The Lion’s Surrogate: A Paranormal Romance (Shifter Surrogate Agency Book 4)

by Layla Silver

  Skimming the next couple of pages, I felt my interest pique. The client, the file said her name was Gemma, was a Lion shifter. As a rule, Lion shifters were a rare breed. I’d never met more than a handful outside my own family. The prospect of meeting one now was exciting, particularly if her interest in surrogacy suggested she might share my ambition to help other shifters unable to bear cubs themselves.

  The foil of the chips package crinkled, and I realized I’d eaten them all. Tossing the bag in the trash, I made a quick run to the restroom. If my appointments ran long, I might not get another chance for hours.

  Returning to my office, I set about making sure everything was in place. Verifying that I had all the right forms handy, I set them out in a neat pile. I double-checked the medical supplies rack, ensuring I’d have what I needed for the preliminary blood test. Satisfied, I twisted the cap off my bottle of water. I’d just lifted it to my mouth for a swig when there was a knock at my open door. I turned and caught sight of Elton, who gave me a smile and a little wave.

  “Hey, Dr. Hawthorne.” He winked at me, obviously pleased to get to use my formal title. “Your appointment is here.”

  He stepped aside, and I instinctively sucked in a breath. My nose and throat burned as I inhaled half the water I’d been in the process of swallowing. It took everything I had not to choke. My appointment was the woman from the lobby.

  “This is Gemma Stone,” Elton continued. He turned back to her, both of them blessedly missing my fierce struggle to breathe. “She’s here for an initial consultation. You got her file, right?”

  “Yes.” Miraculously, I got the word out without wheezing, arranging my face at the last possible second into what I hoped was an expression of competence and welcome. “Please, come in.”

  Elton disappeared, and Gemma stepped in. She gripped a small clutch purse in her hands so tightly her knuckles were white, and her delicate shoulders hunched just a little, the muscles taut with tension. Everything about her screamed anxiety, and the primal part of my brain lit up with a ferocious need to protect her.

  Fortunately, my clinical brain seemed to be in the driver’s seat, because instead of acting on the shockingly sharp impulse to pull her against my chest and wrap myself around her protectively, I heard myself say, “Please have a seat, Ms. Stone. Can I get you anything? A glass of water? Some tea? Coffee?”

  It was straight out of the ‘making clients comfortable’ section of the employee onboarding packet. Scrambled as my brain was, I couldn’t decide if I wanted to cringe at hearing myself repeat it nearly verbatim, or if I was immensely pleased to be doing everything in spite of myself. When she perked up, her obvious pleasure settled the question decisively.

  “Coffee would be wonderful, thank you,” she said, perching on the edge of one of the chairs.

  “Absolutely.” I moved to the small drinks station set up in the corner. They were a standard feature in agency offices, intended both to help relax clients and ensure our pregnant patients stayed properly hydrated.

  The Lion in me could smell her fear, and awareness of it thrummed under my skin. The feline desire to touch her, to rub my cheek against her hair in comfort, was staggering and wholly unexpected. I’d spent years working with patients of every kind and never felt this way.

  I popped a pod into the machine, stuck a cup underneath it, and jabbed the button. “Cream or sugar?” I asked, my clinical brain still blessedly running the show.

  “No, thank you.”

  God, she had a sweet voice. For a fleeting second, I imagined her saying my name, her voice breathy and low. Thought of how she’d sound moaning beneath me in the throes of pleasure. Shit.

  The brewer spluttered as it finished, and I breathed deeply, inhaling the strong aroma of the coffee and trying to ground myself in it. I absolutely could not be thinking about sex with a client while she was in my office.

  I brewed a second cup for myself, even though I had no intention of drinking it. It bought me a few extra seconds to get my head on straight before I turned around and carried both mugs back toward my desk.

