Secret Wolf: A Steamy Werewolf Romance

by Dancer Vane

  “Yes. I know. Everything here is wood.”

  I looked pointedly at his kitchen, all white marble and stainless steel. The marble island was pretty, but the cooking range, the ovens and the steel worktop meant business. That was the only part of the house that looked lived-in.

  The living-room was just for show. And for fucking I guess, because I found a box of condoms in the small space under the chimney. His housekeeper didn’t think of clean there. Or she thought he kept them there on purpose.

  But I couldn’t imagine this guy would kneel on the floor in order to retrieve a condom when he needed it. He was more about comfort and everything in easy reach, women, condoms, glasses of red wine.

  And I really shouldn’t mind. Shouldn’t be jealous of the unknown woman who obviously didn’t know how lucky she was.

  Or guy. Who knew.

  Or maybe, he or she knew exactly how lucky they were. But Blake didn’t seem interested in anyone but himself, and certainly not in relationships. I should know; we worked side by side six hours a day, and he never received a personal phone call.

  We haggled a bit about the rent. Blake had no problem with me living on his property, but apparently he had a problem with charging rent. That wasn’t going to work for me. I’m not a charity case, and I don’t want to owe him anything.

  I knew there’s always a payment, somewhere, down the road. He might not think so now, but a point would come when he was going to want what every guy wants — and have me give it or throw me out.

  I imagined him, demanding, haughty, expecting me to kneel in front of him at his whim, and I couldn’t help how turned on it made me feel.

  I couldn’t believe it… because I knew the real thing. I knew entitlement, guys who thought I should open my legs just because they said so, and guys who liked to push girls around. I hated it. I was no-one’s slave. But my boss? He just had to look at me in a certain way, and I got all wet. He gave me an order — something stupid like bringing up a case of croissants — and I was fucking blushing at the sound of his harsh voice. There was something about his voice giving me orders that made me almost vibrate.

  See, he wasn’t not an entitled asshole.

  He was an asshole alright, but I thought he valued being obeyed. He didn’t take it for granted. He seemed almost surprised when I did.

  He watched me doing as he said — getting the bill to table six, or cleaning the coffee machine — and he seemed thoughtful. Almost as if he enjoyed it, with a dash of surprise mixed into it. Sometimes I wondered if it turned him on as much as it did me, when I bent to his will, no matter how much I wanted to send him to hell.

  But that was all in my head. The real surprise was that he’d let me stay, beyond the first two days that he must feel obliged to allow me out of pity.

  That was good news indeed, because the trailer park owner had turned me down: he had trailers alright, but they were larger and newer than mine, so the cost was higher, and he was afraid I couldn’t pay. He kept them available for the holidays.

  The carriage house felt like a dream, and that key in my hand, as I looked around, the key to the kingdom. Never mind Blake’s horrified looks at the stone walls, the peeling wallpaper upstairs, the rusty bathtub.

  The man had seriously high standards — he has no idea where I’d lived before. He didn’t realise that a place I can lock is all I need, and that this house had so much more, I felt like my chest was about to burst.

  In spite of my protests, Blake had two guys bring me a bed and a chest of drawers from the main house, and he lent me blankets and sheets. He said I’m welcome to use his laundry room, although he didn’t seem sure where to find it. His housekeeper doesn’t seem to like me much, but she works only at the main house anyway.

  I wasn’t surprised at her lack of warmth: her eyes and upturned nose labelled me “white trash” before I even opened my mouth, and “Eastern European” as soon as I did, which she seemed to think was even worse. At her obvious hostility, my boss became all curt and snappy. He must have been annoyed at being seen having someone like me staying on his property.

  I needed to find another place soon. He was going to get tired of having me around, even hidden in the woods, or he was going to want to charge rent in kind on top of the amount we agreed. Men always ended up trying that when they had a girl, alone, nearby. I should know.

