by Dianna Hardy
Releasing The Wolf
(Eye Of The Storm)
by Dianna Hardy
A dark, adult paranormal fantasy
for the call of the wild in us all.
Set in the Surrey Hills, England.
Releasing The Wolf (Eye Of The Storm)
copyright © 2012, Dianna Hardy
Published by Satin Smoke Press, November, 2012
Satin Smoke Press is an imprint of Bitten Fruit Books
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
In this work of fiction, the characters, places and events are either the product of the author's imagination, or they are used entirely fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced by any means or in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author, except for brief quotations embodied in literary articles or reviews.
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Cover image © Lisa A / Shutterstock.com
Cover design by Dianna Hardy
Satin Smoke Press
Surrey, UK
http://www.satinsmoke.com
Blurb
Lydia Martin has always had dreams, the weirdest and hottest of them all involving a faceless, muscle-bound man that speaks like sin and smells like sex. Like any sane person, she always put the dreams down to an overactive imagination, coupled with a higher than average libido.
One night, however, instead of their usual, erotic encounters, she finds him in her dream, chained to a wall and screaming in pain. Not only that, but she thinks she recognises the building he's being held captive in as one that's just a few streets away.
Awaking with an irrepressible need to save her fantasy lover, Lydia decides to humour her dream self and head on over to where she thinks he's imprisoned.
What unfolds is beyond even her wildest imaginings, as she's sucked into a dangerous and deadly world she never knew existed … and it turns out that the man who inhabits her darkest fantasies, isn't the only one that needs releasing.
NOTES: This is an adult paranormal fantasy novella containing scenes of explicit sexual content and some violence, entwined with romantic elements. Written in British English.
Hope you got your things together.
Hope you are quite prepared to die.
Looks like we're in for nasty weather.
One eye is taken for an eye.
Bad Moon Rising
by Creedence Clearwater Revival
Releasing The Wolf
Chapter One
Her sheets were soaked, her thong was soaked, and really, this was no different to any other night since she’d hit puberty, but every night it still felt different – he felt different.
At first, he’d been nothing more than a ghostly shadow, invading her dreams occasionally. As the years went by, his visits became more frequent, and he became more and more solid in every way – his hands, his taut abdomen and highly defined muscles across his chest (actually, everywhere – he was built like Rambo), the scent of him … oh, the scent of him! Why she zoned in on that every time he appeared was beyond her. She could only guess that her subconscious was more kinky than she’d like to admit. You’d think she’d have gotten used to it over the years, but no – her mind still liked to throw her for a loop every now and again.
At first, when these dreams had begun, she’d been so horribly embarrassed. Did other teenagers have dreams like this? A quick look through some girly magazines assured her they did, but she wasn’t convinced, and the one time she’d tried to bring it up with one of the other girls at school, she’d been laughed at and teased. She’d quickly learnt never to mention it to anyone after that.
She wasn’t sure what happened as the years went by. Maybe she’d gotten used to them – to him. Maybe she’d grown, and reaching adulthood had changed her mental and emotional outlook on the dreams. Or maybe she’d just let go a little, and accepted there was nothing she could do about her own subconscious…
The nights were just plain fun after that, and, well, a damn fine relief, if she was being totally honest. Her late teens to early twenties were a ball. Her dream lover became more self-assured, more assertive, more … dirty. Hell, he had one sinful tongue – the things he said to her… But she couldn’t deny the talent that tongue had, even if it wasn’t real. Only, the past few months, it had all been much less fun, and … almost too real…
It hadn’t taken her long to realise that her dreams always peaked around the full moon. See? she’d thought. It’s to do with your cycle; your hormones. Lydia, she’d scolded herself – and her inner-voice often turned into that of her great aunt’s on her father’s side whenever she scolded herself – when are you going to get yourself a man? You’re twenty-five. You need to settle down, especially since you don’t have a real job either…”
That familiar sense of self-deprecation and … loneliness … slithered its way into her heart.
Ugh. She mentally gave herself a slap to shut the stupid voice up, and concentrated on what dream-man’s wonderfully rough, large hands were doing to her thighs.
“You’re very hot tonight,” he whispered; his voice as guttural as always.
She almost thanked him, until she realised he was talking about her body heat – literally. Yeah, she was hot. She was pretty sure she’d caught something off Brendan at the café because she’d been burning up a fever the past couple of nights. “I’ve got a cold. I haven’t been able to shake it.” Great. How sexy.
But it was okay, because dream lover was a figment of her imagination and, therefore, perfect in every possible way. He could deal with her coughs and colds, her stringy phlegm and how she hawked it up when her cough became ticklish.
He laughed out loud as he ran his thumb up and down the centre of her navel. “That’s what I love about you – you say it how it is.”