  Gemma—Ms. Stone, I corrected myself mentally—accepted her cup with a smile and a soft word of thanks that sent my freshly-wrought focus straight out the window. Up close, I could see flecks of gold in her eyes and the faint shadows underneath them. The urge to protect her rose again, and I swallowed it down with effort. Pinning a professional smile firmly in place, I retreated around my desk as if its bulk could somehow protect me from this sudden onset of lunacy.

  Checklist, I coached myself, grasping for sanity. Just work the checklist.

  “We usually start the process with a full medical history,” I said, amazed at how calm and reasonable the words sounded. “If you don’t know something, it’s okay. Don’t guess or leave it blank; just fill in that you don’t know.”

  Ms. Stone nodded. Taking a careful sip of her coffee, she sighed in pleasure. My body responded in ways that made me abruptly very glad that I was sitting behind my desk.

  “I’m going to give you the hard copies to fill out,” I explained, some part of me still inexplicably plowing ahead on auto-pilot. I slid the first set of papers and a pen over to her. “Go ahead and give me each page as you finish, and I’ll get it in our digital system. We like to keep both digital and hard copies for consistency and quality control. If you have any questions about the forms, please ask.”

  She nodded again, setting her coffee down to accept the stack and the pen. Her hair fell across her face as she leaned over the forms, and I itched to touch it. To find out if it was as soft as it looked.

  Irritated with myself, I punched the keys harder than strictly necessary while logging into the agency’s electronic health records system. I had no trouble pulling up the preliminary file Victoria had created for Ms. Stone. I updated the appointment information to reflect that I’d taken over for Dr. Niels and verified that everything in the paper file I had been given matched the digital one.

  When Gemma—god, I had to stop thinking of her by her first name—handed me the first completed form, I was grateful. Entering her information in the system would be a good distraction, right?

  Wrong. So wrong. Every bit of information I offered just became fuel for whatever insane shard of my brain had fixated on her.

  She’s perfect for you, it kept prodding. She was younger than me, but not too young. Healthy, if a little underweight. No family history of Alzheimer's, cancer, addiction, mental illness, or any of the other potential problems the agency screened for. Unmarried. No romantic partner. Well-educated. Beautiful.

  My attention drifted, my mind’s eye filling with the image of Gemma pregnant with my baby, her slender body rounded and glowing. I imagined myself touching her, burying my hand in her long hair, and kissing her until she drew me down into bed with her, my hands closing around her hips …

  Gemma handed me another sheet, and I nearly rocked back as reality roared back in, hitting me like a freight train. I had never in my life thought of a patient that way. Ever. What the hell was going on today?

  Truly rattled now, I shut off everything but my clinical mind. It carried me through the rest of the appointment on auto-pilot, checking things off the list mechanically. My detachment faltered just once, when I had to draw blood for testing. Gemma’s skin was flower-petal soft under my fingers, and up close, I could smell the faint scent of jasmine that clung to her. For a split-second, I wanted very badly to nuzzle at her throat, to find out what she tasted like under that scent. Biting the inside of my cheek until I feared it would bleed, I regained my composure long enough to finish the job and retreat again.

  “I’ll send these samples upstairs for testing,” I heard myself say, my voice shockingly composed given how I felt. “If everything comes back clear, Victoria will call and set you up with another appointment for first thing next week, all right?”

  “Thank you.”

  Ironically, given what a mess I was, Gemma seemed more confident now than she had w
hen she’d arrived. Not trusting myself, I remained firmly in my chair as she rose, collected her purse, and walked out of my office.

  As she vanished down the hall, I unexpectedly thought of my brothers sitting at Clay’s birthday barbecue joking about stumbling over their mates. I remembered all of them over the years confessing to being absolutely whacked over the head by it when they’d first laid eyes on the women they would marry. The inability to think, to breathe. The wild desire to protect, to bed, to keep.

  Was … was this what they meant? Had I just found my mate in the one place I couldn’t possibly pursue her? With a long, low groan, I dropped my head into my hands.

  This could not be happening.