  I had to leave before that happened. Because, no matter how devastatingly attractive he could be sometimes, I was no whore.

  But we’d signed a contract, because I insisted, and he’d given me the only keys he has for this house.

  I looked at it, heavy in my hand, and I breathed deeper than I had in a long time.

  I wasn’t afraid of the woods outside, the movements I heard in the bushes, the tiny eyes watching me between the leaves. Humans were who I feared, and men especially. I was happy in the wild. I felt safe in these woods, and when I didn’t, I climbed to the attic and through the small grimy window there, I could see the lights in Blake’s house.

  Chapter Six

  ALANNA

  “She’s that girl. The one who lies with the wolves,”I heard.

  “To the wolves,” I corrected in my head. But it didn’t make sense either. I looked up at our tables, where two young men sat having a coffee, and I saw the two guys chuckle, as Lianne walked on the sidewalk outside without a look for the pastry shop.

  “Think she, what, morphs into a bitch?”

  I felt something cold slide down my spine. I remembered the drunks “some women are bitches…” was that what they had said? Or “turn into bitches”?

  I swallowed nervously, as if I were back in the alley, instead of the warmly lit pastry shop. I felt a sudden need to run, but I had to control it. I was at work, and the men — two boys, rather, around my age — weren’t threatening.

  Yet my face felt flushed, and my legs were about to buckle and take me out of there on their own decision…

  It all felt as if it were happening again: The drunks, their beer breath, a grabbing hand, and I couldn’t move my arms… I felt in shock. Just because these boys were chuckling about girls having sex with dogs. Wolves. Whatever. Must have been a movie in town, or a series on Netflix, to have everyone mentioning women and wolves as if it were the latest kink.

  I brought his coffee to a stout man sitting alone. He was watching Lianne go by, with bright beady eyes.

  “They’re right, you know,” he told me.

  I nodded mildly. I doubted the two boys were right about much anything, but I didn’t want to speak, or he would ask me where my accent was from. Truth is, I was born in Chicago, but my parents has arrived from Hungaria a few years before my birth, and I picked up their accent. Their slightly peculiar English, too.

  I didn’t trust that man. I had seen him in town a few times, from far away, and hadn’t felt any need to get closer.

  He was rather small — a head or more taller than me, obviously, but then everyone is — and stocky. Not fat, but muscle, in my opinion, although I was happy not to have any certainty on that.

  What I didn’t like were his eyes. Or rather, the way they followed Lianne, who was now waiting for the green light before crossing the street.

  “You’ve heard about the werewolves, right?”

  “I don’t have Netflix,” I said simply.

  “You have a foreign accent, don’t you? Where’s it from?”

  Here we go. I checked he had everything on his table, from sugar to napkins, and turned around.

  “Can you bring me some sweetener?”

  I turned back to his table and showed him the little packets next to the sugar.

  “I know your boss, you know?”

  Good for you. I wish I did, too.

  “I hope you tell him this is a nice place.” I said, forcing a light tone. “That service is good.” I managed a smile. I knew I was crap at flirting, and anyway, I was behind the counter most of the time, I didn’t really expect tips. This was more a bakery than a cof
fee-shop.

  “The werewolves are real.”

  Sometimes, I wished my English was even worse than it was, so I could pretend I didn’t understand anything. But… not at work.

  “Really.”

  I didn’t make it sound like a question. He wasn’t discouraged.

  “Yes, werewolves are real.” He was watching my face, as if he expected me to open my eyes wide and cry out in shock. Maybe faint.

  But he wasn’t the first crazy guy I had ever met. Or even the first of the day. Mr. Burns, at the trailer park, had been big on conspiracy theories, too. Maybe werewolves came from some military lab somewhere.

  “You don’t look surprised.”

  Yeah, not even sure I should try. But my boss was big on customer service. I needed to keep my job.

  Plus, there was something oddly personal about it, now. Blake cared a lot about the pastry shop — and it made it important for me not to damage its reputation in any way. So I changed the subject.

