Southern Shifters: Bite Me (A Bad Boy Shifter Romance) (Kindle Worlds Novella) Read online

  Text copyright ©2016 by the Author.

  This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Eliza Gayle. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original Southern Shifters remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Eliza Gayle, or their affiliates or licensors.

  For more information on Kindle Worlds: http://www.amazon.com/kindleworlds

  Contents

  Title Page

  Author’s Note

  Nolan

  Livvy

  A Comfortable Bed

  The Runaway Bride

  You Only Live Once

  Mr. Midnight

  Tomorrow

  BITE ME

  A Southern Shifters/Douglas Mountain Shifters Novella

  Melanie Marchande writing as

  Lillian Dante

  ***

  Two cougars. One arranged marriage. Tattoos, curves, and hatesex. What could possibly go wrong?

  Cougars play rough. I’m no exception. But when it comes to Livvy Parker, the claws really come out.

  Something about her just gets under my fur. I don’t know what it is - the lush curves, the snarky insults, the holier-than-thou attitude…my life would be a lot easier if I could just go back to my clan and forget she exists.

  But no. Hell no. Life can never be that easy. The only way to keep the peace, to honor a centuries-old pact between our families…is to make her my wife.

  One thing’s for sure - neither one of us is gonna come out unscathed.

  Author’s Note

  When Eliza Gayle invited me to be a part of her Southern Shifters world, I couldn’t say “yes” fast enough! Although I usually write contemporary billionaire romance as Melanie Marchande, I have always enjoyed dabbling in paranormal as Lillian Dante.

  Although I’ve done my research on the Southern Shifters world, it’s quite possible that I’ve accidentally flubbed some little detail in Eliza’s expansive canon. Please do forgive me, Southern Shifters fans. Remember, this story is nothing more than authorized fan fiction - and I am beyond grateful to Eliza for letting me play in her sandbox.

  ***

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  ***

  Cover model:

  Lance Jones

  Photographer:

  Eric David Battershell

  Twenty-three hours, and counting.

  The Harley’s engine growls between my thighs, and I growl back. I’ve been waiting for this fuckin’ light to change for…forever.

  It’s been a million years since I rode this thing anywhere with proper traffic signals. It’s hard to believe they still don’t trigger it. Isn’t it the twenty-first goddamn century? They can put a man on the moon, but they can’t fix traffic lights for motorcyclists?

  Fuck it.

  I gun the engine and speed off down the highway, kicking up dust in my wake. And wouldn’t you know it, a split second later, the whine of a police siren cuts through the white noise in my ears.

  Great. Just great.

  It’s tempting to just press the pedal down harder and veer off into the woods, try to lose him…but even I’m not that stupid.

  I pull off to the side of the road and kill the engine, waiting for Smokey to come and bust my balls.

  Sure enough, it’s a state trooper. Just what I need. Getting pulled over on a motorcycle is enough grounds for a ticket whether you were breaking the law or not - and I know I look the part. Ripped-up jeans, wrinkled leather vest, and a week’s growth of beard I’m too lazy to shave when I’m only sleeping four or five hours a night. Oh yeah, I look like a degenerate, all right.

  I don’t look up until I see the shiny black boots come to a stop, right next to my ride.

  “Headed somewhere, son?”

  The guy’s not anywhere near old enough to be my father. “Yeah,” I tell him. “Getting married this weekend.”

  “Don’t seem too happy about it.” He sizes me up, and I can see his hand twitch towards his holster when he takes in the whole picture. “You packing heat?”

  “No sir.” I kick down the stand and raise both arms. “Didn’t mean any harm. Just trying to get to my bride.”

  If I can play this up - make him believe I’m actually a happily engaged man, a little strung out on stress but definitely looking forward to a honeymoon - maybe he’ll have some pity on me. But I’m pretty sure he can hear the reluctant sneer in my voice.

  “License and registration, please?”

  “Just gonna get it out of my pocket,” I tell him, before reaching into my jacket. You can’t be too careful. He nods, and so I continue.

  “What’s your bride’s name?” he asks me, as I hand over my rumpled papers.

  Here’s what I say: “Livvy.”

  Here’s what I don’t say: Livvy Parker. Never seen her face. A hundred years ago, our great-grandparents signed a contract in blood saying we were gonna be mated. Never met the girl, but now I’m gonna make her my wife.

  “Pretty name,” says the cop. “You know why I pulled you over?”

  I shrug. There are times when it’s better to play dumb, and this is one of them.

  “You ran a red light back there, son. That’s a moving violation. An expensive one, too. Your insurance is gonna skyrocket.” He shakes his head. “I know it seems like there’s nobody around, but you can’t just…”

  “I know,” I cut him off, my patience wearing thin. If I have to sit here and listen to him drone on, the August sun beating down on my back, I’m going to start losing my temper.

  The last thing I need to do is lose my temper.

  “You shrugged,” he replies, sounding testy. “So I’m explaining why I pulled you over.”

  “Yeah, I know. But here’s the thing, Officer…” I squint at his name tag. “Mendoza. You’re just doing your job. I get that. Have you ever driven a bike, Officer?”