She smiled. Oh, yeah … her made-up boyfriend loved her just the way she was. He’d told her years ago. And fuck, no wonder she couldn’t settle down with any of her previous boyfriends – how could anyone else compare to her own creation?
“Shush – stop thinking about previous boyfriends. I don’t want to hear it. How many times do I have to tell you: I. Don’t. Share.” He marked each word with a determined kiss, each kiss a little lower down her abdomen.
“You don’t have to worry about that,” she replied, her own voice husky from what he was doing to her, that tongue just above her pubic bone now, his fingers tugging at her underwear, peeling them off… “You chase off every man that’s ever been interested, and you do it without even trying.”
His chest rumbled with pride at that – he was one possessive male.
She wondered if she should join some kind of kink club or something to get him out of her system.
“There’s no getting me out of your system, baby.”
He wrapped her thong tightly around her ankles, managing to put a knot in it somehow – weren’t dreams great like that? No fumbling, no clumsiness… With her ankles bound, he pushed her legs up, bending them at the knees so she splayed open for him.
Her breath hitched at the feel of his teeth nibbling her inner-thighs, far too near to her centre for comfort.
<
br /> “Christ, Lydia, you’re so fucking wet.”
She moaned—
… always wet for you, babe …
—then whimpered at the feel of his nose sliding along her opening, his broad shoulders and back arching upwards as he breathed her in… Sinful…
He let out a low groan that seemed to vibrate through her. “Your scent’s like a drug to me. You smell like this – just for me.” He gave her swollen clit a nudge, then pierced her with his tongue.
“Oh, god!” she cried, her body already convulsing, trying to reach climax, trying to reach what she could never quite find in her waking hours…
He tightened his hold on her thighs, pushed her into her mattress, pulled her open – exposed; always exposed to him; his hands, his tongue, his eyes – his eyes – he always saw her, knew her … she could never hide from him…
“No hiding,” he growled, and then he crawled his way between her open legs, looping her ankles behind his back, and it was a good thing she had long legs because that back had to be about fifty inches… Once again, she silently thanked the gods of dreams.
“You never let me in,” he rasped.
“I always let you in.”
“You deny me every time.”
“You ruin me for the sun … you’re breaking me, Ryan.”
He stilled above her. She almost never said his name. Because it made the dreams too real. Because it made the loneliness too tangible when she woke up.
When he next spoke, his voice was soft. “Look at me, Lydia.”
“No,” she whispered, her eyes squeezed shut.
His lips found hers in a gentle kiss. “Look at me, sweetheart.”
Slowly, she opened her lids. Warm, brown eyes met her own deep blue ones. They nestled in a face that bore hard years, a couple of scars lining it – one across his left eyebrow and forehead, another smaller one across his left jawline, by his earlobe. His brown hair was cut short, but it wasn’t so short that it didn’t curl just slightly at the edges around the frame of his face, softening that hardened edge to his features. His hair was greying slightly at his temples.
Her heart squeezed in her chest, because she knew she’d forget what he looked like as soon as she woke up.
He entered her hard and fast as his lips crushed hers in a bruising kiss, his tongue taking advantage of her surprised gasp, taking her mouth as fully as his cock took her cunt. His muscled body pummelled into hers, and the first tear rolled down her cheek … because this was perfect. Damn it, he fit her, he fit her, better than clothes, better than gloves or shoes or stockings or anything…
Never easing his pace, he rose above her. His own eyes streamed with tears, filling hers with fresh ones in response. In her dreams, they didn’t just share sex; they shared loneliness. She really was breaking…
Inside, her ache for him grew to epic proportions. When she clenched around him, it felt as if her soul gripped his.
A sob tumbled out of her…
He fucked her harder, refusing to let her go.
“Let me in, Lydia … let me in…”
~*~
She startled awake, the ache in her chest, which was always there, radiating from her like heat did from a burn. It was getting worse. Her heart pounded in her ears; her sex ached in a slightly different, but no less painful way.
“Oh, Christ,” she mumbled, still half asleep.
Then she realised the phone was ringing.
“Shit!”
She jumped out of bed, pulling half her sheets to the ground and lunged across her tiny studio apartment to the phone. Too late. The answering machine caught it half a second before she did.
“Crap it,” she mumbled, wiping the sleep from her eyes with one hand, while her other held the phone. Her face felt too hot. She should call in sick, but she needed the cash. Especially the tips – they paid for the bills alone.
The long beep sounded, and her father’s monotone voice filled the room. “Lydia. Just checking in. It’s Wednesday.” Pause. “Take care. ‘Bye.”
She sighed, rolled her eyes and dropped the phone back on the receiver. Why do you even bother, Dad?