  Chapter 6 – Gemma

  Trudging into the apartment building, I fished my keys from my pocket. Weariness sat heavy in my bones, and my feet ached; I’d been on them since before five o’clock that morning. I had pulled a double shift at the cafe and was immensely grateful that I wouldn’t need to work at the bar that night. Friday nights were the busiest and most lucrative, but the coveted shifts were reserved for the owner’s favorite staff. For all that I could have used the money, I couldn’t bring myself to be sorry I’d be spared the drunken crowds.

  Approaching the block of shiny brass mailboxes lining the left wall, I stuck my squat key in the front of my box, twisted it, and pulled the door open. The sight of three envelopes inside kindled a flicker of hope. I mentally crossed my fingers as I pulled the mail out, shut the door, and removed the key. Stuffing the key in my pocket, I flipped through the envelopes as I headed for the stairs.

  The top one was clearly junk; I tossed it straight in the lobby recycling bin as I passed it. The second was labeled Social Security Administration. I laughed a little to myself as I pushed through the industrial door into the stairwell. I was probably the only person in the city who would happy about getting SSA mail. But it should be the replacement card I’d ordered my first week out of the commune to take the place of the original still locked inside the commune safe. One more tiny step toward building my new life outside the commune.

  It was the third envelope that made my heart beat faster. The return address was discrete, with only initials listed, but I knew it was from the agency. Victoria had called Tuesday morning to tell me that I aced all the initial exam and interview portions with flying colors. I was approved to be a surrogate. She’d promised to get the next round of paperwork in the mail before the end of the day … and here it was.

  Starting up the stairs, I felt a twinge of guilt. I hadn’t said anything about the commune anywhere in my application or interview. I’d justified the exclusion to myself on the grounds that I wasn’t there anymore and that nothing about where or how I’d grown up made me unfit to carry a baby.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t trust the agency—I did. They were incredibly professional, and part of me was sure that they would understand. It was just … well, the Elders had a long reach. How long exactly, I had no way to know. What I did know was that keeping my old life and my new one entirely separate was vital. I couldn’t take unnecessary risks, not even small ones, until I’d gotten my family out safely.

  The less anyone knew about my past, the better.

  I puffed a little as I turned the corner to mount the next set of stairs. The building had an elevator, of course, but if I was going to do this—to have a baby—I needed to be in the best physical shape possible. Thinking of the agency and surrogacy inevitably pulled my thoughts back to Dr. Hawthorne.

  I blushed a little, thinking of how stilted and inarticulate I’d been. Discovering that the impossibly striking man in the lobby was my new doctor had left me dumbfounded and reeling, and I’d been sure I had both gaped and fumbled like an idiot the entire appointment.

  Everything about him was distracting.

  Every time he looked at me with those storm-colored eyes, I felt like he was seeing right through my clothes—right through my skin, straight through to my foolishly fluttering heart. When he spoke, I felt the rumble of his voice down to my bones. I vibrated with it, my blood running so hot I was half amazed steam didn’t roll off of me.

  Then there were his hands. Warmth crept over my skin anew as I remembered his fingers on my arm when he took the blood samples. They’d been deft and strong, the hands of a man who knew exactly what he was doing. I’d dreamed of those hands on me almost every night this week. The dreams were sinfully hot, and each time I woke up panting. Longing.

  Stop, I scolded myself sternly. He had to be taken. Had to be. Admittedly, I hadn’t noticed a ring—I couldn’t help but look—but that didn’t mean anything. He’d smelled like a shifter, and lots of shifters didn’t believe in marriage. Even if he hadn’t found his mate, there was no way that a jaw-droppingly handsome man like him didn’t have someone.

  Stop! I thought again, exasperated with myself. It doesn’t matter whether he’s married or mated or anything else! He’s your doctor.

  I sighed. He was my doctor, which meant that he was absolutely off the table, even if he would have condescended to notice me. But who in their right mind with his looks and doubtless wealth would bother with a girl as plain as me? With the way I was barely scraping by and the whole commune mess in the background, men like Dr. Hawthorne wouldn’t touch me with a ten-and-a-half-foot pole. I couldn’t blame them.