  He glances at his beat-up patrol car. “Sure have,” he says, flatly, but I can hear the wistfulness in his tone.

  “Then you know, the lights don’t change for you.” I half-smile at him. “Not that it probably mattered much to you, but the rest of us can’t just flip on some lights and sirens to get where we need to go.”

  I don’t like turning on the charisma, especially not with guys. It always feels extra-creepy. But every once in a while, you gotta do what you gotta do.

  This one’s susceptible to it. I can tell. It’s something in his scent, that vulnerable, fleshy quality that’s gotten so familiar to me.

  “Well.” Officer Mendoza scratches the back of his neck, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “It’s true, they’re not really designed for motorcyclists, are they?”

  “They sure aren’t,” I agree, warmly. “Now, I could’ve sat there all day waiting for a car to come along. But what if I show up late to my own wedding? You think Livvy will be standing there, waiting for me, with a smile on her face? Or with a shotgun in her hands? Man, between you and me, I don’t particularly wanna find out.”

  He chuckles. “Okay. Well. You know, you might want to think about investing in a car, now that you’re here. You taking your bride back to Washington with you?” He nods at my license
plate.

  “Nah. I’ll be settling here.”

  “Well, I don’t know if you folks get much of the white stuff in the winter, but we’re kinda famous for it around here. Come December, you’ll be trading in your pride and joy for a four-wheel-drive pickup.”

  I shoot him a grin. “Thanks for the tip, Officer.”

  “Given the circumstances, I’m gonna let you go with a warning. I don’t wanna end up on your Livvy’s bad side, either. You drive safe now, all right?”

  “Sure thing, Officer. Thanks.”

  I don’t quite exhale until I hear him get back into his cruiser and peal away.

  I glance down at my watch.

  Twenty-two hours and counting.

  Just one more restless sleep before Livvy becomes my wife.

  It’s well after midnight when I pull into the outskirts of Gunn territory. I know they’re expecting me, but I’ve still got a knot in my stomach. None of them are any happier about this than I am. But they’ve seen the contract, and they’re willing to honor it. Didn’t even put up too much of a fuss.

  I’m not sure what that says about Livvy. I’m not sure I want to know.

  Pretty soon, I’ll have no choice.

  Wincing, I crack my neck one last time. The fucking pillows in last night’s fleabag motel were stuffed with corn husks, I think.

  Just as I kick down the stand, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I dig it out and peer at the suddenly too-bright screen.

  Change of plans. Go to the bar in the neutral zone. My friend will meet you and bring you into Clan territory safely.

  It’s the longest message Livvy has ever sent me. We exchanged numbers six months ago, and she’s never bothered to say more than a couple of words at a time.

  Granted, I haven’t been feeling very talkative, either. But she could at least try to be pleasant.

  I type back:

  Safely? Is somebody out for my hide?

  Standing there with nothing but the noise of the crickets keeping my company, I feel watched. The hairs on the back of my neck start to stiffen.

  It seems to take forever for her to answer.

  Just go.

  Good God, this woman is maddening. And I haven’t even met her yet.

  I refer back to the rumpled, makeshift map in the back of my pocket. The bar’s several miles to the west, but not too far. Further than I want to ride, but she’s not giving me much choice. If I just wander into Clan territory without an escort, there’s no telling what’ll happen to me.

  This is why I hate Clans. Herds, more like it. They get more and more paranoid, feeding off of each other’s fear and mob mentality. I stayed on my own in Douglas Mountain, and I’ll stay on my own here.

  On my own, with Livvy. Of course.

  There’s a single, faint spotlight shining out over the bar’s parking lot. It’s not much, but in this pitch blackness, it might as well be the sun.

  Ten hours, and counting.

  Right after I kill the engine, I take a second to gather my thoughts. Close my eyes, suck in a deep breath of the fresh mountain air.

  It might not be so bad, living here. Hell, I like snow. And the cop wasn’t wrong - I could use a pickup. I sold the piece of shit I was driving in Douglas Mountain to help finance this trip, but now that I’m settling down…

  Shit. Settling down. It still makes my skin crawl if I think about it too much.

  When I walk into the bar, the floor creaks a little under my Timberlands. There’s a tall, swarthy hulk of a man behind the bar, wiping it down with a rag. He glances in my direction just long enough for us to size each other up. All of his vital statistics flash into my mind with just a whiff of his smell -

  Loner. Jaguar. Hybrid. Not interested in a fight, but willing to throw down if necessary.

  I’m no threat to him, and he’s no threat to me. We both nod in a silent agreement to give each other a wide berth.

  There’s only one other person in the bar.

  Livvy’s friend is certainly no little slip of a girl. No, indeed - she’s all woman. She must’ve heard me come in, she must be able to smell me, but she doesn’t bother to acknowledge it. I give myself a second to take her in - hell, I might almost be a married man, but I’m not blind. At least, not yet.

  Something about her scent tells me that she’s the kind of woman who would claw my eyes out, if she had any idea what I was thinking.

  But how can I avoid it? She’s all soft skin and lush curves, and that light, airy sundress doesn’t do anything to hide her gorgeous body.

  Shit, I’ve gotta get a grip.