“Every blinkin’ Wednesday,” she muttered under her breath as she rummaged through her underwear drawer for a fresh pair. “Because of something that happened ten years ago.”
Her mother’s almond-shaped eyes flitted through her mind, and the ache in her chest deepened a little … which only led her to remember her night of dream passion.
Suddenly annoyed, she hurled her newly picked yellow knickers across the room, a cry of frustration leaving her lips. This had all started around the same time, hadn’t it? Her dream lover had entered her life as her mother had left it. Freud would have a field day with this one: lack of parental comfort or whatever, translating into dream-sex with some hot dude she could never remember on waking. Some old hot dude. She sensed he was middle-aged – that had to be something to do with parental issues, not that she had anything against mature men, but why dream about an older guy when she could dream about Channing Tatum? Stupid subconscious. Although, she had to give her subconscious points for dreaming up a damn fine body for her made-up man – yum.
You can’t carry on like this, whispered her mind.
She cursed and stilled, pushing out all her chaotic thoughts and trying to focus solely on the breathing around her tightened chest. The dreams did this to her recently. She wondered if they’d end up giving her a heart attack. The loneliness – the void, as she called it – was getting too much. Maybe she was fucked because her mother had killed herself when she was fifteen, leaving her feeling confused and unwanted, under the care of a father who found it too hard to express his emotions.
Bravo, Lydia! Took you long enough to realise it.
Her eyes caught the open phone book that lay on her desk, a great big red circle around the number of a local therapist she’d found. She couldn’t really afford to see one, but if the ever-present ache she harboured would be healed by it, then maybe it was worth all her earnings. She didn’t want to spend the rest of her life feeling like some hard, cold object was embedding its way deeper into her heart, making the hole there bigger with every month that passed.
At lightning speed, she threw on her clothes, brushed her teeth, scribbled down the number of the therapist and stuffed it into her back pocket, and then headed out of her poxy bedsit to work.
Chapter Two
He tried to open his eyes, although the bruising around them didn’t make it easy.
Was it morning or night?
He’d dreamt again – of her. He knew that he’d dreamt, but it was always dark in here, and the minutes had become hours; the days … weeks?
He hadn’t a clue how long he’d been captive for.
Straining against large, silver chains entwined around the entire length of both arms, he winced, then grunted.
His ears pricked to listen for sound. Nothing shifted in the room.
Good, he was alone.
Although his arms felt like the skin had been peeled from them … slowly.
Fucking silver.
He swallowed, and his throat felt as dry as sandpaper.
They were going to leave him like this to die. His time was up anyway. He’d recently turned forty, and forty was the number of doom. None of his kind survived beyond forty when they were alone. Yeah, he had his pack—they’d be freaking out without him there, despite Lawrence’s cool steadfastness—but without a mate all wolves had a death sentence above their heads. He could feel it in his body – the way it was changing, disintegrating from the inside, very slowly, but very surely.
And The Trident were loving it, turning up every now and then to torture him anyway, despite his inevitable demise.
Well bring on your fucking worst.
He spat congealed saliva out of his mouth, pushing away the image of cool, clear lakes, and rain … hell, even the visual of muddy puddles had his stomach clenching with its need for water.
He shook hi
s head to eradicate his thoughts.
They wouldn’t break him.
They couldn’t have his pack.
Never.
~*~
Lydia wrinkled her nose as the smell of cigarette smoke greeted her from the back entrance of the café. How anyone got into the smoking habit was a mystery to her – those things stank, and not in a good way.
Brendan stood with his back to her as he took a drag on an almost expired butt, his blond hair always managing to look shiny and clean despite the hours he spent cooking greasy breakfasts.
Since moving to the market town of Guildford four months ago, she had managed to land herself three waitressing jobs: five nights of the week, she worked in a prestigious theatre restaurant serving stuffy upper class (or wannabe upper class) folk. She hated that job, but it paid her the best and the tips were out of this world when the shows were on.
Saturdays, she worked in a bar in town that got overcrowded with university students – that job was fun sometimes – and two mornings a week, she worked here in Barry’s, a biker’s café nestled at the edge of the woods that formed a very tiny part of the Surrey Hills. She liked it here the most, even though it paid the least. She had yet to meet an unfriendly biker around Surrey. Everyone always came here to chill out, meet friends, share their motorcycle passion, and enjoy a hearty – which was surely bad for your heart – fry-up.
“Hey, Brendan.”
The assistant manager, who was also the chef and co-owner of the family business, turned, smiled and extinguished his cigarette against the wall. “Lydia! I was starting to think you were ignoring me.”
“What, because we shared one night of passion a week ago? I can deal. Can you?” She was never one to beat around the bush with small talk. Always best to get straight to the point.