  It wasn’t like I had time for a relationship, anyway.

  Finally pushing open the door to my floor, I glanced down at the mail in my hand and set my jaw. Once I got the papers signed, I’d officially be on the agency’s payroll. The income would be enough to let me quit my job at the bar. I’d keep the cafe job, at least for a little while. With enough money to breathe easily and enough time to do more than work and sleep, I could finally dive into the question of figuring out how to free my family.

  “Gemma!

  The sound of my name startled me out of my brooding thoughts. “Hey, Viv.”

  “I haven’t seen you in days!” Vivienne made a beeline for me, a roll of masking tape around her wrist and a fistful of notices in one hand. “Is everything all right?” She stopped in front of me, her eyes skimming over me with touching concern.

  “Of course, it is,” I reassured her quickly. I couldn’t help but smile at the mother-hen way in which she fussed. “I’ve just been busy. I picked up some extra shifts at the cafe, so I’ve been keeping weird hours. But no more! I got a better job—I found it through one of the files you left me.”

  I very purposely did not specify which job it was and prayed she wouldn’t ask. It wasn’t that I didn’t think she’d understand, I just needed a little more time to bring myself around to the reality of what I was doing before I opened up about it to anyone else.

  Viv’s face lit up. “Oh, that’s great! We should go out and celebrate.”

  I blinked, taken aback, and tried to backpedal immediately. “Oh, I don’t think …”

  “New jobs are absolutely worth celebrating,” Viv interrupted firmly, reaching out to clasp my hand. “It’ll be my treat. I know the perfect place. We can go tonight!”

  “That’s very generous,” I stammered, feeling my cheeks go pink. “But you really don’t have to—”

  “I want to,” Viv insisted, waving away my protests. “I haven’t been out in ages, and it will be fun!” She looked at me quizzically. “We can go to your favorite place instead if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “Oh, no, I don’t … have a favorite,” I said, awkwardly. “I’ve never really been out much.” That was possibly the understatement of the century. The Elders had all but outlawed nightlife of every kind long before I’d been old enough to experiment with it.

  “That settles it, then,” Viv said, decisively. She propped a hand on her hip. “Do you have going-out clothes?” she asked bluntly. “I’ve only ever seen you in the same couple of outfits.”

  That was because I only had two outfits, but I skirted that point, saying diplomatically, “I’ve never needed clubb
ing outfits.”

  “Right.” Inexplicably, she beamed. “I’ll pick you up. How’s seven? You can come to my place first—I’ve got exactly what you need, and I haven’t gotten to dress anyone up in forever!”

  “I …” That seemed like an awful lot of work, but Viv looked so happy and determined that I couldn’t bring myself to refuse. “Sure. Thanks.”

  “Great!” She all but bounced away. “See you later!”

  A little dazed, I turned my steps toward my apartment, wondering what I’d just gotten myself into.

  ***

  At seven, Viv was at my door. By 7:15, I was in her apartment, trying not to gawp. Tucked into the ritziest corner of the building, the loft featured floor-to-ceiling windows boasting stunning views of the city skyline. Every inch of the place looked new and straight out of an interior design magazine. All the appliances and finishes gleamed, and the entire place had a warm, rich air that was unlike anything I’d ever seen before.

  “In here.” Vivienne ushered me into an enormous bathroom done in shades of cream and ocean blue. A bar stool sat in front of the vanity counter. “Hop on,” she said, patting it. “I have just the look for you.”

  I sat as ordered, more than a little apprehensive amidst the splendor, but started to relax in spite of myself when Viv threw herself into doing my makeup. Once I got past the oddness of it, it was fun to be done up by an experienced hand. Viv chatted non-stop, too, letting me just sit and soak in the experience.

  It was strangely soothing to close my eyes, tilt my chin up, and feel the bewildering array of brushes she used to sweep across my skin, applying and blending more products than I could keep track of to my skin. I gladly let her tip, tilt, and position me as she pleased while she worked her magic.