  “Should I say hi to Blake from you?”

  “Yeah. Tell him the mayor came by. And I’ve just had the confirmation I was looking for.”

  His eyes kept watching me intently, as though I should have reacted to this in some way.

  “I’m glad for you,” I said. “Me, I’m only serving coffee. If a secret society of werewolves secretly rules the world, I’ll let them get on with it.”

  “Sassy,” he growled.

  I gave an apologetic smile.

  “I can see what he likes in you.”

  “Everybody likes me,” I joked, trying to make him relax a bit. The way he sat, tense and with rounded shoulders, his back must be a bag of knots at night.

  The man shot me a doubtful glance. I smiled, a bit uncertainly, and went back behind my counter, where I belonged. The door chimed, a young woman with two small children came in, and I was relieved to have a good excuse to ignore his glare. I love children. I gave them each a tiny cinnamon roll on top of their order. I would pay for that if Blake noticed… or if that man told him.

  Nuts are twenty a dozen. But this one felt dangerous. I didn’t like the way he sat, almost coiled. His strength seemed explosive, as if he could unfurl and jump in one movement — and what for? The place isn’t big, and if he wants a Danish, he only has to ask. But I don’t like it when a man seems to have more energy than he knows what to do with. It’s dangerous.

  He stayed there a long time. Wasn’t a mayor supposed to be busy? when he finally stood to leave, leaving the money on the table, his small dark eyes searched for mine. I held his gaze without showing any fear. You learn that young, where I come from.

  “Keep safe,” he said, and his tone was heavy with meaning, if the words weren’t.

  I nodded and bid him a good day cheerfully. I watched him as he left the shop, and walked away on the sidewalk, then crossed the street without waiting for the green light.

  I didn’t believe a word about werewolves being real, or women sleeping with them. But it was obvious he did, and that in itself was scary.

  I didn’t see Blake that night, and closed the shop dutifully. Now that the man was letting me live on his property, for the same rent I had paid for an old trailer, I felt a responsibility to him.

  Not that I was seeing him more than before. He kept odd hours, baking before dawn, then disappearing a couple of hours and coming back to open the shop. I knew he must have a nap in the afternoon, and sometimes I noticed light in his house late at night.

  I tried to keep out of his hair as much as possible. But I still felt the same thrill when he arrived in the morning, dishevelled, smelling like the outdoors, as if he hadn’t come driving in his nice car.

  He looked almost rumpled, when he joined me inside the shop every morning (it was now official that I knew where he hid the key, and I used it.)

  Then he would go to his office, the boiler would turn up with a cough in the utility closet, and when he came out, he always looked perfect, smooth, clean-shaven, eyes bright, and smelling faintly like something very expensive and artificial. His dark blond hair smooth and civilised. I preferred his smell when he first came in, all green and wild.

  We worked side by side, but he wasn’t more relaxed with me than he had been before I moved in. If possible, maybe even less.

  “Your friend the mayor came in yesterday,” I told him at a slow time between clients.

  “He’s not my friend. Just someone I know.”

  “He believes werewolves are real.”

  “He’s a fool.” His tone was cutting. “Everybody knows unicorns killed them all.”

  I laughed. He turned to me briefly, and for a second he looked surprised and maybe pleased, but that didn’t last. The serious mask was on again instantly.

  God, I wished I could make him lose his cool for a moment. I wanted to. Make him moan, make him beg, and thrust his hips in spite of himself. I felt sure I could…

  That much self-control must be exhausting, after all. I wanted him to lose it and… and I wasn’t sure what.

  Yeah, right. I knew exactly what. I wanted him to lose control, grab me, and bend me over the counter. Or take me with my face to the wall and my back to him. Whatever. I wouldn’t be picky.

  No, actually, I wanted to see his face when he came. I wanted to feel his fingers and his hard thrust…

  “Alanna? You alright?”

