’t deserve respect. We’ll have to get to the bottom of what they really want. Send someone out to investigate this haul they’re trying to make. Maybe what he really means is that they need the money. If so, we could be in a position to regain our lands after all. I think this is merely a distraction to much bigger matters.”

  Etienne nodded. “I’ll see what I can dig up.”

  “Do,” Cyril said. “Do.”

  Alyssia Chauveau bit back the tears that choked her throat, wiping the moisture from her eyes angrily. She was sick and tired of being made to feel like a burden to her family. Her father just didn’t want to appear weak by agreeing to a Christmas treaty. He couldn’t control her. She was of age and had a mind of her own, even if he didn’t think so.

  She rushed out the back of the house, intending to head off the group of wolves before they could leave the property. Jerking her leather jacket on, she ripped open the back door. Frigid rain slashed down, instantly drenching her clothes and plastering her hair to her scalp and her shirt to her chest. She should’ve zipped the damn jacket up before leaving, but the fear that the wolves would get away before she could reach them had made her clumsy and forgetful.

  She dashed around the side of the house, heading through the brush and trees on one side of the road, shielded from discovery by the dark and rain. The co
ld rain pummeled her, making her shiver and gasp in the icy deluge. It might not snow down in these parts, but going out in the elements could still cut to the bone when the normal patterns were hot and humid.

  Her keen eyesight, gifted by the coyote shifter blood thrumming through her veins, allowed her to see the roots of trees and scrub before she could trip. Honey locust thorns snatched at her jeans, but she pushed on, hearing the sound of the approaching vehicle as it splashed through mud holes along the drive.

  Not too much longer now. She stood before the first curve in the road. She waved her arms frantically when the approaching headlights bounced into view and the vehicle pulled to a stop. She flailed her arms again, running forward to the driver’s window. The window rolled down.

  “What are you doin’ out here?” a man within yelled. The soft blue glow of the console limned his face, and his voice was thick with the native accent.

  “Let me go with you. I’m Cyril’s daughter. I want the peace even if he doesn’t!” she yelled over the increasingly loudening deluge.

  “Get in. Shot gun. Antony, move to the back,” he said over his shoulder to the front passenger.

  The locks clicked open and she rounded the front of the SUV, splashing through puddles as she stepped to the passenger door. She wrenched it open, watching as another man ducked through the space between the two front seats to jump into the back. She gasped as the rain swelled and the trees shook their needle-filled limbs like angry cheerleaders. Even the woods were against this course of action, but she didn’t care. She didn’t have time to dwell on mistakes as she made them. She’d wallow in misery and her father’s wrath later.

  She slid into the SUV and sluiced the water dripping into her eyes. A warm blast from the heaters cut through her wet clothes and hair, making her shiver. She shut the door and the driver took off—locks clicking on the doors ominously.

  Alyssia continued wiping the water dribbling down her face and eyes, trying to catch her breath from the run and her nerves clattering. She was so nervous she hadn’t taken a moment to look around at anyone, but the driver caught her attention. It was the man she’d spied talking to her father. Killian. She knew him by reputation alone. She’d never been allowed to see the red wolves, but she’d heard enough tales about their lineage to fill a book. Daddy was obsessed with them and he despised feeling inferior to their clan. The only solace he’d taken from warring with them was that the coyote pack’s numbers were larger while the red wolves had been hunted to near extinction by slayers.

  Her stomach flip-flopped, and her pulse quickened. Her eyes feasted on his profile. That jaw could cut glass. Rakish, jet black hair curled around his forehead and over his ears. Perfect lips. Straight nose. Thick eyebrows and bedroom eyes. Just looking at him made the breath catch in her chest. Why on earth would someone that devastating want anything to do with her? She’d heard the red wolves’ alpha enjoyed only the best females from the parish. She certainly didn’t fill that description. She didn’t hate herself, but she was realistic—she knew she wasn’t a prize and was average at best.

  She uncomfortably looked down at her wet t-shirt. Her hands shook—from the chill, not nerves—as she matched the zipper’s sides and finally zipped her jacket closed over her breasts.

  “You’re Cyril’s daughter?” he said. “What’s your name?”

  “A—Alyssia,” she said, stammering. Her teeth kept chattering uncontrollably. “He’d never let me come on his own. He’s more stubborn than a mule.”

  The man flashed her a grin that couldn’t be described as anything but wolfish. “Killian Sauvage. That’s my brother in the middle, Antony. The two others are Alessandro and Baptiste. You know you’ve just willing entered a wolf’s den?”

  “Technically a car…er truck.” Alyssia swallowed. “Yes, but you promised my father you wouldn’t…harm me.”

  “Aw, chère. We got no intentions of doin’ you any harm, ain’t that right boys?” Killian said, keeping his eyes on the road, but she could see him taking glances at her.

  Somehow, that didn’t make her feel any better. She was beginning to wonder if she’d made a mistake after all. But he said he’d wanted her. Even if it was for a treaty, she’d never been wanted for anything or anyone her entire life. The chance to do something, even if it was minor in the scheme of things—she’d had to act!

  “You scared the big bad wolf gonna eat you?”