  I take in a deep breath, and her intoxicating scent follows.

  Cougar. Independent. Fierce.

  Fertile.

  Goddamn. That is one piece of information I don’t need.

  A sudden twitch in my dick reminds me that I haven’t been paying it much attention lately. With the long journey and the short nights, trying to make the trip in as few hours as possible, I haven’t had much time or energy for…recreational activities.

  It’s easy for me to forget about my baser needs when there’s not a ripe, curvy female in heat sitting there in front of me. I’d actually forgotten how powerful the pull is. How strong the scent. The instinct to grasp, to bite, to mount, to claim. To thrust inside her and plant my seed, ensuring my bloodline will live on forever.

  Goddamn.

  I take a couple steps closer.

  “You must be Nolan.”

  Her voice is husky and alluring. I swallow hard, willing my dick to calm down.

  Finally, finally, she looks at me. Her eyes are forest-green, setting off the gentle pink flush in her cheeks. Wisps of unruly dark-blonde hair fall around her face and shoulders, a silent rebellion against the messy braid resting on the back of her neck.

  It’s muggy as hell in here. I peel off my leather jacket, nodding silently in response to her not-question.

  Her eyes dart across my arms, taking in the twisting, curling designs in ink. Ever so quickly, she licks her lips.

  “Sit down,” she says. “Have a drink.”

  “Love to,” I reply. My voice is rough and ragged, and I realize I haven’t really talked to anyone since I checked into the motel last night. I clear my throat, and try again. “Dunno if it’s a good idea. We’ve still got a trip ahead of us.”

  “Not too far,” she says. “One beer won’t hurt.”

  Well, she’s not wrong about that. The last thing I wanna do is leave Livvy’s friend with the impression that I’m an irresponsible sonofabitch, but even I can manage not to crash my motorcycle after a single drink. Still…it feels suspicious. Like she’s testing me.

  “We can’t leave for another two hours,” she says, after a minute of silence. “Might as well take a load off.”

  Shit. I’m supposed to sit here for two hours, ignoring the scent of a female in heat, and resist the urge to drink the entire bar? My sanity’s never gonna survive this.

  “Two hours? I’ve been on the road all day.” I hope I sound more irritated than horny.

  “I realize that,” she replies, evenly. Something in her tone makes the bartender perk up his head from the other end of the bar. “But there’s nothing I can do, Nolan. I’m sorry.”

  Grumbling to myself, I take a seat. Very deliberately, I leave an empty stool between us. It’s enough of a buffer to keep me from embarrassing myself.

  Probably.

  “What’s your name?” I ask her, as the bartender pulls me a glass of something on tap without asking.

  She hesitates for a second. “Delilah.” It drips from her tongue like honey bourbon.

  “Of course,” I smirk, before I can stop myself.

  Delilah arches a brow at me. “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing,” I reply, taking a gulp of my beer. “I dunno what I’m saying anymore. I’ve hardly been sleeping lately.”

  “How long have you been on the road?” She brushes a lock of hair away from her eyes, and I force myself not to sta
re.

  “Three days.”

  Her brow furrows a little. “You made it from Seattle to here in three days? That’s…” She shakes her head. “Almost impossible.”

  “Guess not.” I grin.

  I wish she’d stop glancing at my biceps. Normally I’d appreciate the attention, but I’m supposed to be marrying her friend tomorrow. I can’t afford any distractions. Especially not one with soft, wide hips and bedroom eyes.

  “So, did you grow up here?” It’s supposed to be an innocent question, making conversation, just passing the time. But it sounds like a lot more than just casual interest. I take another swig of my beer, like it’ll somehow cool off the simmering lust in my belly.

  Delilah shakes her head. “I was raised by humans. Mostly. Only learned about my real heritage when I was a teenager and I had my first shift.”

  “Must’ve been scary.”

  She shrugs. “Yeah. Well, some girls find blood in their underwear, I turned into a giant cat…growing pains, am I right?”

  I snort into my drink.

  “Liv didn’t tell me much about you,” she says. “But I can already see you’re not what I expected.”

  “Oh yeah?” I glance at her, sidelong. “How come she didn’t meet me herself?”

  Delilah just shrugs again. “She asked me for a favor, I did it. I assume she and Kane are still working on the arrangement.”

  “Still? It’s been six months.”

  “Cougar politics, man.” She smirks. “Clan Gunn sticks to their own. You’re just lucky the enforcer is already mated to a hybrid, so he’s not as much of a stick-in-the-mud as the rest of them.”

  “But we’re both cougars. What’s the issue?”

  “You’re not from here,” Delilah replies. “Honestly, that’s all I know. Liv never told me much. Just said there was a contract, and she was obligated to fulfill it.”

  “We both are,” I clarify. “Not sure which one of us is happier about it.”

  “Well, it doesn’t make sense to me.”

  “Cougar politics, man,” I echo.

  She shakes her head. “What do you know about politics?”

  “Enough,” I tell her. “I’ve lived around clans for long enough.”

  “But not in one,” she counters. “You’ve always been kind of an outcast, haven’t you?”

  Something about the way she says the word - outcast. It sounds dark and forbidden, in the best possible way.