  I swallowed. Back to Earth.

  Blake frowned slightly.

  “You seemed… fierce. Is anyone bothering you?”

  I glared at the silly bastard.

  “Just thinking.”

  “Oh, Don’t let me distract you then. With something silly like wiping the tables.”

  I’ll wipe your tables alright, I thought, glaring at him. He held my gaze and I would swear he felt… something. He wasn’t amused — his lips were a straight line. But… there was a tension there, and that wasn’t about coffee stains on a table. That felt a lot more personal.

  So I went to wipe the only table that wasn’t pristine — I didn’t really resent it, that’s what he paid me for — and I bent over the table more than I usually did, with my back to him and arching my spine, giving him an eyeful of my ass under my thin dress as I wiped furiously.

  When I finished, I turned around and glanced at him — and there it was. That tiny smile that didn’t reach his lips, but did something to his eyes, that smile that seemed to hover over his face as if it didn’t really know where to land.

  He shook his head. “You’re good at cleaning tables,” he said neutrally. “You should do it more often.”

  “I’m good at it because I enjoy it,” I replied sweetly, or as sweetly as I was able to. “Want me to wipe anything else?”

  There was a second of doubt, of him being on the verge of something. Then his eyes darkened and he said curtly “no.”

  I glanced at him as I walked back to the counter, at the tension in his tall figure, his held breath and that delicate vein pulsing at his neck. My own smile was as secret as his, I hope, but inside I beamed.

  He might despise me, but for a second there, I held his interest.

  And I knew I was right, because after that, he was even worse than usual. Colder, haughtier.

  He was snotty and proud, and when he was annoyed, his voice took on clipped tones I found very sexy. Plus, it was practically the only sign of emotion he showed around me. I wouldn’t get him to beg me, or come inside me, or fuck me in his mausoleum of a living-room, but at least I could annoy him.

  Small victories.

  Chapter Seven

  BLAKE

  I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

  I would have sworn she was provoking me, this afternoon. I was an asshole to send he wipe a table: she’s good at her job and keeps everything clean without me micromanaging her.

  Having her round ass dancing in front of my eyes practically made me break a sweat — not to mention other, more obvious physical reactions. But it wasn’t just the sight of her; it was the way she
read my face, and my own fantasy that she did it on purpose. I’m still not sure if she did.

  I ran long and hard after that, in the woods around the house.

  My property was fenced, but I had made sure the fence was high enough on the ground, that all kinds of wild fauna could slip below it easily. And behind the fence, lay the forest, the green, cold wilderness…

  I thought about her, and that she was a kid, a vulnerable kid at that. She didn’t know how much I knew. But when I hired her, it seemed obvious she was fifteen if she was a day, so I checked her papers. Snooped a bit on the internet and didn’t find anything. Then I asked Grant Farnwood, who knows a DA in Washington and came back with the whole story.

  I was gnawing at my lip while he told me everything. I wanted to hurt someone.

  The story Grant told me was about a man, a junkie who tried to pimp his teenaged daughter for a fix. And told the cop, who he thought would be a client, that it wasn’t the first time.

  In the end though, there wasn’t enough proof. In the end the man went to prison three months later for a drug deal gone bad, and the thirteen-year old was sent to a foster home, where she never arrived. Three years later she passed her GCSE in another state. And three more years after that, she asked me for a job.

  Grant had concluded she really was nineteen, and had told me I could go on, but I was sure he had been thinking about hiring her, not getting her in bed.

  And at the time, so was I. The first week after I hired her, at least. Then I started noticing her lips, and her skin, her proud independence, her attitude, and pretty much everything about her. Not least, that she needed help more than anyone I’d ever known, but would die rather than ask for helped, be an object t of pity, or show any weakness. She was a fierce little warrior.

  I wanted to give her a rest. And fuck her like my life depended on it. But the two were not compatible, so I had to chose.