  She blew her wet scraggly hair from her eyes. “No.”

  “Maybe you should. Ain’t none of us ever had a coyote chienne.”

  Prettying up bitch in French didn’t make it any less harsh to hear. Her mouth dropped open. She considered taking her chances and bailing out of the truck. But then she could hear her father’s mocking voice in her head—weak. Weak and dumpy. Fat. He might as well have added spineless and sniveling. She gritted her teeth with determination.

  Killian gave her a lingering glance. “Baptiste, get the hood. Now you put this on, chère. No sense endangering yourself by knowing where the red wolves’ den be.”

  “Hold up. You keep a hood in your car for just such an occasion?” she asked, appalled.

  “Oui, chère. We had high hopes,” Killian said with a hint of laughter in his voice that she didn’t quite trust.

  She barely had time to nod agreement before the man behind her had slipped a black cloth over her soaked head. Immediate claustrophobia took hold, and she panted under the cloying cloth as the vehicle rocked through the backwoods road. Left only with her sense of sound to guide her, she listened as the all-terrain wheels locked onto slick pavement and left behind the safety of her own clan. The intermittent wipers ticked off the seconds increasing into minutes.

  The sense of muddling up the affairs of the pack hit her tenfold. She wasn’t entirely sure these men could be trusted. Maybe her father had been right to put them off, but all she could think of were his hateful words ringing in her ears. She’d always been a disappointment to him, just for the fact that she’d been born female, and she didn’t have anyone in her own pack interested in breeding her. At least none to her knowledge.

  She clutched the arm rests, digging her nails into the fine leather, shivering from the cold, but feeling a growing sense of jeopardy with every passing minute.

  Alyssia dozed off at some point, lulled by the flowing hot air, blackout hood, and softly swaying vehicle. It wasn’t until the doors slammed shut and the hood jerked off her head that she woke up. She blinked in the dim interior lighting, hauled to her feet by rough hands. Killian’s hands on hers. Her stomach flip-flopped as she stood nose to chin with him. He was much larger than she’d thought at first. Out-distancing her in height by a good three inches. Maybe four.

  He smelled of his leather jacket and a spicy cologne of sage, patchouli, and a hint of oak. Her inner coyote panted and wanted more. She’d thought the bitch dead.

  “Welcome to your new abode, chère,” he said, quickly releasing her. “Follow me.”

  The rain dwindled to a soft misting. She bobbled her head, looking around for details of her location, but she was quickly ushered inside the massive lodge doors.

  Inside they were greeted by a woman of such stunning beauty, Alyssia cringed thinking about what a mess she must look in comparison. Long and lean with curves in all the right places, the woman’s bare smile disappeared beneath resting bitch face when she caught sight of Alyssia. She flicked her long, wavy black hair off her shoulders and popped a hip out, planting her hands there to emphasize her hourglass figure. “Where’d you drag this chienne up from, Killian?”

  Alyssia bristled but maintained a manner of ignorance and nonchalance. She’d learned way back in high school that it was better not to feed the enemy any hint of weakness. She’d had plenty of practice with that with her father.

  “Eh, you like? She’s Cyril’s daughter. Alyssia, this is my sister, Camila. Don’ pay no attention to her. She’s just jealous.”

  Camila scoffed. “Maybe if we were on level playin’
fields, brother. You do what you want. Remember your lines when you gettin’ down in the dirt.” Camila flicked her hair and walked through a doorway into another room.

  Alessandro and Baptiste had already disappeared somewhere else, presumably to their rooms, leaving her alone with Killian. “Come on. This way,” he said, taking the lead up the grand staircase that hugged one wall and curved up to the second floor.

  Someone had taken the time to decorate for the holidays. She suspected Camila. No one in her family had much push to celebrate Christmas but her. She’d enjoyed hanging fresh pine boughs in the house until her father had asked her how much of his money she was spending on frivolous things like decorations no one cared about.

  The staircase wrapped around, and in the center space reaching towards the two story coffered ceiling was a fifteen-foot spruce decorated with twinkling white lights and studded with red and gold bows and glass ornaments. She was envious of it and the lighted spruce boughs hanging along the handrails.

  “Camila did all this. It’s ‘bout the only soft side you’ll see of her. She loves the holidays. I think she just likes shopping.”

  Alyssia nodded, though he wasn’t looking at her. Maybe she could make friends with the woman. Maybe she was only a bitch on the surface to fend off the others—a survival tactic amongst so many men. Or maybe the bitch ran all the way through.

  The Christmas tree lights lit up the entire area, glowing well past into the hallway beyond on the second floor. Killian shouldered open a door immediately to the left and held it open, gesturing her inside. She scurried past, taking care not to brush against him as she passed through the opening. A king-sized bed loomed large in the center of the room—a modern and sleek head board; stuffed with pillows; and a black and silver brocade bed coverings. She began to wonder if Camila was responsible for all the décor in the lodge, because it all held a distinctly feminine interpretation of what a man should want in the bedroom. Framed by a large window as wide as the bed with a curved sash above, rain sleeted against the panes, sending a soft cacophony to fill the otherwise quiet room.